14

 

 

Led by a man Sunny judged handsome enough to be a Hollywood movie star, five motorcycle riders roared up the Maris’ dirt driveway. They idled their Harley and Indian motorbikes around Ray’s black Suburban, parading in a ragged circle, showing off their colors and craziness. All the men were bare-chested underneath traditional sleeveless denim jackets, the jean material open in front, a stitched skull and crossbones on the back.

Above and below the pirate emblem, stitched print read Sacred Bones M.C.

The Hollywood-handsome leader with his long blond hair pulled his bike out of the circle. He curled off toward Ray and Sunny, the two agents propped together at the barn’s entrance. Her heart surprised her, skipping a step, like a young girl, over the biker’s good looks. She hadn’t experienced a physical reaction to a man like that in a while.

Hollywood skidded his bike within six inches of Ray’s tan leather boots, the general’s kicks as big as small golf bags.

Without apparent concern, Ray glanced at his feet, then Hollywood. Sunny decided she’d learn a lot working with him. The general was cool, tough, and confident.

The rest of the gang parked beside Hollywood, two on each flank, all facing the barn. She hoped they’d taken note of Hauser’s SUV’s special white US Government, For Official Use Only license plates. Four of the five riders wore holstered weapons. To Sunny, open-carry states seemed like the wild west two hundred years ago.

Ray held up his badge, rested the other hand on his belt, inches from his holstered weapon. “I’m Ray Hauser with the Department of Homeland Security. Beside me is Special Agent Hicks. You gentlemen are trespassing on a federal crime scene. We must ask you to turn around and go back the way you—”

Hollywood had been giving Sunny his movie-star smile. All teeth. Beaming eyes. “Why, Ray, I was about to say the same thing to your partner, Agent Hicks. Mind turning around…so I can see a little more of your ass?”

His friends laughed, and Sunny nearly joined them, barely managing to maintain her grim stare. Hollywood was so disarmingly good looking. Wavy blond hair hanging all the way to his muscled, thick shoulders. Square jaw. Prominent cheekbones. Those deep blue eyes. His mouth and mood existed in a constant state of rebellious smirk.

“Nothing funny about a Homeland Security crime scene,” Ray said. “Hanging around after I’ve explained you need to leave could potentially land you at a nearby FCI—that’s federal correctional institution. There’s a nice one in Phoenix.”

Hollywood opened wide his sky-colored eyes, dropped his jaw like a flabbergasted old lady. The guy even had great teeth. Maybe he was an actor.

“He’s offering us a free trip to Phoenix,” he said. “Sound like fun, bros?”

They cheered.

“You won’t have much fun,” Ray said.

While Hollywood let his men make noise, he focused again on Sunny. Air Force special agents wore what they wanted to work, depending on conditions and the assignment. For the search of the potential crime scene, she’d changed from the business attire into comfortable, loose-fitting blue jeans, sneakers, and a short-sleeved, western blouse colored light green and white. Hollywood examined every fold and wrinkle within certain areas. She tried not to blush, but heat touched her cheeks.

“You hear me, butthole?” Ray said.

Hollywood exaggerated a new regard, pivoting his head and shoulders as he transferred his gaze away from Sunny. His expression flipped to cold and dark.

“We don’t need to hit Phoenix for fun,” Hollywood said. “We could throw a party right here, right now, with Agent Hicks. Couldn’t we, boys?”

Amid the cheering, Ray’s right hand touched his weapon. “We’re federal agents on a criminal investigation, you mopes. If you don’t leave right now, Agent Hicks and I are going to place every one of you under arrest.”

Hollywood tilted his face, and his eyes changed back to happy. He liked Ray, or his words, or maybe his guts. She did, too, even though her heart raced and her palms were wet. She fingered her holster like Ray, waiting for one of the crazy bikers to draw and shoot.

What a partner she had today.

“There are five of us, two of you,” Hollywood said.

Each of Hollywood’s armed scruffy henchmen touched their holsters. She eyed Ray, looking for guidance. Should they draw? She noticed Hollywood’s menacing voice hadn’t lost tension the way his eyes had. Have fun with her?

“Then you’d better draw and start shooting,” Ray said, “because our forensic team truck and backup will be here any minute. I wouldn’t count on those favorable odds for long.”

“Something else,” Sunny said.

All five men and Hauser stared at her. She forced back an urge to swallow. She’d surprised herself speaking up, but what the handsome blond needed was a succinct summary of the facts. Much of the time, Air Force colonels and generals didn’t listen, and as one admiring teacher had called it, Sunny’s “Crisis Overview for Dummies” was one of her best public relations strengths. She’d written an article for Forbes.

 

 

Ray had already made up his mind about Sunny. Wanted her for a partner. But when she said, “Something else,” taking attention away from the confrontation, he wanted to hug her. Maybe a kiss. Five guys with pistols was not a fight he wanted. He’d already gone through how he’d kick, punch, then kick and punch again. But guy number five had time to shoot. Maybe guy number four. Ray was real happy Sunny had chimed in. He couldn’t wait to hear what she’d say. He hoped her words were as good as her timing.

 

 

“Forget our approaching backup,” Sunny said. “Here’s what matters. If we shoot you, it’s called federal agents using self-defense. You shoot us, it’s called murder of a federal officer. Every lawman in America will hunt you down. And because I’m a woman, half of them would rather kill you than bring you in alive.”

A man with a big belly and dirty black hair, including chest-length, curling ropes and a shaggy, untrimmed beard, sat up tall on the first bike to the right of Hollywood. He grunted before he spoke. “If they never find your body, bitch, how would anyone know who raped and killed you?”

Ray’s neck turned red. He looked ready to pop.

She touched his elbow and laughed. “Homeland is pulling up your rap sheets right now, gentlemen. How do you think we found this crime scene?” She pointed to the sky. “We’ve been taking satellite photos every ten minutes since dawn this morning. You five members of the Sacred Bones Motorcycle Club have already been identified.”

Hollywood’s smirk came back. “Horse crap.”

“How else would I know this property—owned by Nolan and Jessie Maris—includes two hundred acres of creosote, rocks, and, by actual count, one-thousand, two-hundred and fifty-two saguaro cactus, half of them near a gully. I was examining photos all night.”

Hollywood stared at her unblinking. The charm evaporated.

“Nolan Maris a friend of yours?” Ray asked. “Maybe you could answer a few questions for us?”

Hollywood gunned his Harley-Davidson, backed the bike up for a K-turn, then idled across the dirt lot toward the broken desert highway. His crew followed single file, all five members of The Sacred Bones M.C. now pointing to the sky like Sunny had, except using a different finger.

When they left, Ray offered his fist for a celebratory bump. “And I thought I was a good liar.”

 

 

Walking with across the barn’s cement floor in plastic booties and gloves, the smells, sounds, and sights fit Sunny’s memories of her time spent there. So did the inside of the walk-in tool closet. But the clincher was pressing her face against the cement and peeking underneath the closet door into the aluminum barn’s main room. The computer was gone, but the bench it rested on remained. So did the chair. Broken window glass. In fact, everything about the low and narrow view corresponded, save for the missing autocannon and the trailer it had rested on. The memories caused by the cool cement gave her a nasty shiver.

She jumped up quickly and followed Ray outside. He approached the house trailer, removed a pocket-knife-size device from his belt, and poked open the Airstream’s locked door.

“Cool,” she said. “I want one of those.”

Sig Sauer drawn, he led Sunny carefully inside. “I’ll text you the requisition form.”

The house trailer was empty of people, photos, and women’s clothing, but the kitchen table displayed a sheet of yellow-lined notepaper with handwriting. Signed by “Jessie,” the note was addressed to Sunny.

 

 

To Special Agent S. Hicks,

At first I didn’t believe my husband when he said I was helpless and stupid, that without him I’d end up a whore and a junkie. But after years of Nolan hitting me, telling me those awful things, I couldn’t help but think I’d wind up on the street like he said. No one ever told me I deserved to be treated with warmth and kindness.

I’m writing this note, maybe others, because I know I’m not alone and nobody’s doing anything. Three times a day in America—365 days a year—a current or former partner murders a woman. Maybe a million times a day, some man-child throws a punch. Girls and young women need to know they deserve consideration and affection, to speak out when they’re abused. Maybe defend themselves. Fight back.

I’m going to do something, probably next weekend. Me, Jessie Maris. I’m going to expose one of America’s worst abusers by destroying him, a savage act I hope will call attention to an American system of justice which still treats girls and women like horses and pigs. Everyone knows this person. But they do not know all he has done.

I shot my husband dead the day before yesterday. Two of his friends tried to kill me in revenge, so I wasted their asses, too. And I’m not done killing. Not by a longshot—hint, hint.

A Rain of Hell is coming because America won’t wake up!

Jessie

 

 

Ray repeated the last part. “‘Not by a longshot, hint-hint?’”

“How about ‘rain of hell?’” Sunny said. “Sure sounds like she plans to fire our Avenger autocannon.”

He pinched the note with gloved fingers and slipped the yellow paper into a plastic bag. “She had to write this a day or two ago. And probably next weekend means what? We have a week to find her yesterday. If we don’t, maybe she kills half of Arizona with an automatic cannon.”

Sunny nodded. “America’s worst abuser. Who do you think she means?”

 

 

Ray drove them back toward Gila Bend in the dying sunlight, the Suburban’s air-conditioning on full, Sunny checking her cell phone. Except for the saguaros, and the tarantulas by the road, he thought the famous Sonoran Desert looked pretty much like a thousand barren dirt lots he’d seen in Jersey. Less weeds, maybe.

He slowed and pulled over. There was an arriving message on his encrypted device, something he’d been waiting for. The second time he read it, he did so out loud. “Eric says, ‘As of today’s date, Air Force Special Agent Sunny Hicks is temporarily assigned to the Department of Homeland Security under the command of General Ray Hauser.’”

“I’m receiving the same email,” Sunny said.

Ray pulled back onto the road. “Told you.”

 

 

In her motel room, resting in bed with the TV on, wearing her double-X Dodgers T-shirt as pajamas and wishing vaguely she wasn’t alone, Sunny’s new cell phone buzzed. The number was unfamiliar, but her caller ID said The Los Angeles Times, so the call had to come from her missing boyfriend.

“Jordan?”

“Hi Sunny. How are you?”

“Surprised,” she said. “I haven’t heard from you in a month.”

“You told me to stop calling, find an actress girlfriend, remember?”

She sat up in bed. The advice to Jordan seemed like a good idea at the time, although she didn’t remember putting things quite so starkly. Girlfriend? Truth was, she wouldn’t mind Jordan with her right now. He’d been a reporter for The Washington Post and lived near her in Quantico when they’d met. But after a fun and progressively close, six-month relationship, he’d taken off for the new job.

“I remember,” she said, “and dating other people still sounds like good advice. Why call me now?”

“I heard your employer, the US Air Force, lost a dangerous weapon and you might be on a team looking for it.”

Her heart-rate soared. How the heck…she considered several responses, none which would look good in print, which is what happens when you curse at reporters. What exactly had he heard?

“Sunny? Come on. I won’t use your name or even call you an Air Force source.”

“The story reeks like bad cheese, Jordan.”

“That’s not a denial.”

“Really? Sounds like one to me.”

“Yes or no, is the Air Force searching for a lost weapon?”

“You mean like a rifle or a pistol? I think it’s safe to say the Air Force is always looking for missing equipment, including—”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“How do I know what you mean?”

“I mean like a GAU-8 Avenger,” Jordan said, “a Gatling-gun like, automatic cannon that fires explosive shells at the rate of seventy per second.”

How could he have possibly found out? “I have no comment.”

“So it’s true,” he said.

“No comment means no comment.” The investigation was supposed to be semi-classified, but maybe that bulletin Homeland sent out to local law enforcement along the rail line popped the cork on secrecy. Still, Sunny had to protect the Air Force from criticism.

“If this story were baloney,” Jordan said, “you’d explain why it’s not true, not say ‘no comment.’”

She changed the subject. “I have no comment other than to say, screw you Jordan Scott for finally calling me after a month, not to tell me you miss me, but to ask about a lousy fake news story.”

“Oh, Sunny. I’ve been crazy busy with the new job. My new editor here hates me because I make more money than him.”

“We’re a world apart.”

“Not even six hours by car.”

“You know what I mean,” she said.

“So if you’re not looking for a missing cannon autocannon, why are you in Gila Bend, Arizona?”

“How the hell do you know that?”

“I’m an ace reporter, remember? Plus, you have your location services turned on.”

Damn. The new phone. She fixed her settings.

“Yeah, well, it’s still no comment.”

“I have other sources, Sunny. I know this story is true. Two Navy SEALs told me about a new assault boat they wanted to build around an Avenger, only the Air Force never delivered the weapon as promised, claimed the autocannon was stolen off a railroad flatcar.”

He knew way too much. “Stop right there, Jordan. I know nothing about Navy SEAL weapons or plans.”

“But you know something about a missing autocannon. I have two reliable sources. You’d only be confirming something I already know.”

“No comment.”

“I’m going to publish this—with you or without you.”

“Sounds like an old song.”

“Ha. Come on, Sunny. Are you looking for that autocannon or not?”

She hung up and turned out the lights.

If Jordan’s paper ran a story about the Air Force’s missing weapon, everyone would think Sunny leaked it. Colonel Seager knew Jordan Scott had been Sunny’s boyfriend.