happening.”
“She’s FBI,” said Jake.
Ty laughed. “Oh, then let me rephrase. Not happening, ever.”
FBI field agent Beth Hoosay sat in the silver F-150 pickup with tribal police officer Jake Redhorse, waiting for full dark. Redhorse had parked across the highway and out of sight, but with a clear view of the roadside bar favored by bikers and Jake’s older brother, Ty Redhorse. In the bed of the truck was her motorcycle, prepped and ready.
Earlier in the day, the tribal police detective, Jack Bear Den, had tried and failed to get Ty to meet with her. So they would do it the hard way.
It was beyond Beth’s comprehension why the Turquoise Canyon Apache tribe’s leadership had voted to keep Ty on the reservation instead of turning him over to the authorities for trial. And he was walking around free.
That was about to change, in twelve hours to be exact. Because Beth was about to meet Ty on his own turf tonight and with the advantage of him not knowing who and what she was. She had backup, but she did not intend to need it. The agents could hear everything she said and had eyes on her outside the roadside bar. Once she was inside, it would be audio only because Beth insisted that the other agents would never blend in a place like this. They’d be spotted as outsiders instantly.
She, on the other hand, had been in this joint once before when she was younger and more rebellious, after her dad had died, and she’d had the gall to date a guy who owned a bike. Worse still, he had taught her to ride. She was grateful for that much. The rest of their relationship had been less positive because it seemed to her that he’d wanted her only as an accessory to his chopper. Her mother said the bike would be the death of her and that the guy had been interested only because of her unique looks, which blended Native heritage with her father’s Caribbean roots, and made her seem exotic to the son of a soybean farmer. Sometimes she just wanted to blend in. But today her looks were an asset and the reason she was here.
Beth had been handpicked for this assignment because she was Apache on her mother’s side. Not Tonto Apache, like Ty Redhorse. Her Native ancestry came from the line that fought with Geronimo and lost, which was why her reservation was up in Oklahoma instead of here, where they had lost to the US Army with the help of this very tribe. She tried not to let it bother her, but many on her rez still thought the Tonto Apache were more desert people who could not even understand their language. They spoke a language that only they and God could understand.
Beth didn’t care about old grudges. She cared about having a rare and shining opportunity to make a big case. The possibilities were so enthralling they made her chest ache. She wanted this, wanted the respect and acclaim that came with a bust of this importance.
Another truck pulled into the lot and a lone driver slid out and hiked up his jeans before slamming the truck door. The parking area was nearly full. They did good business on any Friday night, and tonight was no exception. Many of the men inside were just coming from work and others had no work but arrived when the bar was most crowded. She knew the establishment was most busy between five and eight and closed at midnight, except on weekends, when the place closed at two in the morning. It was approaching eight and she was beginning to worry that Ty might not show.
“He’s usually here by now,” said Jake. His voice sounded hopeful. “Maybe I should go in with you. It’s a rough place.”
“I don’t need an escort, patrolman.” She let him know with her tone just what she thought of his advice. Showing up with a police officer that everyone here knew was a terrible idea.
Beth had plans. She would investigate the missing women, tie their disappearances to the Kuznetsov crime family and make the kind of case that got a person noticed in the Bureau, and with that notice came the kind of posting Beth craved. Truth be told, she didn’t like Oklahoma or the field office in Oklahoma City, known for the bombing of the federal building. She wanted a major posting with status in a place far away from the flat, windy plains. Unlike the army, the FBI measured rank with cases, postings and a title. So she set her sights on a major case, a major posting in a major office. The plan was to run a field office before she hit thirty-five. And Ty Redhorse could get on board or get out of her way, preferably in a small prison cell in Phoenix.
“That’s him,” said Jake, slumping down in his seat.
Beth smiled as Ty Redhorse roared into the dirt lot on a cream-and-coffee-colored motorcycle. The sled was a beauty, a classic Harley from the nineties, all muscle and gleaming chrome. She could not keep back her appreciation. She admired power.
Beth and Jake sat in the dark tucked up against the closed feed store across from the watering hole. Behind them, her guys sat in a van, their view blocked until Jake took off.
Ty had worked all day in his auto body shop according to surveillance. He had given no sign that his left shoulder had been recently ripped open while he was crashing through a picture window in a home in Antelope Lake. But that was the story his oldest brother, Kee, had told.
The man in question was trim and muscular and wore no helmet. He rolled to a stop right before the bar, as if he owned it, and Beth wondered if that space was reserved for him. His chopper fit perfectly between the black trucks that she knew belonged to members of the Wolf Posse, the tribe’s one and only gang. Ty cut the engine, and the world went quiet. Then he planted his booted feet on both sides of his beautiful bike and rocked it to the stand as if it weighed nothing at all.
His driving gloves ended at his palms, giving her a flashing view of fingers raking through his shoulder-length black hair. He wore it blunt-cut in a traditional style so old she did not even know where it originated. The wind had done a job tousling his hair and he took a moment to set it right, raking his fingers back over his scalp. Then he threw a leg over the seat and dismounted the bike like a cowboy coming in off the range. He glanced around and looked right in their direction, gazing at them for a minute. Beside her, Jake held his breath and scooted lower in his seat.
“He can see us,” whispered Officer Redhorse, more to himself, she thought, than her.
“Not unless he has night-vision goggles,” she said, not whispering. He’d have to be some kind of jackrabbit to hear her from clear across the road. But she could hear him, thanks to the setup from the tech guys.
His gaze flicked away to a teen who was straddling an expensive new mountain bicycle that was, of course, black. On the boy’s head sat a yellow ball cap, sideways, bill flat. He wore a new oversized black satin sports jacket. Beth made him for about thirteen because of his size. The gang colors were yellow and black, and Beth knew that recruitment started early. Ty went over to him.
“Who’s that?” she asked Jake.
“Randy Tasa. Lives up in Koun’nde. He’s in the ninth grade.”
“Long bike ride.”
“His sister, Jewell, is probably inside. She’s Faras’s girl.”
Faras Pike was the current head of the Wolf Posse and one of the targets of her investigation.
Beth lifted the cone so she could hear them.
“Whatcha doing out here so late, Randy?” Ty asked. His voice was deeper than his brother’s and held a dangerous edge.
“Deliveries.”
