The connection ended.
If his transportation had boobs like Jolene’s bot, I was not letting him go to Logan. I pushed up from the chair and went to work.
???
I tapped off my morphon and shivered in the chill air.
Jolene had gotten inside Haruto’s place and, though the security cams had been damaged, had managed to get one working. The tattoo shop had been trashed, and a dead body lay in the middle of the shop. It had been a quick death. One shot to the back of the head. From the flies, it had been dead a while. Any leads I might have acquired from the artist were now gone. I blew out my frustration and looked back at the roadhouse.
Wanda and Alex had come in early, bringing Evelyn, Mateo’s former second-in-command of the SunStar. The threewere standing in the open doorway. Between the passive defenses and Jolene’s bot, they could safely handle the place. Wanda looked good, standing in the shadows of the door wearing her JYR T-shirt and jeans, happy because she was doing something for me. Wanda was the most adhesive of my thralls, still needing to work for me, to please me, which is why she lived in town. I’d have to adjust her Berger chips again. I wanted her to be as independent as Cupcake.
Wanda’s kid was silent. Staring.
Evelyn was also wearing a Roadhouse T-shirt and an apron. The formerUSSS SunStarofficer was healing. I hoped. We’d rescued her at the Battle of Warhammer’s Nest. Mateo had moved heaven and earth to find her and bring her home. But she had been tortured and broken and transitioned into a passive thrall by the evil queen. Her gaze was vacant, her body unmoving, submissive, as if expecting a blow. She followed orders: eat that; mop that floor; do three sets of leg lifts; wand your body clean; brush your teeth. But she took no initiative. If she was cold, she didn’t say. If she was hungry, she didn’t seem to care.
I was considering re-transitioning her. Again. But that was scary.
The rest of us were in winter riding gear. No roadhouse colors. Not yet. But soon. This morning I’d finalized the order of leather jackets with roadhouse colors. They would be amazing. Certainly better than what Cupcake was wearing today. Pink. Head to toe, pink. With sequins. God help me.
I placed my thumb to the biomarker starter on the HD bike. It was my club bike, and Amos would see that the colors were painted on it soon. For now, it was Army green (as were the other bikes Cupcake had traded for, not long after we got word that the riding club and the roadhouse were on go). I was next to broke now, but all the purchases had been worth it.
My crew punched or initiated the ignition of their vehicles. Exhaust filled the area, clouds quickly dissipating in the cold thin air. The smell of HD bikes sent a bittersweet melancholy through me. Memories of Pops sitting astride his Harley, a fierce grin on his face. Hair and beard blowing back in the wind.
Engines thrumming, we pulled out of the parking area. Amos and me on our repurposed war bikes, Cupcake driving a heavily modified Quadro strapped down with drones, weapons, water, antibiotics for the sick kid, and supplies, all hidden under a huge ghillie tech tarp. A second quad was loaded with Mateo, his legs telescoped down and folded beneath him, his pod looking like a streamlined part of the ATV and he its pampered driver. It was a good disguise. His quad ran silent, on magnetic power. Mag-power had been under development before the war, cheap, easy to produce, and not something that had to be imported. Some cities had begun to create grids for mag-busses and delivery trucks and even for personal mag-vehicles. The war stopped that. Jolene and Cupcake had managed to scrounge the scrapyard for materials enough to convert one Quadro ATV in her shop-lab-fabrication department and create a driver spot for the warbot suit. It was impressive. I figured this was why she and Gomez had been so unavailable for the last few months.
In formation, we took off west, for no-man’s land.
At Highway 85, south of Bald Knob, where the mine road had been dug out of mountains, cities, farms and forests, we were meeting Asshole and whomever he could convince to join him on a personal job. I was hoping for Jacopo. Kid could shoot like a wizard.
The thin air was December cold. The terrain was backcountry—hilly, sheer cliffs, washouts, covered by kudzu here and there, places where the road was simply gone and we had to launch the drones to show us a better way and reroute.The roadway pavement was broken and down to one lane where we did find a road. Bridges were junk. The main bridge, however had been repaired. Sort of. Amos negotiated a price and paid a toll of a silver charm bracelet for us to roll across one at a time. He also asked the armed guard about a kid who had paid to cross on a scooter in the last few days. The guard said he hadn’t been on duty when the kid had ridden his scooter across, but the boy’s contribution—one 1935 penny—had been accepted and entered into the account register.
Crossing the bridge took too long. Still, we got to the meeting place on State Road 85 on time. When we pulled into the cracked parking area of a gas station turned general store and diner, four bikes waited for us.
They had come.
Relief washed through me. I hadn’t realized how uncertain I’d been that they would show. I examined the bikes as I slowed and rumbled up to them.
Jagger’s One Rider war bike, fully loaded with weapons, muters, and shielding that both protected the bike from some forms of attack and let him blend into the background.
Jacopo’s Harley, painted with HA colors and Marconi’s emblems, to let other OMW bikers know he was not Jagger’s bitch and a traitor to his club. Equally loaded with weapons.
Mina’s bike was minimally weaponed, a streamlined, fast Suzuki, muted, heavy on the electronics, shielded, and with battery backup for stealth runs. She was good. She was scary. The bike implied she was ready to take point and make sure the way was clear for us.
One unknown war bike was a little to the side, an early-war Harley with an old finish, no colors, no stealth capabilities. A private bike, not a club bike. The bike’s only updated equipment was the muters and the jury-rigged weapons—including an MPP suitable for mounting on a mini-tank. Firingthat sucker would send a moving bike into orbit or down a mountain.
I rolled to a stop, turned off my bike, and set both feet on the pavement. Waited. No one shot at me. That was always a good sign. I set my jiffy stand and swung off the Harley. My people followed my lead, except for Mateo, who turned his armored quad so one weapon faced the front door, and swiveled one of his weapons so it pointed at the bikes. Just in case.
I chuckled into my comms. Mateo chuckled back, if the scratchy sound was laughter. I’d always assumed it was.
Inside, the place was a weird combo of excellent, pretty crappy, and refurbished. The smell was excellent: greasy food, fried potatoes, eggs, and maybe apple pie, if such a thing still existed. The crappy part was ancient linoleum curling up around the corners, bare drywall, and a cracked tile bar. But the booth tables were shiny new, and the bar stools and booth benches were upholstered in some kind of faux red leather with a bright gloss. The owner was clearly doing reno while open, someday hoping to create a food destination spot. I wondered if he was in business with the bridge guy.
The crew was sitting at the back corner bar in an extra-long booth: Jagger, Mina, Jacopo, and . . . Bengal.
Bengal was staring at me when I pushed open the door and stopped in the entrance.
Bengal, the prez of the Boozefighters. On a mission for personal reasons. Alone. Without his enforcers or his security people.Oookaaay.
He raised his cybot arm in welcome, a big grin on his dark-skinned face. His beard was growing in, a black curly mass along his chin and jaw. I hadn’t paid him much attention during the opening of the roadhouse and my torture, but he looked good. We had bonded during the Battle of Warhammer’s Nest,before he lost his arm. But being here, on his personal bike . . . was a step up in our relationship.
