Road Rash

4. Road Rage Justice

CHAPTER 4

ROAD RAGE JUSTICE

The wind roared in Shea’s ears as her sport bike flew past the Ace Hardware and the Dairy Queen on the rain-slicked street heading out of the Ironwood. The lingering drizzle had left her soaked, cold, and eager to get back to the shop.

She whipped around an armored truck and a Buick with Oregon plates. She thought she was in the clear and began pouring on speed when a hulking white pickup truck pulled out in front of her from the Walmart shopping center. Shea braked hard, executing a panic stop.

The bike’s back tire drifted sideways on the wet asphalt, threatening to slide out from under her. The distance between her and the truck evaporated quickly.

She eased off the back brake and turned in the direction of the slide. The motorcycle straightened out and slowed just enough to avoid a collision.

Fury blossomed in her chest from the close call. “f*****g cager!”

She laid on the bike’s tinny horn and flipped on the high beams in an anemic gesture of anger.

Years earlier, she might’ve drawn her pistol and put a round or two into the truck’s back tires. Maybe one in the driver. But now that she was raising Annie, she tried harder to act like a law-abiding citizen. At least most of the time.

The pickup’s driver stuck his arm out the window and flipped her off, adding insult to near injury. As Shea considered pulling around him, the truck drifted into the left lane. A deeper horn bellowed an instant before the armored truck she’d passed earlier sideswiped the pickup.

In an instant, time simultaneously sped up and slowed down.

The pickup swerved hard right into a spin until it skidded to a stop facing the center turn lane and blocking Shea’s path of travel. A school bus prevented her from going around.

She braked hard again, but there wasn’t enough stopping distance. Rather than T-bone the truck, she gritted her teeth and laid the sport bike down.

She tumbled and slid, ending up next to the truck’s back tire. Her left leg was on fire. “Fuuuucck…”

Her mind struggled to make sense of what happened. Above her, blood painted the gleaming white truck’s door a deep crimson. Despite the screaming pain in her leg, her instincts kicked into high gear.

She forced herself to her feet and yanked open the blood-soaked door. The asshole driver’s left arm below the elbow was just gone. She yanked him out of the cab and laid him on the warm, steamy pavement.

She tore off her bandana and tied it around what remained of the guy’s arm. She fished a pocketknife from her cargo pants and used it as a windlass to tighten the makeshift tourniquet until blood stopped pouring from the ragged stump.

The asshole cried out in an agonized response. His face was ghostly pale, but he was alive.

“You’re welcome, dipshit,” she muttered.

A man in a Vanguard Armored Transport uniform rushed toward her. He reminded her of a young Kevin Costner. “Holy s**t! Are you all right, miss?”

Despite the increasing pain in her leg, she focused on keeping the tourniquet tight and periodically checking the guy’s thready pulse. “I’ll live.”

She glanced over to where her sport bike lay on the pavement. The debris trail of shattered fairings stretched behind it. She’d put considerable work into building it and could only hope the damage was minor. Insuring a custom-built motorcycle wasn’t cheap, so she only had liability on this one.

“He still alive?” Costner’s younger twin asked in a shaky voice.

“Barely.” Her body thrummed with the rush of adrenaline.

“Thank God! He came outta nowhere. My partner’s calling 911. Hey, your leg’s bleeding.”

She glanced down. The outside of her left leg from mid-thigh to below her knee was a gory mess of blood, torn flesh, and ragged denim. Until now, she’d barely noticed it, but now the wound burned as if her leg were on fire. A wave of nausea hit her, and the world wobbled. “Fuck.”

A woman in a matching Vanguard uniform and a hijab walked up with a phone to her ear and a first aid kit in hand. “Ambulance and police are on the way. Is he alive, Phil?”

“So far, thanks to this brave lady.” Phil knelt next to Shea and reached toward the improvised windlass. “You should lay down, ma’am. You don’t look so good. I’ll hold the tourniquet.”

Shea grunted and hobbled over to the sidewalk, away from the asshole driver and her damaged motorcycle. She ungracefully flopped onto her butt and took inventory of her injuries. “Fuck.”

The road rash running the length of her thigh was bad. Though with all the blood and dirt, it was hard to gauge how many layers of skin the chipseal asphalt had eaten away. Her feet felt as if they belonged to someone else. The fingers on her left hand tingled painfully.

The air inside her helmet was stifling, thanks to the August sun emerging from the clouds. At least the rain had quit. She opened the visor but resisted the urge to pull it off, in case she’d injured her neck.

Despite the growing warmth, her body shivered from chill. She laid flat and focused on her breathing to keep her mind off the pain. Like meditation, but with muttered cursing when she exhaled.

“Cops are here. Ambulance too.” Samira called from nearby. “You probably saved this man’s life, ma’am. You’re a hero.”

“Great.” The sun once again ducked behind a cloud, cutting the glare.

A moment later, a uniformed Cortes County sheriff’s deputy appeared in her field of view. A scowl marked his narrow, sunburned face. He spat on the ground next to her.

“Well, well, a member of the Athena Sisterhood biker g**g. And the vice president, too, according to the patches on your jacket.” Clearly not a fan of the club. “I guess that would make you Shea Stevens, right? You cause this accident, Stevens?”

“Huh?” Shea squinted up at him. What the hell’s this guy’s deal?

“Looks to me like you rear-ended the pickup and sent it into the path of the armored truck. Following too close and speeding, no doubt. Probably cost this poor gentleman his life. That’s vehicular homicide in my book.”

“No.”

“No? No what?”

“Didn’t cause the accident, dude.” The adrenaline rush was fading into agony and shock, which were becoming impossible to ignore.

“It’s deputy, not dude, lady. Deputy Winters. You Athena bitches act as if you run this county now that the Confederate Thunder’s gone, huh? Think you can do whatever the hell you want on my streets. Well, I’m here to tell you it’s time for some accountability.”

The Confederate Thunder MC was a one-percenter motorcycle club, once run by Shea’s father, then later by her sister Wendy’s old man, Hunter. When the Athena Sisterhood dared to establish a chapter here, the Thunder pushed back hard. They refused to allow another MC, much less one run by women, to operate in their territory. Things got b****y for a while. Now most of the local chapter of the Thunder were in prison or dead.

“Need medical attention.”

“You’ll get medical attention when I say so. I’ve pulled your sheet, Stevens. Three counts of grand theft auto, wasn’t it? How many years you serve in Perryville? Five years? Not nearly what you deserve.”

Shea didn’t bother to answer. It was four counts. Seven years. And she served the whole seven because she refused to rat out the chop shop she was working for.

“Sisterhood’s a law-abiding club.” She took a deep breath to tamp down the burning in her leg. “We protect women.”

“Bullshit. Your club’s been implicated in multiple cases. Drugs, arson, murder. God knows what else. And yet here you are, free as a bird. Like someone…say a certain Guate dyke detective…has been covering your a*s all these years.”

Shea didn’t bother to respond. She wanted to punch this guy’s lights out, talking this way about her girlfriend.

“Only now the great Detective Antonia Rios has retired. Ain’t no one left to protect you now, Stevens. Nailing you will help me finally make sergeant.”

She took in a ragged breath and flipped him off with a trembling hand. “f**k. You.”

He clamped onto her wrist with one hand and drew back the other for a punch.

“Deputy Winters, is there a problem here?” A Black woman in a navy business suit walked up.

“Detective Reynolds,” Winters answered with derision, lowering his fist. “Just checking this woman’s pulse.”

“I see. Thank you for your assistance. I’ll take it from here.” The woman was familiar, but Shea couldn’t place where they’d met. So many run-ins with the sheriff’s office over the years, it was hard to keep track sometimes.

“Whatever.” He shot Shea a withering glance and strutted off. “You’re in a whole lotta trouble, Stevens. I’m gonna see to it.”

“Can we get some medical help over here?” the detective called out, then knelt over her. “Good morning, ma’am. I’m Detective Denise Reynolds, Vehicular Crimes Unit. How are you doing?”

“Had better days.”

“I imagine so. What’s your name?”

“Shea Stevens.” Shea’s mind was swimming in pain now.

“Well, hey! Didn’t recognize you with your helmet on. We met at a Christmas party last year. You still dating Toni Rios?”

“Yeah.” Shea ground her teeth, having no interest in small talk.

“She’s a good woman and was a great mentor for me. Brilliant detective before she pulled the pin. I miss having her around.”

A jolt of pain shot like a lightning bolt from Shea’s leg to the rest of her body. She gasped.

“Hang in there, Shea. Medics will be here shortly. Can you tell me what happened?”

“Pickup. Cut me off.” She struggled to recreate the timeline in her mind. “He swerved. Into next lane. Armored truck hit him.”

“Is that how the driver of the pickup lost his arm?”

“Yeah.” It came out more as a raven’s croak.

“Did your bike come into contact with either of the two trucks?”

“Not till after.”

“After?”

“Pickup spun out.”

A pair of EMTs appeared—a stocky woman carrying a large case and a man with a swimmer’s physique pushing a gurney.

Shea recognized the woman as Chelsea Tucker, aka Savage, the sergeant-at-arms of the local chapter of the Athena Sisterhood. She was one of the kindest people Shea had ever met. The nickname Savage was a reference to the pulp fiction character Doc Savage, one she’d earned because of her blonde buzz cut and muscular build.

“Shea, I’m going to let these nice people take care of you,” Detective Reynolds said, “but I’ll have more questions for you later, okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, stranger,” Savage said, her face a mix of concern and encouragement. “D’you forget to keep the shiny side up and the rubber side down?”

“Apparently. Good to see ya.”

“This here’s my buddy, Casey. We’re gonna take care of you. Okay?”

“Thanks.” She took a deep breath and tried to blow out the pain. It didn’t help.

“Can you tell me your full name?” Casey asked while he flashed a penlight in each of her eyes. “Pupil response normal.”

“Shealene Eleanor Stevens.”

Casey peppered her with more questions—asking where she was, the day of the week, and where she was experiencing pain or any other unusual sensations. Shea choked out answers while ignoring what felt like a puma gnawing at her left leg.

Meanwhile, Savage applied a dressing on her road rash and set up an IV in the back of Shea’s hand. “Shea, we’re going to need to remove your helmet and put you on a backboard, but I don’t want you to move. Me and my buddy Casey will do all the work. Got it?”

“Yeah.”

The two EMTs removed her helmet and replaced it with a cervical collar, then slid a backboard underneath her and lifted her onto a gurney.

“Doing okay?” Savage asked.

Shea grunted.

“Okay, big question. How fond are you of this jacket?”

“Why?” She loved this jacket. She’d spent considerable time and effort to get the leather as supple as a baby’s bottom. Not to mention all the MC patches she’d hand-sewn onto it.

“Afraid it’s gotta come off too, I’m afraid. And because of the risk of spinal injury, we don’t want you jostling around. We’ll need to cut it off. Same with your jeans, but they’re trashed, anyway.”

“Fuck.”

“Sorry, darlin’. Life before leathers. I promise not to cut any of the patches. And we’ll put you in the truck before I remove them, so the world doesn’t see you half-naked.”

“Yeah.”

“We’re taking you to Ironwood Regional,” Savage explained. “They’ll get you fixed up.”

“Thanks, Savage.”