Outlaw’s Ink Page 5

  So they hopped on their bikes and rode toward the center of town, their ski masks pushed up under their helmets. Since it was midday on a Wednesday, the majority of the people in town were at work, and the streets were mostly empty. Bikers rode through border shitholes like this one fairly regularly, so the sound of their engines didn't even attract much attention.

  As they got close to the block that the bank was on, Carter reached up and pulled his mask down over his face, motioning for the others to do likewise.

  Every time he and the other two Monsters descended on their targeted banks like the wrath of the devil, Carter couldn't help but hear “The Ride of the Valkyries” crashing triumphantly in his ears. This moment right before the onslaught was always his favorite part of being a biker. In this moment, they were barbarians, they were unstoppable, they were harbingers of armageddon, and anyone foolish enough to stand in their way would be swiftly cut down.

  The three bikes did a quick loop around the bank, making sure there weren't any sheriff's department vehicles on the streets surrounding the block. There were plenty of empty parked cars, but none of them seemed to belong to law enforcement.

  “Looks like we're all clear,” Carter said as they pulled up in front of the bank. His heart started to thump in his chest as he dismounted from his bike. Just a few more minutes, and their robbery spree would be completed successfully.

  “What about the side streets?” Oiler asked.

  “Are you fuckin' retarded?” Hazmat snapped at him. “We've already got our masks on an' you wanna go putzin' around the side streets lookin' for hidden cops? We're clear, let's just do this an' get the hell outta here!”

  Oiler looked like he wanted to say something else, but instead he just nodded.

  As Oiler took up his familiar position just outside the main entrance, Hazmat and Carter drew their handguns from the backs of their jeans and burst into the bank.

  The tellers and customers all froze in the middle of their conversations and transactions, their faces freezing into expressions of terror that were almost comical. Carter only had a half-second to register this before Hazmat fired his gun in the air twice, the sound booming and echoing off the marble walls and floors.

  Even though Hazmat could be a stubborn, quick-tempered bull of a man, Carter still had to admire how his shots carefully avoided any surfaces where they could ricochet and accidentally hurt or kill someone. He could be exasperating to work with, but he was still a pro.

  “Everyone put your hands up now!” Carter demanded in the harsh, authoritative voice he'd practiced. He'd committed enough armed robberies as a member of the Hobgoblins to know that the trick was to immediately establish ownership of the room and everyone in it, taking it over before anyone could even internalize what was happening or think of resisting.

  Sure enough, everyone's hands jerked upward instantly. Carter saw that the information he'd been given was correct—none of the tellers looked a day over twenty, and the security guard was so old he looked like he might have been Methuselah's babysitter once upon a time. His cloudy blue eyes bulged and his mouth worked soundlessly as spittle gathered at the corners of his thin, papery lips.

  “That's good,” Carter said, stepping forward and snatching the guard's gun from his holster. As he did, he smelled something like ammonia and looked down at the crotch of the guard's uniform. A large urine stain was spreading across it.

  “Everyone stay calm, and this will be over in less than ninety seconds,” Carter said. “We are here for the bank's money, not yours. The bank is insured, so no matter how much we take, I promise you folks aren't going to lose a dime from your accounts. Now we're all just going to relax and keep breathing while my associate over there collects the money from the tellers. We do not want to hurt anyone, but if any of you lower your arms or make any movements at all without our permission, we will assume you're reaching for a gun or an alarm and we will not hesitate to drop you lower than snake shit. So just be cool, and let's all get through this quickly and painlessly.”

  It was a good speech, and Carter felt like more of a badass every time he got to deliver it. As Hazmat ordered each teller to empty their cash into the bag, Carter wondered if he'd ever have a chance to make that speech again. He doubted it. Robbing banks was exciting, but MCs tended to prosper more from drugs, guns, and small-time scores.

  Once Hazmat had collected all of the money, he and Carter started for the door. “Thanks for your cooperation, guys,” Hazmat cackled. “Have fun tellin' this story to yer grandkids someday!”

  As they emerged from the bank, Oiler eyed them nervously. “Cripes, what took you guys so long?” he demanded. “Let's get out of here fast!”

  Suddenly, Carter heard a woman's voice gleefully call out, “Yeeeeeeee-haw, Yorick! I knew you boys were outlaws! I knew it, I knew it!”

  Carter turned in the direction of the voice and saw Billie, the barmaid from the saloon, sitting in a small red car parked next to the bank. She was leaning out her driver's side window and pounding on her car door with a big grin on her face, as though she were cheering for a parade.

  “What the fuck...?” Hazmat muttered under her breath.

  “She's seen us,” Oiler hissed. “She's seen us, Carter, she knows what we look like, oh no, no, no, no...”

  Before Carter's mind could fully process Billie's presence or what that meant, he heard a gunshot. For a bizarre moment, he thought it must have come from one of their own guns going off by accident—until he looked across the street and saw the sheriff running toward them, red-faced, with his pistol drawn.

  “Stop in the name of the law!” the sheriff yelled, leveling his gun at them.

  Carter, Hazmat, and Oiler exchanged glances, looking down at the guns in their own hands. Counting the weapon Carter had taken from the guard, their firearms outnumbered his four to one.

  Stop in the name of the law? Carter thought. Jesus, what kind of movies has this douchebag been watching?

  “What a stupid cop,” Carter mused, bewildered.

  “What a dead cop!” Hazmat yowled, raising his gun and firing at the sheriff. “Eat lead, you khaki-wearing asshole!”

  Despite Hazmat's words, Carter could see that he was still aiming for the pavement around the sheriff's shoes. Good. They didn't want to get caught, but they didn't want a cop kill on their hands if they could help it either. And in Carter's experience, when it came right down to it, most small-town lawmen preferred to play it safe instead of risking their lives.

  Oiler lifted his own gun and squeezed the trigger, still mumbling litanies of “she's seen us” and “no, no, no” like a repentant Catholic reciting Hail Marys.

  The sheriff's eyes widened as he realized his mistake. He ducked behind a nearby car, firing back at them.

  Carter stole a glance at Billie again. She'd pulled herself back into the car and hunched down, rolling up the window quickly as though it could somehow stop a bullet.

  Dread lurched in Carter's stomach as he realized Oiler was right. In fact, it looked like he'd been right about everything. Even if they still managed to escape—which was likely, since the sheriff seemed to have come alone for some idiotic reason—the feds would get their descriptions from Billie, who'd spent most of the previous night close enough to them to provide accurate descriptions to sketch artists.

  Unless they didn't leave Billie here to talk to the cops.

  “That sheriff's wasting all his ammo,” Carter said to Hazmat. “When he runs out and reloads, you and Oiler get on your bikes and ride. I'll be right behind you.”

  “What the fuck are you talkin' about?” Hazmat hollered over the thunder of the guns.

  “Trust me,” Carter insisted. “Just get the fuck out of here. I know what I'm doing.”

  Sure enough, the sheriff's gunshots gave way to a series of clicks and he slid the magazine out of the pistol's handle, preparing to ram a fresh one in.

  Hazmat and Oiler got on their bikes, revved them, and sped away.

&nbs
p; The next few moments seemed to pass in slow motion. Carter grabbed his saddlebag from his bike and slung it over his shoulder, then ran toward the red car with Billie inside it. When he'd covered half the distance, the sheriff started firing at him again.

  Instead of returning fire, Carter turned and aimed his gun at the gas tank of his own bike, pulling the trigger twice. The bullets ripped through the tank and the bike erupted into flames.

  Good luck getting any fingerprints from that now, piggies, Carter thought smugly.

  He turned back to the red car and ran for it as fast as he could, bullets zinging off the sidewalk around his feet. He reached the door on the passenger's side and used the butt of his gun to smash the window in.

  “No!” the sheriff screamed, his voice rising to a shrill pitch. “You get away from her! Stay back!” He aimed his gun, but it was too late—if he fired, he might hit Billie, and based on his obvious poor aim, Carter was willing to bet that wasn't a risk the sheriff could afford to take.

  Billie stared at Carter wide-eyed as he reached in to unlock the door and opened it. He slid into the passenger's seat, slamming the door behind him and pointing his gun at her.

  “Drive,” Carter commanded. He expected her to cry, scream, or otherwise react with fear. But he was surprised to see a big smile on her face and a crazy gleam in her eye as she looked at him.

  “You got it, babe,” she said, stepping on the gas pedal.

  Her tires screeched as she pulled out of the parking space, zooming up the street in the direction Hazmat and Oiler had headed. Carter kept the gun trained on her as his eyes flickered over to the rearview mirror.

  The sheriff was running after them on foot, huffing and puffing and firing his gun in the air. As the car accelerated sharply, he disappeared into the distance along with the rest of Cactus Hollow.

  Chapter 9

  Carter

  The coupe zoomed down the highway like a rocket ship breaking free of Earth's gravity.

  Carter kept his gun aimed at Billie, hoping it would banish the smile from her face and make her take him seriously. Instead, her grin seemed to get wider each time her eyes darted over to the weapon.

  “You don't need to keep pointing that at me,” Billie laughed. “I've always wanted to be a getaway driver, so this whole thing is like a dream come true. Besides, if you shoot me, then what? The car will plow into a corn field or get wrapped around a tree, and then Panzie will catch up to you for sure.”

  “First of all, lady, you're not a getaway driver, you're a hostage,” Carter pointed out. “And second, who the fuck is Panzie?”

  “Aw, don't call me 'lady,'” Billie said, pouting. “I told you my name last night at the bar. Billie, remember?”

  Despite his gun and his gruff talk, Carter could see that she still wasn't frightened, and he started to feel a little uneasy. Just who the hell was this girl, anyway? He'd seen how wild and outgoing she was the previous night when he’d flirted with her, but what kind of woman reacted to a carjacking like it was some kind of rollercoaster ride? Was she crazy or what?

  “And Panzie's the name of that fat sheriff you and your friends just tried to ventilate,” Billie continued matter-of-factly, as though she was casually pointing out some local landmark. “You guys really should have cut him some slack back there, by the way. He can be kind of a dork sometimes, but he's an okay guy once you get to know him, and all those bullets you tossed in his direction probably made him shit his pants.” She giggled at this thought. “Besides, it's not like he'd have actually shot you. He can't aim for shit. I should know, I've been to the range with him enough times—”

  “Okay, I'm going to need you to close your goddamn mouth now,” Carter said, interrupting her. “I'm trying to focus, and your yapping is distracting as fuck.”

  Billie shrugged. “Suit yourself. I never would have thought bank robbers would be so cranky, though. Jeez.”

  The car slowed down, and Carter realized that Billie was about to turn onto a side road. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded. “I didn't tell you to slow down or take a different road!”

  “You didn't have to,” she said slowly, as though she was talking to a slow-witted child. “Even if Panzie can't catch up to us, he'll still have radioed ahead to the Highway Patrol by now so they can cut you off. If we take the side roads, we have a better chance of getting past them. Unless you want to get caught, in which case, hey, full speed ahead.”

  Carter hated to concede that she had a point. “Fine, fine, just keep driving,” he said.

  She took the side road. It was mostly unpaved, and tall corn stalks closed in on them from both sides. Carter had to admit to himself that this was a better route in terms of keeping them hidden.

  “I know you said you don't want to hear from me...” Billie began.

  “And yet you're still fucking talking for some reason,” Carter growled.

  “...but this would be a lot easier if I knew where we were going,” she finished.

  Carter let out a frustrated sigh. He'd been in a car with her for a handful of minutes, and it already felt like it had been all day. He knew he'd have to tell her their destination unless he was willing to throw her out of the car and take over the driving himself. If it were anyone else, he would trust that they'd be scared enough of his gun to comply.

  But what if she didn't? She clearly wasn't intimidated by him, and if she resisted, was he really prepared to shoot her?

  Billie raised an eyebrow at him playfully as though she could hear his thoughts. “Come on, you may as well tell me. Your voice sounds sexy when you try to make it sound all scary and gravelly, but you're clearly not some psycho murderer.”

  “Oh? What makes you so sure?” Carter countered.

  “Am I wrong?” she asked, smiling. “If I am and you're just planning to steal my car and leave me in a ditch with a bullet in my head, then I may as well not drive you any further, right?” The car started to slow down.

  Carter clenched his teeth. He'd committed a lot of armed robberies in his life and he'd once killed a man in self-defense, but no, he wasn't inclined to shoot some unarmed woman no matter how infuriating she was.

  “There's a motel south of here,” he said. “The Whippoorwill Motor Lodge. It's in a town called Blue Lace.”

  “I know where that is,” she nodded. “If we mostly stick to the back roads, I should be able to get you there in about two hours.”

  “Then we'd better find a place to stop and switch cars first,” Carter grunted. “They'll have state police helicopters in the air in thirty minutes once they realize we're not on the highway, and this little red girlie-mobile you've got is going to be easy to spot.”

  “No problem,” Billie assured him. “There's an office park on Sidewinder Road up ahead. We should be able to find something in the parking lot there without anyone spotting us. Hey, can I choose the car we swap this out for?”

  “No, you fucking can't,” Carter replied, looking at her incredulously. “What the hell is your deal, anyway? Are you from another planet or something? Don't you get how much danger you're in right now, or do you get carjacked at gunpoint every week?”

  “Are you kidding? This is the most exciting thing that's ever happened to me!” she gushed. “On the run from the cops with an armed outlaw? It's like something out of a movie.”

  “This ain't no movie, lady,” Carter snapped.

  “'Grr, this ain't no movie, lady,'” she retorted, trying to mimic his tone. “Wow. So cool. Do you practice that voice when you're alone? Does it usually scare people into doing what you say? I mean, you've already got the gun, so...oh, hey, here we go, here's Sidewinder.” She turned the car onto an even narrower dirt road.

  A few minutes later, she pulled into a parking lot situated between a cluster of squat gray office buildings. Billie cut the engine, then pointed to a nondescript white sedan. It was a model from the mid-'80s, and based on the thick layers of dust and grime clinging to it, Carter assumed it hadn't been clean
ed in the decades since then.

  “I know you're not exactly eager for my input, but if I were you, I'd take that one,” Billie said.

  “That shitheap?” Carter asked. “You've got to be kidding me. If the cops start chasing us and we need to pour on the speed, that thing looks like it'll cough up its engine and crap out on us.”

  “That's just the outside,” she answered. “But it belongs to Henry Sunday, and he used to use it for drag racing a few years ago. Under the hood, it's a powerhouse. It'll easily outrun any cop car, guaranteed.”

  “Bullshit,” Carter said. “You're fucking with me so I'll pick a shitty car and get caught.”

  Billie rolled her eyes. “Fine, don't believe me. But if you take a quick peek at the engine, you'll see I'm right.”