Sharon Sala: Rider on Fire & When You Call My Name

“No on both counts. I called because I need my bike.”

Buddy groaned. “Aw, man…not the Harley.”

“Sorry, but I need it,” Sonora said shortly.

The smile disappeared from Buddy’s voice. “Are you in trouble?”

“Not if I get out of town quick enough.”

“Damn it, Sonora, why do you do it?”

“Do what?” she asked.

“You know what. There are a hundred careers you could have picked besides the one that you chose, and none of them would have been dangerous.”

“Can you bring it over?” she asked. “I’d come get it, but I don’t want to advertise my presence any more than necessary.”

Buddy sighed. “Hell, yes, I’ll bring the Harley, serviced, gassed up and clean. When do you need it?” he asked.

“Yesterday.”

Buddy cursed and asked, “Do you need to leave before morning?”

“No. It can wait until then, but early…please.”

“Thanks for nothing,” he muttered. “I’ll be there before 7:00 a.m. Will you make me some coffee?”

“Yes.”

“And maybe some of your biscuits and gravy?”

“No.”

He sighed. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

“I’m not blaming you for anything,” she said. “Never have. Never will.”

“I know,” Buddy said, and knew that she was no longer talking about the bike. “See you in the morning.”

“Okay, Buddy, and thanks.”

“It’s okay, honey,” Buddy said, and hung up.

With that job over, Sonora walked to the closet, then grabbed her travel bag and quickly packed. She thought about where she might go and then went into the living room, found an atlas and carried it to the kitchen.

She opened the pages to the map of the U.S. and then just sat and stared. One line seemed to stand out from all the others. She fumbled in a drawer for a yellow highlighter, then popped the cap. Her fingers where shaking as she held it over the map. Something rattled behind her, like pebbles in a can. She ignored it and began to mark.

Without a thought in her head, she began drawing a line north out of Phoenix toward Flagstaff, then across the country until she came to Oklahoma. The line ended there.

She paused, frowned, then shook her head, certain she’d just lost her mind. Still, she left the atlas on the counter as she went into her bedroom.

She showered quickly, afraid that the vision would come back. Even after she crawled into bed and closed her eyes, she was reluctant to sleep. Finally, she rolled onto her side, bunched her pillow under her neck, then grabbed the extra one and hugged it to her. It was an old habit from childhood, and one she rarely indulged in anymore. The simple act made her feel childish and helpless and Sonora was neither of those.

Somehow she slept, and woke up just after six. Time enough for a quick shower.

True to his promise, Buddy showed up right before seven.

She met him at the door with a to-go cup of coffee.

“Good morning,” she said, eyeing his tousled hair and unshaven face. “Thanks for bringing the Harley.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, then dropped the keys in her hands, handed her the helmet and took the coffee, downing a good portion of it before he spoke again. “I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me what’s going on?”

She shrugged. “Someone wants me dead.”

“Son of a bitch,” Buddy muttered.

“Yes, he is,” Sonora said. “A real bad one. I don’t think anyone knows about you and me, but just to be on the safe side, don’t mention my name to anyone.”

“There is no more you and me,” Buddy reminded her. “And don’t worry about me. I’m not the one with the death wish.”

Sonora frowned. “I don’t have a death wish. I just do my job and do it well.” Then she kissed him on the cheek, as much as a thank-you as for old times’ sake, as well as for bringing back her bike, then pointed at the cab in the street. “I suppose that’s your ride. Don’t keep him waiting.”

She watched him get into the cab before checking the area for someone who didn’t belong. All was well. When he looked back, she waved goodbye, then quickly closed the door.

She walked through her home one last time, making sure everything was as it should be, then shouldered her bag, picked up the helmet and turned off the lights. She opened the door, hesitating briefly to scan the neighborhood once more, and saw nothing amiss. The black and shiny Harley was at the curb.

She hurried outside, opened the storage compartment and dropped her handgun inside, then lowered the lid and tied her bag down on top. When she stuck the key in the ignition, she could tell Buddy had been good for his word. Not only was the bike clean, but the gas gauge registered full. She checked to make sure her toolbox was in place, then put on the helmet and slung her leg over the bike as if she was mounting a horse.

The engine roared to life, then settled down to a soft rumble as she released the kickstand and gave it the gas. As the rumble changed to a full-throttle blast, she put it in gear and rode away without looking back.

It wasn’t until she was on the highway that she remembered the path she’d highlighted on the atlas. There was no reason for her to have chosen that direction, and a couple of times she even considered turning around and heading for Las Vegas or points farther west. But something more than instinct was guiding her trip.

Miguel Garcia was in Juarez, trying to figure out how to get over the border. The Mexican police had staked out his hotel and would have already had him in custody if it hadn’t been for Jorge Diaz, one of his dealers, who’d sent his own child into the restaurant where Miguel was having breakfast to warn him.

Now he was in a dingy room over what must be the oldest cantina in the city, without his clothes, and without access to his bank. Even though he hadn’t been born to it, Miguel had been in the drug business long enough that he’d become accustomed to fine dining, elegant surroundings. Being forced to hide in a room like this was like a slap in the face—a degradation that only added to the grief of losing his brothers.

Enrique was incarcerated somewhere in the States, and Juanito was on a slab in a Tijuana morgue. He’d promised his mother on her deathbed that he would take care of Juanito. He was the baby of their family, the last of eight children, but now, because of that DEA bitch, Juanito was dead.

Before he’d gone into hiding, Miguel had made a promise at his mother’s grave that he would avenge Juanito’s death. He’d also let it be known that he would pay big money for the name and location of the agent who’d killed his brother, with the warning to leave her alone. He wanted to end her life—personally.

And so he waited. And waited. A day passed in this hell, then a second, then a third before everything changed.

* * *

The puta Miguel had just paid for a blow job was in the bathroom brushing her teeth when someone knocked on his door. He reached for his gun, grabbed the woman who was just coming out of the bathroom and put his finger to his mouth to indicate she be quiet. His grip on her arm was so painful that she stifled a screech and covered her mouth with both hands. Tears ran down her face, but she didn’t move.

Once he was satisfied that she understood what he meant, he whispered in her ear, “Ask who is there.”

She nodded, then called out as he told her.

There was a long stretch of silence, then a man spoke. “I have news for Miguel.”

Miguel recognized the voice of Jorge, the dealer who’d helped him escape. He pulled the woman away from the door, opened it enough to make sure Jorge was alone and then shoved her out.

“Get lost,” he said.