know," the girl continued. Melody's green eyes almost looked sad. Her chest heaved in her corset as she reached out and handed him a sealed envelope. "She wanted you to have this."
Diego grabbed the letter. It was unmarked except for a single "D."
Melody planted her foot in the sand and leaned over from her bike, into Diego. She pressed her lips against his and closed her beautiful eyes. Diego wrapped his arms around her and the two shared an embrace.
When she pulled away, she left her soft hand on his cheek, rubbing his trimmed goatee with her thumb. "Your sister was a better kisser."
A stunned Diego watched as Melody righted her bike and walked it forward a few feet. Her pale cheeks blushed slightly, and she gave him one last wink and rode away.
The biker wiped his mouth with his glove as he watched her full figure disappearing around a turn, no doubt heading back to the clubhouse.
Diego ripped open the envelope and unfolded the single paper within. On it was the handwriting of his sister: "Mind your own business, bro."
The biker shook his head; he couldn't help but form a slanted smile with his lips. Where did that leave him?
With a quick look around to make sure no one was watching, Diego withdrew the silver blade from his sleeve and slid it into a special casing in the exhaust on his bike. When it snapped into place, it looked like a part of the engine, indistinguishable as a separate piece, much less a weapon.
The biker pulled his full-face helmet over his head. Despite the rest of his outfit being a matte black, this piece was a flat gold color that clashed with the shaded lens. He couldn't be completely devoid of style, after all.
Diego jumped onto his Scrambler and wondered where to go next. The bike kicked into gear and threw dirt into the air, and he sped down the asphalt. A new breeze picked up and sailed into the trees, carrying his sister's letter with it.
Part 3 - The Hunter
i.
Some days started better than others. In the present circumstances, Maxim had barely taken his jacket off and already Sergeant Hitchens was lecturing him.
"Let me explain something to you, Dwyer, for your own benefit."
The detective resigned himself to a sigh. He couldn't proceed with his work until he got this over with. He walked over to his desk and sat in his swivel chair.
The Sanctuary Marshal's Office was a small department. The main room was an open space that had desks for all nine officers. The high walls were lined with skylight windows, but the dirty glass and fluorescent lights bequeathed a musty air of the seventies.
It was likely that the other two shift officers were out on patrol because Barney Hitchens was Maxim's sole companion this morning. While it was customary to speak above the irregular humming of the old air conditioner, such an impersonal gesture wasn't the style of the fatherly veteran.
"Hitchens, did I ever tell you that you were like the black uncle I never had?"
"Thank the Lord for that. I try to get Gutierrez to heed my advice but that boy isn’t right in the head. I saw you finally convinced him to shave his face!"
The officer grabbed the padded chair on the side of Maxim's desk and pulled it away to account for his large girth. "Hell," the old man started as he plopped down in the chair facing the detective, "if I was really your uncle I would've whooped your ass a long time ago."
Besides the sergeant's longtime friends, most officers working for Barney Hitchens found him to be unnecessarily abrasive. For Maxim, it was the opposite. The fact that the detective's Criminal Investigation Unit didn't answer to the patrol sergeant certainly helped avoid friction, but there was more to it than that. Enemies cajoled; friends complained.
Many times this friendship materialized in the form of advice.
"When someone," he began, enjoying his soapbox, "let's say the marshal, for instance, tells you not to do something, and you go ahead and do that thing anyway—well,
Diego grabbed the letter. It was unmarked except for a single "D."
Melody planted her foot in the sand and leaned over from her bike, into Diego. She pressed her lips against his and closed her beautiful eyes. Diego wrapped his arms around her and the two shared an embrace.
When she pulled away, she left her soft hand on his cheek, rubbing his trimmed goatee with her thumb. "Your sister was a better kisser."
A stunned Diego watched as Melody righted her bike and walked it forward a few feet. Her pale cheeks blushed slightly, and she gave him one last wink and rode away.
The biker wiped his mouth with his glove as he watched her full figure disappearing around a turn, no doubt heading back to the clubhouse.
Diego ripped open the envelope and unfolded the single paper within. On it was the handwriting of his sister: "Mind your own business, bro."
The biker shook his head; he couldn't help but form a slanted smile with his lips. Where did that leave him?
With a quick look around to make sure no one was watching, Diego withdrew the silver blade from his sleeve and slid it into a special casing in the exhaust on his bike. When it snapped into place, it looked like a part of the engine, indistinguishable as a separate piece, much less a weapon.
The biker pulled his full-face helmet over his head. Despite the rest of his outfit being a matte black, this piece was a flat gold color that clashed with the shaded lens. He couldn't be completely devoid of style, after all.
Diego jumped onto his Scrambler and wondered where to go next. The bike kicked into gear and threw dirt into the air, and he sped down the asphalt. A new breeze picked up and sailed into the trees, carrying his sister's letter with it.
Part 3 - The Hunter
i.
Some days started better than others. In the present circumstances, Maxim had barely taken his jacket off and already Sergeant Hitchens was lecturing him.
"Let me explain something to you, Dwyer, for your own benefit."
The detective resigned himself to a sigh. He couldn't proceed with his work until he got this over with. He walked over to his desk and sat in his swivel chair.
The Sanctuary Marshal's Office was a small department. The main room was an open space that had desks for all nine officers. The high walls were lined with skylight windows, but the dirty glass and fluorescent lights bequeathed a musty air of the seventies.
It was likely that the other two shift officers were out on patrol because Barney Hitchens was Maxim's sole companion this morning. While it was customary to speak above the irregular humming of the old air conditioner, such an impersonal gesture wasn't the style of the fatherly veteran.
"Hitchens, did I ever tell you that you were like the black uncle I never had?"
"Thank the Lord for that. I try to get Gutierrez to heed my advice but that boy isn’t right in the head. I saw you finally convinced him to shave his face!"
The officer grabbed the padded chair on the side of Maxim's desk and pulled it away to account for his large girth. "Hell," the old man started as he plopped down in the chair facing the detective, "if I was really your uncle I would've whooped your ass a long time ago."
Besides the sergeant's longtime friends, most officers working for Barney Hitchens found him to be unnecessarily abrasive. For Maxim, it was the opposite. The fact that the detective's Criminal Investigation Unit didn't answer to the patrol sergeant certainly helped avoid friction, but there was more to it than that. Enemies cajoled; friends complained.
Many times this friendship materialized in the form of advice.
"When someone," he began, enjoying his soapbox, "let's say the marshal, for instance, tells you not to do something, and you go ahead and do that thing anyway—well,
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