“Fucking hell if that bastard Pratt’s going to ruin my run for mayor before it’s even started.”
Well, it sure looked like Pratt was trying. He was the one flat on his back on the ground right in front of the barbershop pole. A strange chemical smell was in the air, stinging my eyes, as though I’d run through a cloud of something. Since Maximus was the store owner, we shoved our way past several constituents to find an EMT stripping off Pratt’s burned pants. Burned pants?
“What is that device?” someone shouted in my ear. It was Dingo, our tech expert.
Another squatting EMT held a piece of pipe wrapped in duct tape with a black wire attached to one end. “Looks like a—”
“A fucking pipe bomb!” Dingo yelled.
“Holy…” The EMT walked gingerly, heel-to-toe, a few doors up the street, placing the pipe bomb daintily on the ground. He got on his radio, maybe to call in the bomb squad.
Maximus shouted, “Where’d that pipe bomb come from? Was this asshole trying to blow up my shop?”
The attending EMT said, “Whatever it is, it was in his pocket. And he’s burned pretty badly because his pants caught on fire.”
That was when I noticed his asinine hoverboard in the sidewalk gutter. It was barely recognizable as a space-age skateboard anymore, having twisted and melted and burned. For some reason—and my instincts turned out to be true—I looked at Dingo with narrowed eyes.
“Hoverboard blew up?”
His placid face was innocent. “Hoverboards explode all the time! Did you know Amazon is not selling them anymore for that very reason? Something to do with the battery.”
“How mysterious,” I said.
“I heard about that,” said Gideon. “Pretty common thing.”
Dust Bunny said, “Overstock isn’t selling them at all.”
They were putting Pratt’s stretcher into the ambulance, and Maximus said,
“I’m gonna ride with the mayor to St. George. Wouldn’t want our constituents to think we’re not on the same side.”
“Yeah,” said Gideon, “and while you’re at it, find out why he had a fucking pipe bomb in his fucking pants.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
OAKLYN
“It’s the end of an error!”
The crowd roared its approval of Maximus’ campaign slogan.
Mahalia had actually written that for him. She had experience dealing with the press. She’d arranged to film this TV spot at Angel’s Landing in Zion National Park overlooking the Virgin River.
I thought at first she must’ve made a mistake telling us where to go. Motorcycles were parked all up and down the shoulder as Levon, Lazarus and I pulled up. As we got closer down Floor of the Valley Road, we saw the parking lot for the scenic view jammed with bikes and four wheel drive trucks.
“Is there some kind of rally here?” I asked as I removed my lid. I unbuckled Lazarus from his adorable sidecar—as the saying went, “only a biker knows why a dog sticks his head out of a car window.” I put the leash on him before I let him jump out. It was December, so not nearly the amount of traffic as the summer when this road was closed and people had to take the shuttle in. It had snowed at these elevations the week before, so Maximus would have the stunning beauty of the snow-capped pinnacles for his shoot.
That was, unless there’d be a hundred tourists in the background.
“I don’t think so,” said Levon. “I mean, we’re it as far as MCs go until you get to Salt Lake. I saw Dust Bunny’s bike back there, and Dingo’s and Sledgehammer’s. These other bikes have logos of bones on the gas tanks.”
“That guy’s duffel bag says the Bent Zealots,” I said.
“There’s Yosemite Sam. Sam! Who the fuck are all these people?”
Yosemite Sam was smiling, always a bad sign. He only smiled out of malice. But today he seemed genuinely happy, and he waved an arm for us to follow him. “Come on!”
We had to run to catch up. “But why are all these scoots here?” Levon asked again.
“Well, I guess word got out that we want to take Avalanche back from the Morbots. These are all guys from our brother clubs, the Bare Bones, the Bent Zealots.”
I could tell by the wide smile on Levon’s face that this was a good thing., “You’re fucking kidding! I’m dying to meet these guys.”
“I’ll introduce you to the Bare Bones’ Prez.”
Yosemite Sam found a cluster of patch holders I’d never seen before. They seemed to conglomerate around two darkly handsome men. They looked part Native American, like Mahalia and I—buried deep in our Mormon heritage. One wore a patch on his cut that said PREZ, and the other’s patch said SERGEANT-AT-ARMS.
“Ford,” said Yosemite Sam, bro hugging it out with the PREZ. “I’d like you to meet our newest Prospect, Levon Rockwell.”
“Levon, welcome,” acknowledged Ford, thumping my old man on the back.
Yosemite Sam said, “And this is Ford’s brother, Lytton Driving Hawk.”