Copyright © 2022 by No. 5 Productions Ltd.
E-book published in 2022 by Blackstone Publishing
Cover design by Zena Kanes

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced
or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the
publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

The characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental
and not intended by the author.

Trade e-book ISBN 978-1-0941-6682-7
Library e-book ISBN 978-1-0941-6681-0
Fiction / General

CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress

Blackstone Publishing
31 Mistletoe Rd.
Ashland, OR 97520

www.BlackstonePublishing.com

To Mingus. I love you like the ocean.
—Norman Reedus

In memory of my uncle John H. “Jack” Bill, 1944–2021
—Frank Bill

HUNTER

HUNTER

One minute, Hunter is coming into work—he’s what you call a gearhead, repairing and rebuilding motorcycles—the next, he’s acquainting his boss, Ox, with the bike shop’s oil-stained concrete, rattling the wrenches that hang from the pegboard walls in Ox’s area, where pinup biker chicks in leather bikinis sprawl across custom Harleys and Indians. Entering the shop, Hunter had heard a yelp and a whimper from Ruby, Ox’s ex-girlfriend’s black-and-tan Walker hound, a dog Ox kept out of spite for her stepping out on him. Hunter had walked in just as Ox’s steel-toed boot caught the hound in the ribs.

Next thing Hunter knows, Ox is on the floor, holding his jaw. He wipes blood from his cigarette-stained teeth, spits and coughs, struggles to find air, and tries to stand. “You rotten son of a bitch,” he huffs, “you’re done. Hear me? Done!”

Hunter lets him get up onto his knees, then serves the obese slob with a solid left boot to the chin, knocking at least one tooth into the leather bandanna knotted around his neck.

“No. You’re done.”

Before he can make good on his words, hands are pulling him from behind. He’s still pumped with anger. Hunter jerks free and turns to a tall man with a Brillo-pad goatee and black dreadlocks, arms graffitied with skulls, pistons, eight balls, and serpents. Nothing more than a skeleton covered in skin, it’s Slade, one of the other mechanics who work for Ox, holding his palms out to Hunter.

“Take a chill, brother. Just your old friend Slade.”

Hunter eyes him, nods in acknowledgment, and pushes his long locks back from his face. “We’re cool.” Reaching down toward the floor, he takes Ruby by her studded black leather collar. Slade steps aside, and Hunter leads Ruby through the shop, past the grease- and fuel-scented parts of starters, plugs, motors, and exhaust pipes. Smells of Lucas Heavy Duty bearing grease and synthetic motor oil and WD-40 as they walk out the large bay door opening, across the parking area, to the passenger door of his primer-gray ’68 Chevy pickup.