Blood Lines

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›› Spider’s Tattoo Shop

›› Doggett Street

›› Charlotte, North Carolina

›› 2033 Hours

“Something I can help you with, man?”

Shel looked at the slim young woman behind the counter to the right of the door inside the shop. She was dressed in black jeans and a black Anthrax concert T-shirt. She was pale enough to pass as a vampire. Metal studs gleamed in her eyebrows and at the bottom of her lower lip. Her long blonde hair was the color of old bone.

“I wanted to see about getting a tattoo,” Shel said. He let the Texas drawl slide naturally into his words. In the military he’d learned what he called “TV talk,” that flat Midwestern accent used by news anchors and sports announcers.

The woman looked at him and smiled. “You don’t seem the type.”

Shel smiled back and stepped toward the counter. His gaze took in the closed-circuit monitor hanging from the wall.

“And what type do I seem like to you?” Shel asked.

The woman folded her arms and leaned a hip against the counter. “Mama’s boy. Joe Average. Joe Military.”

Shel knew he couldn’t help looking military. Even when he was in disguise-even better ones than his current effort-he still looked like a Marine poster boy.

“Actually,” the young woman went on, “you look like you could be some superhero’s secret identity.”

Terrific, Shel thought. But he kept his smile in place. “Actually, it’s worse than that.”

She cocked an eyebrow and waited.

“I’m afraid of needles,” Shel said conspiratorially.

The woman looked at him askance. “A big guy like you?”

“I know. Shameful, isn’t it?”

“Well…”

Shel nodded and shrugged. “If I hadn’t met this girl, and if she wasn’t into tattoos, I wouldn’t be here tonight.” He paused. “And I have to be honest-unless I see something I really want, I’m not even getting one.”

“A girl, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Pretty?”

“Yeah.” Shel shrugged again. “I guess that makes me sound pretty dumb, huh?”

“As long as you don’t do anything really stupid, you should be okay.”

“What’s really stupid?” Shel asked.

“Getting her name tattooed on you. Then you have to explain to all your other girlfriends why you got that one’s name… wherever you put it.”

“Maybe I won’t show it to them.”

The young woman grinned. “Oh, they’ll look for it. I would.”

“I could just date only girls with that name,” Shel suggested.

“Right.” The woman took a book down from a shelf over the counter. “Got some designs here you might like. Small. Distinctive.” She looked at his biceps. “Big as your arms are, I’d check out some tribal tats. That would look cool.”

Shel grinned again. He’d learned a long time ago that women of all ages liked his grin.

Noise erupted from the back. The door opened, and Bobby Lee Gant stepped into the room with a 9 mm pistol tightly gripped in his fist. He was young and thin, at least twenty pounds too light for his five-foot, nine-inch frame. He wore holey jeans, square-toed boots, a Confederate flag bandanna that held back his greasy hair, and a motorcycle jacket without a shirt. Drops of blood glinted in the center of a tattoo of a skull with a rose clenched in its teeth. Lorna was inscribed beneath the skull.

“Hey, Bobby Lee,” a gruff voice said. “Get back in here, bro.”

Judging from the young man’s jerky reactions and his unfocused gaze, Shel figured Bobby Lee was higher than a kite. Shel didn’t move. Beside him, Max set himself, hunkering low and getting prepared to separate and go for the pistol.

Shel signed to Max, and the dog sat with a quiet but forlorn whimper. Max wasn’t used to quietly sitting out while guns were in evidence.

Bobby Lee whipped his pistol toward Shel. “Get your hands up!”

›› 2033 Hours

When Remy saw three unmarked sedans suddenly whip by the end of the alley, he knew something had gone badly wrong. Or was about to. He slid his Beretta out from under his shirt and held it ready as he catfooted through the alley toward the tattoo parlor’s rear exit.

His cell phone buzzed against his hip. He braced against the wall in the deepening dark of the approaching evening and slid the phone out so he could read the caller ID as it buzzed again.

A loud voice sounded inside the shop. Someone screamed.

Caller ID showed that the call was coming from NCIS headquarters in Camp Lejeune.

Remy pulled the earpiece connector from his shirt pocket, slipped it into his ear canal, and tapped it to open the line. “Gautreau.”

“Remy.” It was Will’s voice, calm and intense at the same time.

“Yeah.”

“We just got word from Charlotte PD that the FBI is on-site at your twenty.”

The sound of running feet echoed down the alley.

“Oh yeah,” Remy agreed. “They’re here.”

“Where’s Shel? He’s not answering.”

“Shel’s inside.” Remy tried the back door. It was locked.

“What’s going on there?”

Remy watched helplessly as four men entered the alley from either end. They carried flashlights and military-style assault rifles.

“Put the pistol on the ground!” one of the arriving men yelled. He wore an FBI jacket over his bulletproof vest. “Do it now!”

“You might want to get hold of the FBI,” Remy stated calmly. He let his pistol drop to hang from his finger. “Let them know that you’ve got two men out here working this.”

“They know,” Will said. “Maggie’s already sent them copies of your photo IDs.”

“Good to know,” Remy said. But it didn’t make him feel any better.

The four FBI agents locked into position along the alley.

“Drop the gun!” the man bellowed again.

Ruby lights glowed to sudden life against Remy’s chest. He knew he was only a heartbeat from death. Carefully he bent over and placed the pistol on the pavement and awaited further orders even though he was pretty sure he knew what they would be.

“Get on the ground!” the man ordered. “On the ground now! Facedown! Hands on top of your head!”

Remy followed orders and took care that his hands were always outstretched from his body so they wouldn’t think he was reaching for a weapon. His heart felt like it was going to explode.

Memories of other times he’d been arrested back in New Orleans flashed through his mind. It was hard to believe that he was going to survive such an encounter when there had been so many close calls back then.

The rough pavement chewed at his cheek. He had to force himself to lie there when footsteps pounded in his direction. In the next instant someone blinded him with a flashlight beam while someone else jumped in the middle of his back and raked his arms behind him.

Hard metal bit into his wrists and secured his hands behind his back.

“I’m with NCIS,” Remy said. “My ID-”

Someone punched him in the back of the head and snarled, “Shut up.”

“Hang in there, Remy,” Will said over the earpiece. “We’ll get you out of there as soon as we can.” Then one of the FBI agents stripped the earpiece.

Blood from a split lip tasted warm and salty inside Remy’s mouth. He shut up and stayed where he was as he was roughly frisked. But he hoped Shel was still safe.

›› 2035 Hours

Slowly, not offering any sudden movement that might panic Bobby Lee Gant, Shel raised his arms. “Hey, bro,” Shel said. “I don’t know what you’re smoking, but I just came in to check out tattoos.”

“Who is he?” Bobby Lee demanded.

The young woman behind the counter shook her head. “He just came in. He was asking about tattoos.”

“Bobby Lee!” the big man from the back room roared.

Shel recognized the man from the file Remy had downloaded. His name was Ralph “Spider” Gemmell, a known associate of biker clubs.

Bobby Lee swiveled and pointed his pistol at Spider. “Back off, man!”

Spider came to an abrupt halt. “You don’t want to do this, bro. It’s gonna end bad if you do.”

“I ain’t going to jail!” Bobby Lee screamed. His eyes rolled in panic like an animal’s. “They ain’t gonna take me to jail!”

“Dude,” Spider said, “it’s just jail. Ain’t like they’re gonna lock you up forever.”

“They ain’t locking me up at all!”

Shel thought about reaching for the pistol at his back. But he knew if he did, he was going to have to use it.

Let it ride, he told himself. Let this develop. He’s smart enough to realize he isn’t going to get out of this without getting hurt.

At least, Shel hoped that was true. Whether Bobby Lee was sober enough to do the right thing was another question.

Outside, through the large windows that overlooked the parking lot and Doggett Avenue beyond, two unmarked sedans with flashing lights shrilled to halts. Car doors jacked open, and men in Kevlar armor and FBI jackets took up ready positions behind cover.

“FBI?” Bobby Lee said in surprise.

Well, Shel thought, he isn’t so high or panicked that he can’t read.

“It ain’t supposed to be the FBI,” Bobby Lee moaned. “It’s the Marines. The Marines are supposed to be after me.”

“Maybe they’re not after you,” the woman behind the counter suggested. “Maybe they’re here after somebody else.”

“Who?” Bobby Lee demanded.

The young woman flinched back. “I don’t know. I was just saying.”

In the next minute, though, a man on a loudhailer stripped away that illusion. “Bobby Lee Gant! This is the FBI! Put down your weapon and come out with your hands up!”

Bobby Lee whirled around just in time to get lit up by ruby spotter lights. He glanced down at his chest and cursed.

“Give it up, bro,” Spider advised. “They got you cold. You can still get out of this in one piece.”

A lithe movement put Bobby Lee next to the young woman at the counter before anyone could move. He roped an arm around her neck and pulled her body back against his.

“I’m getting out of here!” Bobby Lee declared. “Or I’m going to kill her stone dead! I swear I am!”