Daughters of Anarchy: Book 3: Daughters of Anarchy, #3

By C.A. Hartman

The enemy isn't always who you think it is…

In Book 3 of Daughters of Anarchy, Stevie has narrowly missed getting cuffed by the Feds. Seth knows about her involvement in the DOA. And now the DOA has a very powerful ally at Federal Intel.

However, Stevie can't stop thinking about her biological father and his questionable past, but wonders if finding him might be worse than never having known him. The DOA begins a series of violent, controversial jobs that will stretch them all to their limits and earn them more enemies. And finally, Stevie learns a terrible secret… one that reveals who the real enemy is.

• Language: English
• Publisher: 5280 Press
• Release date: Apr 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9780990391999

Book preview

1 TAKING OUT THE GARBAGE

Greetings, Stubble.

There he was on her computer screen: fair hair, a face aged beyond his 45 years, blond whiskers sprinkled with gray, and a veneer of chill in his blue eyes. Maybe the chill reflected a hardness resulting from emotional corruption… or maybe it merely reflected that humans perceived blue eyes as colder than brown ones. Or perhaps it was Stevie’s previous knowledge of the stubbled man that steered her own perception of him in favor of the truth. She took an image of Stubble’s data and pulled surveillance footage for his home, both internal and external, before erasing signs of her activity and flipping off her red Do Not Disturb light.

Stevie sipped her espresso, which tasted unusually delicious that day. Perhaps Machine had made her dark and appropriately bitter elixir just after a self-cleaning to remove the oils and residues from his most useful and efficient innards.

Loud, boisterous talk sounded in the distance. A deep, masculine voice. Herbie was coming. She took another sip of her espresso and resumed her work, knowing several more minutes would pass before Herbie concluded his affable greetings and reached her workstation. At last, Herbie arrived wearing a pinstripe suit with a pink tie.

Miss Stevie!

Good morning, Boss. Love the pinstripes.

He smiled proudly. A lost tradition, pinstripes. My daughter… she loves the suits that men wore back in the day, so I had one made. The executives made fun of me.

They’ll never have your style, Herbie.

Herbie gave a bright white grin before he leaned closer and lowered his voice. You’re right, Miss Stevie. He winked. We need to have a chat. Now don’t you worry, it’s nothing serious. We’ve got a new assignment for you. Are you at a good stopping place?

I am.

Stevie followed Herbie to his office, waving to Marianne as she passed. She thought she saw a bump, big enough to warrant consideration that Marianne was gestating Mario #2. Perhaps a Maria, this time. Stevie closed the door behind her and sat down near Herbie’s desk, eyeing the jazz art that pointed to Herbie’s interest in, but not nativity to, Krokus and its diversions.

Stevie, we need a good analyst for a new investigation. This one will target the southern regions. You know those sea ports down there and their lack of adequate security… anyway, this is a larger-scale project that will take some months. You’ll report to Peter Hicks on this, and he’ll contact you with more information.

Peter Hicks. She’d never worked with him before. She only knew him as a manager who seemed unable to offer a hello or a simple nod to those he passed or stood next to in line for Machine’s steaming concoctions.

Why Peter Hicks? Stevie asked, trying to sound curious rather than defensive. Did they assign you to the DOA investigation?

Herbie, at Director Mullen’s behest, had pulled her from the project involving the hunt for the Daughters of Anarchy. He never said why. He didn’t need to. Mullen didn’t want the daughter of a troublemaker and firebrand from Krokus on their task force, and Herbie didn’t have the heart to say so.

He hesitated for a moment before offering a single nod. Yes, among other things. Mullen wanted a good analyst for this new job and I thought you would be ideal for it.

Sir, I’m happy to work on any project you ask of me. However, I don’t understand why Mullen seems intent on keeping me away from the DOA investigation, especially when I’m your most experienced analyst. Is it because I’m from Krokus originally?

Herbie quickly shook his head. You know the director. He has his way of doing things. And, if I may speak plainly, he’s all the more so without Ronald Carr to balance his headstrong ways. Bless his soul. He paused for a moment and looked out his window.

Yes. Bless Ronald’s filthy, child molesting soul.

Do you think things will change around here, with Ronald gone and with the hunt for the DOA ramping up?

They very well might, Miss Stevie. Mullen’s pushing for more latitude with the data we collect. He feels that only utilizing it to target terrorist activity is a waste of taxpayer funds, and he hopes the DOA investigation will convince the lawmakers of that. Ronald fought him on such ideas, and he usually won because he had strong alliances with the lawmakers. He felt that such broad installation of surveillance technology pushed us toward becoming a surveillance state as it was, even with limiting its use to hunting terrorists. Herbie began to fiddle with his tablet, signaling Stevie to quit probing.

She smiled. Well, whatever happens, we’ll do what we can to keep our people safe.

It worked. Herbie resumed his smile and she left.

---

Later that day, Stevie received a request to attend a meeting the following day. Subject: The southern regions. She replied that she would attend, doing her best to ignore her frustration. The Hicks project was an insult, a project any analyst could do. Not to mention that being excluded meant getting no intel to offer Leona, the primary reason Leona brought her on. Whatever her mother had done in her post-DOA years—challenging the government, voicing her discontent with anything she believed infringed upon citizens’ rights—it had raised enough ire to make it difficult to continue the DOA’s legacy. Fortunately, any concerns she had about Mullen’s DOA woman-hunt had been laid to rest, thanks to Prince turning out to be their Intel ally.

Prince. Melvin Princeton. Since their impromptu meeting at Hera and Zeus’s hidden hovel, Stevie had only seen Prince on a few occasions, parked near the shuttle station with a slumbering Mel and showing genuine pleasure at the meat sandwiches she brought him. His shaggy beard and hair had reappeared more quickly than nature could muster… it seemed Federal Intelligence could afford the services of a genetics salon for their field agents. But in the last week or two, he’d disappeared, probably to a new location to befriend and charm a new target, one who wouldn’t fare as well as she had.

On the walk home, snacking on potato chips and feeling a smidgen of guilt at allowing herself the treat her mother restricted, Stevie veered from her usual path. Soon, she came upon the future Carnation Park. At present, the park was nothing more than a pile of dusty rubble, damp from another sprinkling and weeds beginning to sprout around its perimeter. Volunteers had begun to chip away at the debris pile, depositing the remains of the former ID Corp building in the City dumpsters nearby.

Knowing Kira refused to watch the biased shit talk from genetically-altered idiots, also known as the news, she’d called Kira to tell her about the activists who convinced ID Corp to build Downtown while making plans to restore Carnation Park. She didn’t how Kira would take the news that would harken back to her difficult past. They’d frolicked in the park as girls, escaped under its trees as teens, and discussed their uncertain futures as young adults, before Kira disappeared into a more troubled world. However, upon hearing the news, Kira became excited and pledged to assist in the restoration efforts. She’d sponsored one of the dumpsters—not from her meager Social Services salary, but from an undisclosed sum left to her when Ronald died.

Stevie paused at the site of the park that volunteers resurrected from the ashes, eager to see the debris gone and oxygenating greenery restored.

Stevie!

Stevie looked around for the source of her name. And there, among the remains of ID Corp’s exploitation, stood Kira. She wore gloves and denim overalls covered in dust, her honey hair pulled up and a grin on her face. Stevie smiled and went to hug her old friend, never caring that Kira’s layer of dust would find its way to her dark suit.

Look at you, Stevie said.

After you called me with the news, it was all I could think about, Stevie! I loved that park! We had so much fun there. How are you? How’s the Disc? A tiny shadow passed over her face, the Disc an unpleasant reminder of Ronald.

The same. How’s Social Services?

Oh, underfunded, understaffed, and with a list of problems that never ends. She smiled some more. But I love it. It’s what’s kept me out of trouble all these years. Kira’s expression changed, like she had a sudden thought. Did you hear about the new addiction center in Viola? I wanted so badly to work there, what with all the experience I’ve gotten working in Acacia, but they want a Pansy to run it. I can understand that. It’s hard to find someone there, though. I’m afraid this anonymous donor will pull their funding if they don’t trust that SS can find good leadership.

The donor won’t pull funding. I can promise you that.

I’ll ask around next time I’m in Viola. You never know.

Kira frowned. Did you hear? The comments the Vice President made about rape?

Stevie heaved a sigh. Unfortunately. I haven’t let myself think about it yet. She shook her head. If rape was ‘part of the male experience,’ do you think that he and the other lawmakers would stand for it? Of course not.

She nodded in agreement. Fucking pig. It’s all we talked about at the office. She paused, turning toward the rubble pile. Well, I better get back to work and do something to help this dank City. It’s good to see you.

You too. We’ll talk soon.

---

Scintillations, my fine ladies, Leona said, her tawny mohawk in tall, firm spikes that day.

The chairs surrounding the solid, handcrafted walnut table sat occupied but for the usual empty seat next to Awn. Everyone had taken their places: Leona’s spikes at the table’s head, Awn’s gray streak and Nan’s afro on either side of her, Stevie next to Nan, blonde braided twins Doris and Delia in their twin seats… and a new face at the table’s end, the seat Maybell had coveted and had overflowed with her barbed exuberance and staunch pugnacity.

Upon Maybell’s chair sat another Pansy. A bit older… perhaps late 30s. Spiked hair that had been bleached beyond yellow to a cool white. Sleeveless cotton top, as if immune to any chill. A bottle of sarsaparilla in front of her instead of the beer that all but Stevie drank. Dark eyes that seemed to miss nothing and judge nothing. And, most notable, a neck of black pansies with no color other than their bright yellow centers. One rarely saw a black-pansied neck, even on Johnny Street, even east of King Street. If such a shade had significance among the Pansies, Stevie didn’t know what it was.

The Pansy occupied the seat with crossed arms and her chair pushed back several inches, as if to create a buffer between herself and the six sets of unfamiliar eyes that gazed at her.

Everyone, Leona began. Meet Joan, the latest recruit to succumb to the antiestablishment goals of our little citified terrorist organization. The women giggled, and Joan’s thin lips formed a small, wry smile. Joan, meet your fellow confederates. You’ve met Awn, my sister and our technical brainchild. There with the fabulous afro is Nan, proprietor of City information. Next to her is Stevie, our connection to the privacy-invading Feds up in the sky. And the monozygotic twins on either side of you are Doris and Delia, foot soldiers who can do nearly anything.

Joan gave a brief nod and offered no words.

On to business, Leona said. She nodded at Awn, who pressed a remote. After a moment, a voice sounded. A familiar voice.

Rape is a reality in our world. It’s part of the female experience. It’s sad but it’s true, and the burden falls upon women to protect themselves from this reality.

Stevie closed her eyes at the comment, as if doing so would erase its effects on her. The other women emitted groans of disgust.

So we’re going after the Vice President? Doris said, spinning her bottle round and round. I’ve always hated that smarmy motherfucker and I’ll take time off work for that shit. I’ll fucking quit my job for that shit.

A few others giggled nervously.

I’m afraid not, Doris, Leona said. "The problem isn’t just the VP. The problem is a government that tolerates this kind of belief system, from which our lawmakers exert their powers, out of which our justice system is founded. The problem is also our society, the men and women who tolerate such garbage and teach their children to do the same. This is a systemic problem, like a slow-growing cancer that keeps our society ill."

Stevie nodded. She couldn’t have put it better.

So what did you have in mind for chemical therapy? Nan said, crossing her dark, bangle-laden arms across her full bosom. And does it have anything to do with homeboy you had me surveilling the other night?

So glad you asked, Nan, Leona said, taking a sip of her beer. We need to send a message that sexual violence toward women—toward anyone, really—won’t be tolerated. A strong message, maybe stronger than any we’ve sent before.

Leona launched into her plan, outlining only the big picture, with the details to be delivered only to those necessary and only when necessary. Stevie nodded at the audacious plan, excitement growing in her at being part of something closer to her own particular brand of justice.

These will be three-person jobs, not including those who do research, Leona said. A lead, a second, and a chippie. In most cases, your only contact during any part of the job will be audio. She held up a bag. "And, new toys to make staying in contact easier. Undetectable toys. She grinned. Show of hands: who prefers working behind the scenes? Remember, research is crucial. I don’t want any of you doing jobs you aren’t fully comfortable with."

Doris and Delia raised their hands, Delia looking slightly embarrassed.

Leona nodded. Great. She turned to Stevie. I’d like you and Awn to take the first one. You two decide between yourselves who takes the lead. Will that work?

Stevie nodded. Leona looked at Awn, who made a face, as if even asking was a waste of everyone’s time.

What about the chippie? Nan said. I think Mister Gold would be perfect for this.

Agreed, Leona said. She turned to Stevie. Mister White can serve as chippie on the next one.

Stevie nodded, cringing inwardly at Leona uttering the word that Seth hated so much. Stevie explained to him that the questionable term wasn’t intended to insult the man who took it on, but to serve as useful anti-language if the authorities ever had cause or opportunity to overhear their conversations. One did not hear chippie and think muscle.

Leona looked at everyone again. This next job, and the others that follow… they represent a change of course for us, a new avenue that lacks our usual political motivations. However, this kind of thing has strong social implications, and social issues are the conjoined twin of politics. And I’m fed up with hearing about violence toward women on the news and watching the government and justice system botch it up like they botch everything else. I say it’s time to make people face it.

She paused. These jobs… they’ll be intense. They’ll be intense in a different way than the Hera-Zeus job, especially if that had worked out the way we originally planned. Burnout is a significant risk. All of you, you have to know your limits and know the signs. If you’re getting headaches or other pains, if your appetite or sleep habits change, if you’re tired or depressed… those are signs to back off and let someone else step in, or to just let it lapse for a while. Another sign of trouble is when you feel these symptoms and fight through them. Instead of backing off, you push even harder and become obsessed with your goal, and you don’t want to tell anyone because you don’t want to admit weakness or slow your progress toward the goal… She trailed off, her face clouding over. That’s what happened to Maybell. She showed the signs. She hid them and told us nothing. And now she’s dead. She gazed at them. Don’t fucking do that. Nothing we do here is worth that. You can’t serve this City if you’re compromised, or dead. Do you hear what I’m saying?

The women nodded.

Loud and clear, Leona, Nan said.

If you have doubts, even tiny ones, just come to me. We’ll figure it out. Leona paused. Last but not least, new communicators. She opened the bag and passed out small devices to each of them. Text only… and untraceable, at least for now. Use them only for communicating about jobs, use your mister monikers, and keep them out of sight. She paused. Thanks everyone. I’ll contact you when it’s time to meet again. And if you need to talk to me, call me anytime… as long as it’s dark out. She winked and held up her beer. For the City.

For the City, said Stevie and the others, raising their bottles.

After everyone stood up, Stevie looked over at Joan. She hesitated, having been conditioned to avoid that end of the table. Finally, she approached Joan, holding out her hand. Good to meet you, Joan. Welcome.

Joan met her eyes with a steady, penetrating stare, giving her hand a firm shake. Thanks, she said, her voice flat.

Stevie hesitated, waiting to see if Joan would say anything else. But Joan said nothing and only watched her, appearing to wait for her to speak. A hand warmed her shoulder. She turned to find Nan there, her eyes bright and her denim skirt tight. Nan hugged her, the full-breasted hug that reminded her of her mother.

How are you, my lady? Nan said.

Okay. Still shook up over Maybell.

She grimaced. Me too. I never thought I’d miss that bitch…

Me neither. Stevie glanced at Nan’s large bag. Are you headed to the studio?

Not the studio. To a class I’m taking… a welding class. I have this sudden hankering to make big metal sculptures. She shrugged. They’ll probably look like shit, but hey, it’s fun.

Well, last time you had a ‘hankering,’ you made those street art paintings that sold for a small fortune.

She giggled, fluffing her afro. What can I say? Controversy sells to you west bankers.

Stevie laughed at that.

Nan’s dark dancing eyes grew serious. You ready for this next job?

I am.

You’re sure…

I’m sure.

Okay. It’s just… this isn’t our usual mayhem, Stevie.

I know.

A job like this will be the pinnacle of my week, my friend.

Nan nodded, eyeing her like she didn’t entirely believe her. Then Stevie heard her name. She turned and Leona beckoned her over. Stevie bid Nan goodbye and took a seat in one of the lounging chairs while Leona put her feet up on the ottoman.

So, Leona said. I’ve wanted to ask you ever since our little foray out of town… what’d you think of Fern? And that house? Sorry I was asleep the whole way home… I’m not much use at that hour.

I liked her. And I loved the house.

Leona made a face. Really? I took you for a black-glass high-rise kind of girl, everything neat and tidy.

Stevie giggled. I’m that too.

Nah. You can’t be both. She took another sip of her beer. Did Fern tell you anything interesting?

She told me I’m not a donor kid. Would you call that interesting?

She gave me some perspective on my mother and what she went through back then. It was helpful.

Leona nodded. I hear your mom was intense. Even aside from the war trauma…

You could say that.

When they finished chatting, Stevie left Leona’s, keeping her hat on and her head down as usual to guard against the eyes. She snaked her way through the labyrinth of quiet alleys, thinking of her mother.

So I’m not a donor kid.

You aren’t, Steviansa.

Why didn’t you tell me the truth?

To protect you.

I don’t believe that. You did it to protect yourself.

On the train, she stared at the passing street musicians of Krokus, at the sudden darkness as they traversed the Milagro River, at the plastic red roses of Rosa, and, eventually, the tall buildings of Artemisia. For 32 years she hadn’t cared, hadn’t minded the x instead of a real number in the equation that created her. Now, she thought about it daily.

When Stevie arrived at her building, she waved to Manny at the front desk and headed up to her quiet domicile on the 34 th floor, above most of the clamor and cracks and disorder of the City streets. What she wouldn’t give for a balcony, like the one she’d had as a child or the one she’d sat upon during her brief interludes with Seth. She picked up her phone