Pip pauses for a moment before shaking his head. For a moment I wonder whether he’s holding back anything, but this is Pip, the ex-prez, so I accept his words at face value when he informs us. “Only the bare details. He disobeyed an order. An order that shouldn’t have been made. Stormy was under a non-disclosure agreement. I couldn’t get further than that. Well, to be honest, I didn’t bother.”
My brow furrows. That’s not like Pip. Normally if he hits a roadblock, it’s like a red rag to a bull. I wonder what he’s not saying. I notice Snatcher’s not totally buying it either, if I go by his expression.
“Well,” Duty nods at Honor, “start digging, Prez.”
“Do that,” Snatcher snaps. “I want to know everything about Stormy down to the brand of fucking underwear he prefers. We need to know where he went four years back, where he went two months ago, and every fuckin’ step he’s since taken.”
“We’ve already tried,” I point out. “We’ve busted our butts trying to track him down, but he disappeared into thin air.”
“Using an alias we didn’t know about.” Honor sends a crooked grin my way. “We assumed if he took a different name, he’d have left a trace of pulling together a new identity. I’ve already discovered Jeremiah Briggs came into being years back. Now we know of it, we’ll get further.”
“Or, at least, can track back who issued that ID as a place to start,” Duty suggests. “It was a professional job. One has to wonder why he bothered with it.”
Preacher enters the conversation. “Whether or not Stormy’s roused a hornet’s nest that will cause blowback on the club, we can’t ignore the possibility. I want everyone to be on their guard. No riding alone and take fuckin’ precautions. Those living outside the club might want to stay close for now.”
I exchange a glance with Road. We’ve just got settled into living in my house, enjoying the privacy. He shrugs and sends a look back that I interpret as it’s best to be safe for now. I grin slightly as he touches his lips, easy to see it’s a suggestion I’ll have to be quiet. Me? His groans of satisfaction could wake the dead. Or so I’ve found when I’ve left my hearing aids on.
Rascal catches my eye, and my face immediately straightens. “Just make sure, Swift, when the asshole wakes up, that you don’t immediately kill him. We need him to talk.”
Prez also casts his gaze my way. “For now, Stormy is still a member of this club, and as such, if he’s been wronged, it’s revenge we’ll be seeking.”
I raise my chin. Message received. I’ll use kid gloves until we know the truth of the situation. After that, all bets are off.
If Stormy’s again brought trouble to the club, nothing will save him. He’d be better off dying before he comes around.
5
Seven years ago
Stormy…
Watch my fucking back?
I’ve got two hysterical girls and a man down. And, apparently, tangos approaching.
My eardrums are ringing with the aftermath of the explosion. Added to the tinnitus there are the crashes and groans as the building continues to come down, sending up billowing clouds of dust that render even my night vision goggles useless.
I can hear no shots. Were the tangos somehow hidden in the building? If so, they’d be dead.
What’s certain is, unless the girls’ rescue was all for nothing, I have to get them to safety. I stand, still holding the youngster. “Come with me,” I say in the local dialect.
The older teenager gets to her feet. She’s visibly shaking, turning to look first at the body lying only feet away, and then at the destroyed warehouse. Her jaw drops and her eyes go blank. I don’t need to have more than a passing acquaintance with psychology to know she’s realising she and her sister would have been blown to bits had we not gotten them out.
“Stay with me,” I snap. She’ll have time to process later. “We’ve got to find somewhere safe.” If the enemy’s approaching, we’re sitting ducks out in the open.
Thinking she’ll follow me if I take the younger girl with me, I spy a half-demolished building opposite. Running across, I move some planks and lower the youngster inside. As suspected, her mom or whatever she is has come with her.
“Wait here. I need to check my teammate.”
Pushing her in, I pull the wood back over the hole to hide them. With my head pivoting as I check out directions in a similar way I would for oncoming traffic on a busy city street, I run back to Pooh.
I already knew it would be too late, and no help on this earth would save him. The cinder block had smashed in the back of his skull, his brains leaking out onto the pavement. Those eyes which now will never set sight on his baby son stare up at me, unseeing.
My comms are fucked, I realise as I go to give a status report, so I take Pooh’s headset off him. Strangely enough, his is still working. Quickly I use it to replace my own, then regret the action, having to tune out Smythe screaming insults at me for having gotten Pooh killed. I am tempted to rip the darn thing off as I scoop up his body, cradling him in my arms.
Why hadn’t it been me? No one would have cared. Instead, Pooh leaves a widow and a fatherless kid. Devastated by the needless death, I try to focus on the two girls. They have a chance of life, years they wouldn’t have had if we hadn’t stayed back to free them. My life would have been worth giving if it saved theirs. My biggest regret is it’s not Pooh taking care of them instead of me, my envisioned distress of his wife and the child who’d never meet him, is a constant pain I can’t shake off.
At last I pull myself together enough to update my status. “Pooh’s dead. We need recovery.”
Smythe’s anger again makes me want to dispense with the headphones. There’s nothing he can say that will berate me more than I’m already beating up myself.
“I hope it was fuckin’ worth it,” he screams at me, then, fractionally more calmly says, “There’s a unit heading your way.”
“ETA?” I’m proud of how my voice only shakes slightly.
“Two hours. They’re on wheels and may have to clear a path. Not losing more men tonight because of you not being able to follow an order. Losing comms now. We’re heading out of range.”
Not having him shouting in my head is one thing I won’t miss.
I concentrate on my immediate problem. Should I leave Pooh lying here or carry him to where the girls are hidden? But that would mean subjecting them to the sight of the body of the man who saved them.
Even though I know in this world they’re probably too familiar with the sight of dead bodies, I can do no more with Pooh now. “I’m sorry, man,” I tell him inadequately, as I close his sightless eyes and leave him.
Returning to the place where I’d stashed the girls, I pull myself inside, covering us all behind our makeshift barricade. Smythe seemed convinced there are tangos in the area. A small number I could take out myself, a whole fucking Taliban army drawn by the explosion? No way. While I’m not averse right now to committing suicide, these girls have to live to make Pooh’s sacrifice worthwhile. So, I’ll stay hidden with them, only showing myself as a last resort to protect them. I settle down to wait.