I exchange a look with Striker over my shoulder. The same question registers on his face as he sets down an AK-47, listening.
We didn’t call the cops, so who did?
I’ll have to put a call into Rat later and have him look into it.
“So Gunner thinks I was taking a leaf out of Bone’s book,” I growl at the kid.
“Someone did,” he squeals.
I glance at the rolls of tarp on the floor. There’s also twines of rope with them. If things had gone differently, my men and I would be wrapped up in those tarps and buried miles from here, six feet under the sand.
“Let me guess. You’re the cleanup crew. You were supposed to come in here as soon as you heard gunshots and mop up the mess. You came in expecting to find me and my boys dead and Gunner taking the cash off of my corpse.”
“You got lucky,” he says. “Get it over with, old man.”
Fuck. It makes it harder to do this when he isn’t a complete coward, but there’s still one question nagging at me. Years of trust down the drain out of the blue after all this time? Gunner’s actions today are grounds for war. It doesn’t add up.
“Gunner wouldn’t have assumed I’d turn traitor just because Bones chose to call a badge years ago. What got his back up?”
The young man deflates. “There’s been a guy asking questions about the Outlaws’ business.”
I tighten my grip until he winces. “What guy?”
When he says nothing, I bend one of his fingers back until it cracks. He howls in pain.
“Who’s the guy?”
“He was another buyer! Gunner met with him earlier this morning!”
“What’s his name?”
Tears stream down the kid’s face. I ignore them, focusing on a scuff on the wall. I do what I have to in order to protect the club.
“His name,” I repeat, preparing to break another finger.
“He calls himself Abel Adamson…” the boy squeals. “Asked a whole lot of questions about Dragon and what other stuff you’re into besides guns. Said Gunner shouldn’t trust you. That he should look into what other shit you were up to.”
Abel Adamson? The name isn’t familiar. If Dragon’s been dealing with a guy with a name like that, I’d know. Dragon would need to know about this. Whomever Adamson is, his being up in our business hasn’t just destroyed a hard-won truce between our clubs. We hadn’t had a choice but to shoot Gunner and his men, but Wolf, the Bastard’s prez, won’t see it that way. He’ll see it as a betrayal of trust. We could have a war on our hands. I need a word with Adamson, preferably with him at the business end of my Glock. No one fucks with my brothers.
“Who is this Adamson? Where do I find him?” I start bending his fingers back.
“No, don’t! He’s just another buyer! That’s all I know, I swear!”
It’s probably true. This boy is just a grunt. He probably only knows as much as he does because he caught it in snippets of conversation. Besides, he has nothing to gain by holding back except a handful of shattered digits.
Which is why I step back, draw my gun, and fire two shots into his skull.
I turn away before he hits the ground and don’t look at the body.
“We need to get the fuck out of here.” I holster my piece and nod to the boxes on the island. “Striker?”
“They’re all there.” He shows me the guns and then slaps the crates shut.
“Good. Let’s get them loaded.” Allowing a single glance at the bodies, I imagine them as always having been that way, without life, without worth, then head for the door. “Have Pip call in the cleanup crew. Tell him to stay here until they show up, then head back to the clubhouse.”
We’re loading the guns in the van when Striker turns to me.
“Look at the bright side,” he says, shutting the van door now that the crates are squared away. “We got the guns, and the money.”
But there’s no real pleasure in his voice.
“Yeah.” I clap him on the back when he heads for the driver’s side of the van. And all of us now have targets on our backs.
“The Bastards prospects just keep getting younger, don’t they?” he says, crushing a smoke under his boot.
I shake his shoulders bracingly. “There’s always casualties in war, man.”
A million questions fill my head while I put in the call to Dragon. Wolf’s going to use this to declare war on the Outlaws. There’s no stopping that now. I’ve had a feeling the Satan’s Bastards have been waiting to set fire to the truce between us. And whether or not I had a choice doesn’t matter. Fact is, I just lit the match for him.
My fists clench. If I was back at the clubhouse now, I’d be taking my frustration out on that thief’s gorgeous body.
My mind drifts to the panties still stuffed into the inside pocket of my cut. I resist the urge to take them out and breathe them in. Have to stay focused on club business, and I won’t be able to do that with my head full of my little thief’s scent. Instead, I light up and take a long drag, letting the hit of nicotine calm me.
Yesterday, she called me an animal. Wait until I get back to the clubhouse. When I do, she’ll see what an animal I really am.
I wait for Striker to get in the van and then I slam the door shut. Whoever this Abel Adamson is, when I find him, I’ll make him wish he never fucked with my club. And then I’ll send him to hell myself.
8
No Place for Friends
I awake with a groan to the distant sound of breaking glass and raucous male laughter.
Lying on my stomach, I lift my head. Without a window in the room, I can’t tell what time it is. Darkness reduces the dresser and nightstand on either side of me to shadows. A digital clock glows red, readying 10:00.
10:00 PM? Have I slept all day?
Disoriented, I roll over to an empty room.
Spider’s bedroom. I’m still here.
The memory of last night floods my mind, and I cover my eyes with my arm, but it doesn’t shut out what that animal did.
Despair and shame settle in, a trapped feeling tightening my throat.
After drifting off to sleep, I’d awoken in the night several times and checked outside the bathroom window, hoping everyone who’d been out back of the clubhouse had gone in. They hadn’t.
Fighting matches continued. Partying had filtered in from outside throughout the night. After the last time I’d checked, I’d given up on the idea of crawling out of that window to freedom.
I reach over and flick on the bedside lamp and look around the room. Where is Spider? That he’s not there ignites a strange mixture of loneliness and relief. Loneliness at the thought of being surrounded by dangerous men I don’t know or trust, and relief that he isn’t there to do whatever else he intends to do to me.
Wait. The window.
I stare into the bathroom. The door has swung half-closed, but there’s light coming through that window. There’s no sound from outside.
Scrambling out of Spider’s bed, I rush to the bathroom, climb into the tub, and push the window open.
The desert heat hits me like a wave. Bright sunlight stabs at my eyes. Morning, then.