by Lynda Bailey
It sounded like Rolo swallowed his tongue. He coughed and sputtered, shooting upright in his chair, his palms flat on his desk. “What the hell are you talking about? What else could possibly be in the vans?”
“Don’t play stupid.” Lynch leaned forward. “Since when do the Streeters traffic in young girls?”
Rolo darted his gaze to the closed office door then to Lynch then back again to the door as though looking for an escape. There wasn’t one.
The president feigned a chuckle. “You’ve got a wild imagination, brother, I’ll give you that.”
Lynch drilled Rolo with his stare. “Are you honestly gonna sit there and lie to me?”
Rolo’s chin dropped to his chest as he expelled a long, low breath. “How’d you find out? Grunge doesn’t know anything. None of our guys do.”
Easing back, Lynch let out his own quiet sigh of relief. “But Junkyard’s guys know plenty, don’t they? And some of them tend to run their mouths. I overheard lots in the past week at the clubhouse.”
“Goddamn it.” Rolo shook his head. “I told Junkyard it was a matter of time before someone found out about this shit.”
Disbelief veed Lynch’s eyebrows. “That’s all you got to say?”
“What you want me to say?”
“How about why?”
Rolo glanced away. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
The president rifled his gaze back to Lynch. “To what end? You think you can help?” He scoffed. “No one can help. They’ve got me by the fucking balls.”
“Who has you by the balls?”
Rolo flattened his lips.
Lynch scooted to the edge of his seat. “Okay, so maybe I can’t help you, but my lawyer can. She’s—” He bit back the rest of his words before saying something stupid. He cleared his throat. “She used to work for the Justice Department and maybe she’s still got connections there. I’ll bet a dollar for a dime she can help. You just need to tell me what’s going on.”
Rolo’s shoulders deflated like a week old, helium balloon. He suddenly looked so…old. “Fine.” He blew out another sigh. “It was about five years ago when my middle girl, Carolyn, got diagnosed with leukemia.”
A chill raced through Lynch. “Jesus, man. I’m sorry.”
A small grin curved up Rolo’s mouth. “She’d been cancer free for two years now. Going to college down in Vegas. A sophomore.”
“Good for her.”
“Yeah, but it was real tough for a while. The chemo and radiation made her so sick. She never complained much, though. Then the bills started piling up.” Rolo’s chuckle held no humor. “With pot getting legalized in California and online gambling becoming popular, the profits for the club have been cut by more than seventy percent in the past three years. What little money we still make on protection is barely enough to feed our families. So me paying thousands for doctor and hospital bills wasn’t doable. I burned through my savings then mortgaged my house then the bowling alley. But it wasn’t enough. We were on the brink of having to forgo any more treatment for Carrie…”
“But?” Lynch prompted.
Rolo shrugged. “Junkyard came to town. He said Stardust was the perfect location for running guns and smack from Mexico up to the Northwest and Canada. At the time I thought he was the answer to my prayers. Literally. He had his own crew and just needed a home base plus the occasional muscle. In exchange, the club got a fat thirty percent. For basically doing nothing. It was a no-brainer when I brought the offer to the table. The vote was unanimous.”
“Then things changed, right?”
“Right. About a year into the arrangement, things were going pretty well. Carrie’s blood work looked good and while the brothers weren’t exactly rolling in money, everyone had enough to live decent. I thought we’d weathered the worse then Junkyard said he had a new proposition for the Streeters. One that would be even more lucrative. Not seeing the harm, Flyer and I met with him.” Rolo rubbed a hand down his face. “That’s when Junkyard dropped the bomb about what this new proposal would…involve.”
“Trafficking in young girls.”
Rolo nodded. “I looked at Flyer and knew his answer was my answer. We said no.”
“How’d Junkyard take that?”
“Not well, but Flyer and I stuck to our guns. Hell…even if we took this idea to the table, we knew it’d get voted down.”
“But that wasn’t the end.”
Rolo slowly shook his head. “Junkyard said his boss wanted to meet for the chance to convince me to change my mind.”
“Who’s the boss?”
“A complete whack-job named Ian Blackwell.”
Lynch worked to keep his expression neutral. “Whack-job? How so?”
“The guy’s a total germaphobe. Wears a doctor’s mask, huge sunglasses and some kind of asinine French hat.”
“So you met with him?”
“Yeah. Rode to Henderson with Junkyard. That’s where he’s based.”
“Flyer with you?”
“Nah. Blackwell insisted on just me. We get to an industry park that’s out in the middle of fucking nowhere and ride into a huge, barren warehouse. It must’ve been a ninety plus degrees in that place. I was sweating my balls off, and there stands this guy in a long trench coat, mask, sunglasses and stupid hat.”
“Blackwell?”
“Blackwell. At first I worried I was about get offed, but it wasn’t me they intended to kill.” Rolo stared into space. “When Blackwell turned, all the lights in the joint switched on. In the middle of the concrete floor stood a table, like they use for surgeries, with a naked girl strapped to it.”
Lynch’s stomach dropped. “Who was she?”
“No clue. She couldn’t have been any older than my Carrie. God…she looked so fucking scared. That’s when I noticed Bowyer stood to the side. Sharpening his knife.” Rolo swallowed, the sound echoing in the deadly quiet office. “Bowyer started with her toes and peeled away her skin one layer at a time.” He turned blank eyes to Lynch. “They didn’t bother gagging her, I guess cuz they knew no one would hear her. Her screams were like nothing I’d ever heard before. So shrill and piercing. Such agony and pain. I never want to hear that sound again.”
Lynch wiped his sweaty palms on his pant legs as his gut cramped harder.
Sweet Jesus.
Rolo shifted his gaze to a spot on the wall. “After I puked up every meal I’d eaten for a week, Junkyard handed me a manila envelope containing pictures of Roxie, Carrie and Vivi. Blackwell said if I didn’t go through with the new deal, the next girl on that table would be one of them.”
Bile splashed up Lynch’s throat.
Oh…sweet, sweet Jesus.
Forget about being held by the balls. These guys had Rolo by the throat.
The big man looked back at Lynch. “But I told Blackwell it wasn’t up to me…that the table had to vote, and no way would the Streeters choose to be a part of this. We might be criminals, but we had hard limits. That’s when Junkyard came up with the pharms angle.”
The expanding silence smothered Lynch.
Rolo Pruett was as hard and calloused as any gangbanger. He’d never be accused of having a moral compass because morality and criminality didn’t mix. But what he witnessed in that warehouse—and the ominous threat to his daughters—would test even the most depraved individuals.
Lynch took a breath, hoping to quiet his riotous belly, and looked at Rolo. “But Flyer didn’t buy the pharmaceutical story.”
“No. When I told him about that girl, he agreed to keep his mouth shut. Life pretty much went back to normal until…”
“Until?”
“Tre Olsen joined the club.” Rolo blew out another somber chuckle. “He turned out to be a goddamn fed. I must’ve been getting old because I didn’t see any of the signs till it was too late.”
“What do you mean too late?”
Moisture brightened Rolo’s eyes. “Olsen got Flyer to flip on the club.”
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Lynch’s body tightened. “Flyer didn’t go to Idaho, did he?”
“No.”
Though Lynch knew the answer, he still had to ask the question. “Was he killed?”
Rolo sat up and gave Lynch a beseeching look. “You hafta understand, Flyer had turned into a fucking narc, and that couldn’t be allowed. He needed to go. For the good of the club.”
“You mean for the good of a payout.”
Rolo’s expression transformed into a vicious scowl. “You think it was about some goddamn payout? The lives of my daughters were at stake. Are still at stake.”
Lynch reigned in his burgeoning temper. “Did the vote at least go to the table?”
“It couldn’t. It’d lead to too many questions.”
“So you played judge, jury and executioner?”
“Goddamn it.” Rolo slammed his fist on his desk. “Do you honestly think I’d willingly allow Flyer to be…” His voice cracked and he bowed his head. “I tried to reason with Junkyard…he said there was no other way.” The big man wiped his nose with a sniffle. “I loved Flyer, but it was either him or my girls,” Rolo said in a quiet, tortured voice. He looked Lynch square in the eye. “I didn’t have a fucking choice then, and I don’t have one now.”
Lynch understood family was everything to a man. He’d do whatever it took to keep his mom safe. Given the grim circumstances, he couldn’t blame Rolo for his decisions. But Lynch still had a job to do. “What can you tell me about the scheduled shipment next week?”
A beefy shoulder rolled up. “Nuthin’. Junkyard doesn’t tell me anything until a few days before. Wait…how do you know about it?”
“As I said, Junkyard needs to close ranks with his crew,” Lynch lied. “Do you know where the girls are being stashed?”
Rolo squinted. “Why you want to know that?”
“I’ll tell Jarvis. Hopefully she can use her federal connections to stop Blackwell.”
“That won’t stop him. Hell…it’ll just piss him off, and you don’t want that, trust me.”
Lynch could only stare at the man sitting across from him. “That’s it? You plan to just keep doing what you’re doing? Keep sacrificing other people’s daughters to save your own?” He shook his head. “I understand your predicament, brother, but this is not how the Rolo Pruett I once knew would act. That man would find a way out. If not to save those innocent, young girls then to avenge Flyer’s murder.”
Rolo scrubbed both hands down his face. “I’m not that man. Not anymore.”
“Then I’ll be that man. Just tell me where the girls are being held.”
“I don’t know. Like everything else, Junkyard doesn’t tell me shit.”
“You’ll have to find out.”
“But my girls—”
“Will always be in danger so long as Blackwell is still breathing. Your only move is to help bring down that sick fuck.”
Rolo’s posture crumbled. “It won’t be easy. That bastard has spies everywhere. I don’t know who to trust anymore.”
“Trust me.” Lynch stood and braced his hands on the desk. “And I’ll do everything I can to keep your girls safe. I swear to God I will.”
The two men stared at each other. The naked vulnerability in the president’s eyes clogged the air in Lynch’s chest. What he was asking this man to do defied every innate instinct a father could have.
Finally Rolo drew in a breath and reached for a pen. “We have three stolen passenger vans that we rotate between shipments.” He scribbled on a piece of paper. “We also steal license plates to ensure the registration stickers are up-to-date.” He tore off the paper and handed it to Lynch. “These are the current numbers for the vans.”
“Who else knows this information?”
“Anyone who paid attention would know.”
Lynch swallowed the lump in his throat. “You said you weren’t that man, but you paid attention, brother. You knew there’d come a time when you’d hafta step up.” He held the slip of paper between his index and middle fingers. “You are that man.”
Shaking his head, Rolo lumbered to his feet. “If you say so, brother. But what do you plan to do about Junkyard? If he gets wind of what we’re trying to do—”
Lynch turned to the door. “Don’t worry about Junkyard. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll put him in the ground. Permanently.”
*
The next morning, Shasta rubbed grit from her eyes then watched milky light slowly brighten her bedroom curtains.
She’d spent a restless night, sleeping only in brief snatches. The fact someone in the 5th Streeters had targeted her weighed heavy on her mind. But the events in the barn with Lynch weighed even heavier on her heart.
The powerful memory of her dual orgasm pooled warmth to her pussy, and welled tears in her eyes. In a fit of frustration, she tossed off the bedcovers.
She couldn’t change what happened between her and Lynch. All she could do was redouble her efforts to be the kind of wife Graham deserved. A devoted one.
Her more immediate dilemma—what to tell Dell. She’d promised Lynch not to say anything about the Streeters attempt to kidnap her, but she also told Todd she’d confess to leaving the house without an escort. How much could she reveal without revealing everything?
She’d chickened out on saying anything last night when Dell came over to spend the night, going to bed early with a headache. Today, though, she had to pay the piper. She knew as pissed as her brother would be at her for going against his wishes, it would be a million times worse if he heard it from Todd.
With her resolve at least somewhat fortified, she slipped on her robe then padded downstairs. She flipped on the overhead fluorescent light in the empty kitchen. The stove clock read 5:20.
So where was Dell? Still in bed? Very unusual for her brother. She pivoted to retrace her steps down the hall when a knock landed on the backdoor. She tensed. Who could be here at this hour?
She grabbed Dell’s backup revolver from the cupboard over the fridge, eased to the side of the door, grateful to see the deadbolt in place, and carefully separated the window blinds. Two officers, wearing uniforms, stood on her back stoop. “Yes?”
“Mrs. Dupree? I’m Officer Hays and this is Officer Larson. We’re with the Reno Police Department Gang Unit.”
“What can I do for you, Officer Hays?”
“We saw your light come on and wanted to let you know we were here.”
“Where’s my brother?”
“He got called into the station.”
“Why?”
“We don’t have that information. We were told to keep watch then take you and your son to work and school. But if you need anything, please let us know.” With that, Hays tipped his hat to the closed door then he and Larson strode down the three steps to the backyard.
Shasta rested her back against the wall as a sudden iciness hit her chest. Had Dell really been called into work? If so, why hadn’t he told her himself? Or had something happened to him?
Panic gripped her throat. Given that the Streeters had targeted her…
She grabbed the house phone and punched in her brother’s cell number.
He answered in the middle of the first ring. “Can’t talk.”
She ignored his brusque tone, and the relief that weakened her legs. “What the devil is going on? Reno PD at my house? What am I suppose to say to Wyatt about them?”
“That’s the least of my worries at the moment.”
“But—”
“Goddamn it, Shasta. Once, just fucking once, will you please do as I ask without a shitload of drama?”
She wrapped her arm around her waist as tears pricked her eyes, more frightened than hurt by her brother’s nasty words. “Please tell me what’s going on…you’re scaring me.”
He sighed into the phone. “I’ll explain everything once you get here, okay?”
“Okay.” Her voice sounded like a tiny squeak in her ears.
“Gotta go.” The line went dead.
Shasta replaced the receiver then set about her normal morning routine. Making coffee, drinking coffee, fighting to get Wyatt up, fixing him breakfast…
Through it all, she functioned on autopilot, unable to shake the ominous feeling that something bad, awful even, had happened. But she wasn’t finding out what until she saw her brother. After what seemed like hours, she finally shooed her son into the back of the cruiser.
Thankfully Wyatt seemed much more interested in asking the officers how many bad guys they’d put in jail rather finding out why they were driving him to school. And once Officer Larson agreed to be Wyatt’s show and share—no doubt because he’d been assigned to stay with the six-year-old all day—the first grader bounced like a kangaroo on crack.
Still, the knot in the pit of Shasta’s stomach grew the closer she and Officer Hays got to the station. When she saw the parking lot packed with both Reno and Carson City police cars, along with a number of unmarked, black sedans, her insides went on full revolt. She swallowed the bitter coffee bile burning her throat, quickly exited the car and hurried to the entrance.
Inside the building, her feet stumbled to a halt. Uniformed policemen and what she assumed were plain clothes officers sat at desks either with a phone to their ear or staring at computer monitors. She zeroed in on Dell’s office, seeing her brother talking with Adam.
“It’s just horrible.” The dispatcher, Joan, stared at Shasta with red-rimmed eyes.
Shasta stepped closer. “What’s going on?”
Joan dabbed her nose with a sniffle. “He’s dead.”
Lynch?
Shasta couldn’t catch her breath. “Who?”
“Todd.”
Her knees buckled, but Shasta caught her balance and stared at the older woman. “Oh my God…when?”
Joan shook her head. “I don’t know any details. All I do know is that they found him early this morning, shot in the head.”
Shasta wrapped her arms around her middle, her thoughts a jumbled mess. Todd dead? She’d just seen him the day before, and he hadn’t been the creepy, slimy Todd she abhorred. He’d been chivalrous and supportive. Worried about her welfare.
And now he was dead.