Code of Honor

by Radclyffe

  Loren never talked about the men who’d gotten her alone in the back of the clubhouse when she was a prospect, forcing her against a wall, running their hands over her body, letting her feel their physical dominance even as they reminded her of their place in the hierarchy. They’d stopped short of raping her, and she’d kept her expression blank while resisting the gut-deep desire to blow their brains out. Eventually, she earned her way in by offering the kinds of connections the club wanted with the Russians and other suppliers, and all she’d said to Dunbar was, “I’m in.”

  Now a woman who said she was Dunbar was here, and none of what had come before meant a damn. Sky might be the only person to actually know Loren’s true identity—not who she had been, but who she was—and that was as terrifying as it was exhilarating. Because even Loren wasn’t sure how much of Special Agent McElroy remained in the outlaw she had become.

  She’d been working about an hour when the door to the shop creaked open and slammed closed. She only sold restorations she did herself or took on jobs for people she knew. She didn’t keep regular business hours and wasn’t expecting anyone. She slid her hand under the shelf onto the grip of the Glock in a holster attached beneath the ledge. She turned enough to shield her movements and looked over her shoulder.

  Ramsey strolled across the room, a friendly smile on his face. As usual, he wore the club uniform of black T-shirt, jeans, wide leather belt, and biker boots. He was forty-five and just starting to get soft around the middle, but his shoulders and arms were bunched with muscle. His gray-streaked black hair was full and swept back from his forehead, shorter on the sides than a lot of the guys wore it. Clean-shaven, his lantern-jawed face was heavy and tough. She’d seen him fight, and he was not only skilled, but ruthless. He fought to win, no matter what it took.

  “Hi,” Loren said, leaning back against the counter and letting her hand drop to her side. She could reach the Glock in under a second if she had to. She’d seen him draw too, and he was fast. Probably a standoff if it came down to it.

  He admired the Indian up on the work stand. “Nice. You get this running, you’ll make some money on it.”

  “Yeah, I know. I might keep it for myself, though.”

  “Yeah, I can see that.” He gave her another slow smile. “Maybe I’ll outbid you for it.”

  She laughed at the unbidden reminder that if he wanted it, he’d have it. As president of the club, he could pretty much have anything or anyone he wanted.

  “So, tell me more about the redhead,” Ramsey said, hoisting a hip onto a stool in front of the workbench. He rubbed his jaw and his smile turned feral. “I wasn’t exactly in a position to carry on a conversation this morning.”

  She’d called him after she’d reached out to the higher-ups in the national organization, before she’d decided to confront Sky. He’d been rushed, and Tricia’s plaintive complaints in the background gave Loren a pretty good indication why. She’d given him the bare essentials, and that was all she planned to give him now. If she even hinted Sky’s story was suspect, she’d be signing Sky’s death warrant, no matter who she really was. Maybe Sky was there to take her down, but if she was, Loren would handle it herself—when she was sure. “I talked to her for a few minutes last night before I left the club. She was pretty up front about why she’d come—not smart enough to be hiding anything. Jerome wanted an accounting and maybe to throw his weight around a little—my words, not hers. Dougie knew her from somewhere and put in a word for her with Jerome. He verifies.”

  Ramsey pulled a toothpick from the pocket of his vest, stuck it in his mouth, rolled it back and forth a few times, and shrugged. “Jerome’s never asked for an accounting before. You think it has to do with the guns?”

  Loren’s stomach tightened. She didn’t want Ramsey connecting Sky to the guns or even contemplating a connection. She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I haven’t gotten wind of any interest in that from her or anyone else. The Russians wouldn’t want word of the deal with the Soledads. They’ve got an uneasy truce, but the Russians aren’t dumb enough to dangle a shipment like that in front of a competitor who shares a border with them.”

  “Maybe Jerome is contemplating moving in on our shipment. A big shipment like this would bring a lot of money on the streets.”

  “I can’t argue with that.” She didn’t want to protest too much. “But Jerome is the president—if he wanted in, he’d just say so. He’s going to get his cut anyhow.”

  The toothpick rolled lazily across Ramsey’s full lower lip. “If he hijacked our guns before we made the exchange, he’d get a lot more than a cut.”

  “He’d be risking war with us and a lot of the chapters would back us.”

  Ramsey nodded. “Watch your back all the same. And watch this broad. I’ll have Armeo give her a look at the books”—he smiled that lazy serpent smile again—“the ones we keep for public review, and see if that keeps her happy.”

  “Sure,” Loren said.

  Ramsey scratched his stomach, his fingers settling on the waistband of his jeans above the outline of his cock. “For now, she’s free territory.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  He laughed. “Don’t tell me you weren’t looking.”

  Fire leapt in Loren’s belly, and for one second she wanted to launch herself across the space between them and plant her fist in his face. She’d had to swallow a lot to prove herself with Ramsey and the others. Even when they’d stopped physically taunting her, she’d had to listen to them demean every woman who wasn’t their old lady, swallow their racist and homophobic rhetoric, and pretend she agreed. But knowing he was undressing Skylar in his mind, sliding his hands over her body and his dick between her legs, came closer to breaking her restraint than anything she’d had to endure personally. She took a long breath and laughed, feeling as if her throat were filled with broken glass. “She’s got a lot to look at.”

  “Yeah, sent me home with something to give the old lady last night.”

  Loren knew better than to comment about his wife. He could say what he wanted, but if anyone else so much as looked at her for too long, they’d pay for it.

  “All right.” He stood, stretched a little. “Keep me informed. When do you expect you’ll be moving the merchandise?”

  “It’s a big order, it’s gonna take a while to bring it in—we’ll need to move the shipments piecemeal, get it all safely warehoused and inspected before we can set up the exchange. A week or two.”

  He nodded, glanced around the room. “Nice place you got here.” He stared at her for a long moment. “You’re a surprising woman, McElroy.”

  Loren tensed and smiled back at him. “How’s that?”

  “At least half the guys in the club want to bang you, and usually, dykes don’t cause that kind of reaction. You can shoot better than most, ride as well as any, and you’re smart. But you’re willing to take orders. How is that?”

  “I like being a soldier,” Loren said truthfully. “I understand the necessity for taking orders. I don’t mind following a leader I trust.”

  He laughed and pointed a thick finger at her. “Like I said, you’re smart. Keep an eye on the broad.”

  “I’ll do that,” Loren said softly as she watched Ramsey stroll out. She wondered just exactly how much he suspected about Skylar. And about her.

  *

  In the last hour of daylight when most of the troops were settling down in the barracks or mess tent, Jane worked her way through the obstacle course laid out in the forest behind the compound, trudging her way through thigh-high snow in some places with a rifle strapped to her back. Frost rimmed her nostrils and the frigid air burned her throat. Tears froze on her lashes. Every fifty yards or so, she stopped, unslung the assault rifle, took aim at human-shaped targets set out at various distances from the trail in the underbrush, on overhangs, and in trees. She was timing her run and, on the way back, would collect the targets and determine her accuracy. She’d show her father the proof that she was ready
for command.

  While she’d been in Georgia working in the lab, she’d had to keep in shape at the gym and with infrequent visits to shooting ranges. She’d always driven at least a hundred miles from home to shoot, so she wouldn’t run into anyone she might possibly know while at the range. As far as those at the lab knew, she was a quiet, single woman whose main interests were her job, occasional trips to the theater, and bicycling along the many trails outside the city. She kept a low profile at work—friendly but not so friendly as to be included in casual after-work or weekend events. She didn’t want to make an impression, and she didn’t want to be forced into situations where she’d have to reveal personal information. Fortunately, when she’d volunteered to work the midnight shift, she no longer had to interact with colleagues. Only a skeleton crew worked at night, and the Level 4 lab precluded much in the way of conversation.

  Now that she was home, nothing much would change. She and her siblings had always been kept apart from the other children of the survivalists, homeschooled by their father and mother, trained to be soldiers from the time they were old enough to shoot, and prepared to be leaders of the organization one day. She’d never had close friends other than her sister and brother. A sharp pain shot through her chest as she pulled herself up over an ice-covered embankment. Jennifer, only a year younger, almost her twin. Her closest friend, her comrade, her sister. Thinking of Jennifer caged, interrogated, imprisoned by the enemy filled her with rage and pain. She understood that theirs was a long-term war, but she wasn’t going to leave Jennifer behind bars for years. She wanted her free, and somehow, she’d find a way to make that happen. If she couldn’t, she’d make someone pay.

  *

  Cam’s driver dropped her off a little before seven. She stopped just inside the lobby doors and scanned the foyer. None of Blair’s protective detail was present. The doorman behind the desk nodded.

  “Evening, Steven. Quiet night?”

  “So far, Director Roberts.”

  She keyed the elevator to her floor, a frisson of wariness tingling along her spine. No one standing post. She paused at the door, listened. No music. Carefully, she let herself into her apartment. The only light came from the muted glow under the hood above the stove top. She knew the apartment was empty, but called out anyhow. “Blair?”

  The silence was complete.

  Without turning on the lights, she dropped her coat over the back of the sofa and strode through the empty living room, down the hall, and into the bedroom. She flipped the switch inside the door. The bed was made, the closet doors were closed. The nightstand on Blair’s side of the bed was bare. Her iPad, phone, and wallet were gone. So was she.

  Cam turned out the light, walked back into the living room, sat down on the sofa, and leaned her head back. Reflected light danced on the ceiling. A few weeks ago she’d strolled on the beach with Blair, awash with the amazing sensation of having just gotten married. For a very short time, the world had receded and there had been only Blair. She wondered what it would be like to live a life where the thing that mattered most to her would not be something she could only embrace in stolen moments out of time. She rubbed her eyes and unclipped her phone. She pressed Blair’s number and waited. The call went to voice mail. She listened to the familiar sound of Blair’s voice telling her to leave a message.

  When Blair’s voice faded away, she said, “Hi, it’s me. I imagine you’re in transit somewhere, so let me know when you’ve arrived. I’ve got a six a.m. shuttle, so I’ll be out most of the day tomorrow. Be careful. I love you.”

  She pocketed the phone and contemplated the evening ahead of her. Then she pulled on her coat and walked out the door.

  Chapter Ten

  As soon as Blair arrived at her apartment, she showered, then dressed in a pair of black jeans, a black silk shirt, and black boots with chunky two-inch heels. She pulled a black leather duster from her closet and headed back out. Blair strode through the lobby and out onto the sidewalk, two agents from her detail trailing a dozen feet behind. The Suburban crouched at the curb across the street in front of Gramercy Park, a hulking beast with two shadowy figures in the front seat.

  Blair hadn’t taken ten strides before Stark jumped out and caught up to her. Stark fell into step on the side closest to the street and said, “I wasn’t aware you were going out again tonight.”

  Blair cut her a look. “I’m not exactly hiding the fact.”

  Stark spoke into her wrist mic, and the Suburban rolled toward them, slowing to pick up the agents on foot. “It’s helpful if we know ahead of time.”

  “Yes,” Blair said. “I’m aware of that.”

  Stark said nothing as Blair headed west toward Chelsea. Stark wouldn’t say anything further even if she was pissed, which she probably was. The Secret Service hated off-the-record trips. Well, too bad. She was pissed too.

  “Would you prefer to ride?” Stark asked a few minutes later.

  “No, I’d prefer to walk. Alone, actually.” Blair balled her hands into fists inside her pockets. The January freeze hadn’t yet set in, and the temperatures were in the low thirties. Brisk, but for someone walking fast and in a temper, the night was warm enough. The coat, unbuttoned, flared behind her like a gunslinger’s. She smiled wryly at the irony. She was the one supposedly in danger and the only one of the entourage unarmed. She had no great love affair with guns, but she was a fair shot and knew with absolute certainty she could kill if her life depended upon it. It had and she had. But still they played this game—that the importance of her life trumped everyone else’s, and since it did, she had no say over it.

  “You can ride,” Blair said. “I’m going to Francine’s.”

  The bar was one of Blair’s old hangouts, a cross between a happy-hour pit stop for yuppie office workers and, after hours, a pickup place for players interested in a little something spicier than a quick vanilla romp. Blair had spent many an evening picking up women at Francine’s, especially in the days when she’d made a habit of eluding her protective detail and making the rounds incognito at various bars. She hadn’t tried to hide her appearance tonight, although she’d left her hair down and, dressed the way she was, probably wouldn’t be recognized by most people who weren’t looking carefully. Stark didn’t comment, but something about the set of her jaw suggested she was displeased. Hell. The silent standoff was almost as irritating as the rest of it.

  “You know, Paula,” Blair said, “if you had reservations about the upcoming campaign trip, you could have said something to me. We could’ve talked about modifying our routines.”

  “I didn’t think you’d be receptive to that idea.”

  “But you didn’t know, did you? You just assumed that it would be easier and more expedient to go behind my back to my wife and Lucinda. Did you make it as far as my father?”

  “I followed protocol.”

  “Oh, bullshit,” Blair snapped. “Do not sandbag me with the protocol excuse. All of you hide behind protocol when you don’t want to bother with common courtesy.”

  Stark jerked to face Blair, her expression openly shocked. Maybe she really didn’t realize how it felt to be on the other side of protocols.

  Blair stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “Do you honestly not have a clue what it feels like to have people sitting around discussing what you can and cannot do?”

  Stark’s brows drew down, confusion replacing the disbelief. “That’s pretty much what happens every day for just about everything—what your father does, what we do, what you do. So, I guess, no…I don’t think about it, and I don’t consider doing it any other way.”

  “That’s the problem. All of you are so well trained that you can’t deviate from protocol, even when it might be better to do so.”

  Stark shook her head vehemently. “No. The minute you start second-guessing your training, deviating from what’s been proven to be the best, safest way to handle a situation, you make mistakes. You leave openings, create vulnerabilities.”

  B
lair snorted. “That’s your training talking.”

  “Yes, it is. And I trust it completely.”

  “God.” Blair shook her head. “You sound just like Cam.”

  “I’m honored.”

  Stark meant it, and Blair understood why. Stark—hell, all the agents—would walk through fire for Cam because she’d die for any of them. She nearly had, more than once. An arrow of pain sliced through her, and Blair quickly pushed it aside. Cam would probably be home by now and realize that she’d left. She’d know why too. How could Cam know her so well, but not well enough to think she wouldn’t care that Cam had gone behind her back? The thought still hurt as much as it had a few hours before.

  The sign over Francine’s came into view.

  “Stay warm, Paula,” Blair said. “Wait in the SUV.”

  “I’ll wait inside.”

  “Suit yourself.” Blair pushed through the door into the familiar heat of bodies on the hunt and hoped before too long she’d be able to forget about the pain for a little while.

  *

  Cam didn’t bother to call her driver to come back for her but grabbed a cab in the street in front of her apartment. She gave him the address of the federal building where high-security prisoners were held, where encrypted records were buried so deep that someone searching the federal databases would not be able to find them. She showed her creds to the guard at a side entrance and was let into a long, narrow hall that ended at an unmarked bank of elevators. She inserted a key, rode down one floor, and badged her way past another security desk. Yet another drab hallway with closed, unmarked doors on either side ended at a glassed-in security station where three armed officers monitored video feeds from inside and outside the building. The sergeant rose and met her at the door. She showed her credentials yet again and said, “I’d like to see prisoner number 1329. Can you move her into an interrogation room.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Five minutes.”