HIS VIRGIN VESSEL: A Dark Bad Boy Baby Romance (War Cry MC)

by Nicole Fox

  "You know, I owe him a thank you, too," Risa said.

  "You do?"

  "For sure. Asa didn't just give you back to yourself, he gave you back to your family as well. It's great to see the Corinne I knew from when we were kids back here. I owe him big for that. And I'm sure that Dad will feel the same. Maybe when he's had a bit more of a chance to think about it."

  We chatted a long while that morning. Although it had only been a matter of days, it felt oddly as if Risa and I had not spoken for far longer than that. Perhaps there was something in what she said. I had always felt close to Risa, but maybe a distance had developed between us these last few years, without my being aware of it. I had drifted off into my bad-girl persona, and she had not known how to address that. Now we were back as we had been, two sisters, chatting for hours about everything and nothing. We did not confine ourselves to recent events, pressing though they obviously were, but talked fashion, films, and, of course, stuff that was happening in Risa's life, too. I could be a selfish girl if I wasn’t careful, and I always had to remind myself that my sister had stuff going on as well.

  By the time we had finished talking, or at least by the time we stopped, it was lunch time.

  "I'll make some sandwiches," Risa volunteered.

  "Thanks. I've just got to make a phone call, then I'll come help."

  # # #

  Of all the promises I had made to Asa before he was carted off in the back of my dad's car, one had been practical more than personal. Asa cared very much for the members of War Cry, and he worried about them, and, of course, about what they might do in his absence.

  It was strange to hear someone concerned about members of a biker gang like that, and I reflected that all too often we did not see such people as people, or at least not as individuals. You saw a group like that on a street corner, and you made a whole bunch of assumptions, all of which revolved around them being 'those people.’ You didn't see them as individuals, but as types. Such people didn't have emotions, they didn't have hopes or dreams, and they certainly didn't have insecurities. I'd been every bit as guilty of this failing as anyone else, and I was grateful to Asa for opening my eyes to it. The best example was Joseph Hartman, Asa's young protégée, in whom he saw so much of himself. It was he, more than any of the others, whom Asa wanted me to check up on. It was a revelation to me to learn that an outlaw biker might be lost without his mentor, might be secretly scared of what would happen now, or might be upset at this turn of events. But Joseph was apparently a passionate person.

  I called Joseph from my room, using the number Asa had given me. A woman answered.

  "Joseph's phone."

  I thought that the voice might have been Fiona's, but didn't inquire further.

  "Hi, can I speak to Joseph, please?"

  "Who's calling?"

  Was she jealous of another woman getting in touch with him, or was she being properly cautious for fear of who might be calling—the police, the Mafia, who knew?

  "It's Corinne Dugas."

  "Miss Dugas. I can't tell you how happy we all are that you have taken an active role in our affairs. It was so dull down here, and now it seems like the shit hits the fan every time you pop up." Definitely Fiona. Even had I not recognized the voice, its general tone would have given her away.

  "I helped you get Asa's Black Book back," I said defiantly.

  "But it was Joseph who did the real work, wasn't it?" pointed out the voice on the other end of the line.

  I wasn't sure what, if any, argument I had to counter that. It was hard not to see her point of view. Since my appearance on the scene, Fiona's business, and indeed her life, had been threatened by mafia thugs, and, while I thought it would be a bit much to blame me completely, there was no doubt that my influence on Asa had played a part in this outcome. However, I did not have to defend myself, as another voice, from the background, spoke.

  "Who is it?"

  "Doesn't matter," Fiona said dismissively.

  "Is that my phone? They're calling me. Shouldn't I be the one who decides if they matter?"

  "Don't make me hurt you. It's the Dugas girl."

  "Give me the phone."

  "Joseph ..."

  "She might know where Asa is!"

  "You can't trust the girl."

  "But I can talk to her, can't I? Give me the phone, Fiona."

  There was a long pause as Fiona was, apparently, weighing up her options.

  "You know," said Joseph, "You can't keep it forever, so, even if you hang up, I can just call her back."

  "I think I liked you better when you did everything I asked of you," Fiona finally said.

  "I still do pretty much everything you ask me. Hello?" Joseph's voice was now loud from the other end of the line, as Fiona had apparently relented and surrendered the phone.

  "Hi Joseph’, its Corinne Dugas."

  "Is Asa with you?" I could hear the concern in the young man's voice. We're taught that there is no loyalty amongst criminals, but not only can there be loyalty, there can even be love.

  "No. He's in jail."

  "In jail?!"

  "What did I say?" I heard Fiona in the background.

  "It's not as bad as it sounds," I tried to explain.

  "He's in jail," Joseph clarified.

  "Yes."

  "Well, so far it's exactly as bad as it sounds."

  "Okay, let me bring you up to speed."

  For obvious reasons, I didn't give Joseph Hartman the full version of events that I had given to Risa but I caught him up on the essentials.

  "With luck, he'll be out in a day or so," I said, hopefully. "If it all goes according to plan."

  "Okay," Joseph said. I think he was maybe a little conflicted about Asa turning informant, but also understood why, in this instance, it was best for the people whom War Cry protected. "What do we do now?"

  "Sorry?" I hadn't expected follow-up questions.

  "I mean War Cry," Joseph explained. "What do we do now? I mean, do we keep on as normal with protection?"

  I hadn't realized it before, but, without Asa, War Cry could turn into a chicken without its head, running headlong around the farmyard, bumping into things. And, of course, when War Cry bumped into things, then those things stayed bumped into. They needed a leader, and while Joseph Hartman was regarded as Asa's natural successor, he was not yet up to the role as he was still insecure in his own decision-making ability. It was hardly a role I was suitable for either, but Asa had confided in me. I knew his thinking and what he was planning. At this moment, the closest they could get to an order from Asa was one from me.

  "Absolutely," I said, with a confidence that I definitely did not feel. "With Rassi's boys hitting the streets, the local businesses need War Cry more than ever. Get out there, and be a presence. Show them that Asa being gone hasn't made any difference whatsoever."

  "Yeah," Joseph said, clearly relieved to be receiving instructions. "Yeah. Good call."

  "I don't know how long it will be before Asa's arrest becomes public," I said, feeling that he needed more. "But I'm guessing that a man like Rassi will have his informers, so he may already know. He's going to try to take advantage of Asa's absence to take control permanently."

  "Not going to happen.”

  He said it with strength and solidity. He might not have had confidence in his decision-making, but he was not going to back down from a fight. That was good to know, but, as I hung up, I could not help feeling the weight of responsibility pressing down on me. Once again, I was putting the people of War Cry in danger, and the danger this time was more than just the police.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Asa

  I hated police stations. Still, I thought that, since, on this occasion I was going in of my own free will and to help the law, I might feel differently about it. I didn't. It wasn’t about why I was there. It was that there was an atmosphere to the place. Like with hospitals. You didn’t have to be ill to hate being in one. Still, I at least felt that
this time there was a chance that a visit to a police station might not end up being one of the worst days of my life.

  "Not buying it, Mr. Covert! Not buying it!"

  This was now hour four, and a few things were becoming swiftly clear to me. Firstly, this was not going to be as easy as I had imagined, and I had not imagined that it would be that easy. Secondly, my antipathy towards police stations was not going anywhere fast. Thirdly, it's possible that a qualification for being an investigator with the organized crime unit is being a grade-A asshole.

  "I'm not trying to sell you anything," I grated back to the investigator, trying hard to keep the rage out of my voice and not punch the man in the face.

  "Are you trying to be clever, Mr. Covert? Hear that Agent Hamlin?" Agent Quint, leaned back in his chair and addressed his colleague. "He's not trying to 'sell us' anything. Maybe that's because we're not in the market for hooch."

  Hamlin inclined her head. She had said almost nothing since entering, in contrast to Quint, who had barely shut up. That was not the only way in which they were a contrast. Quint was a sallow, rat-faced man in an ill-fitting suit, he was in his late forties, and he had the skin of a pumpkin nine days after Halloween. Hamlin was a stunning brunette with the sculpted features of a goddess, porcelain skin, and an incredible figure hugged by an immaculate skirt and jacket. Under other circumstances, I would have been hitting on her. Come to think of it, if it wasn't for Corinne, I'd be hitting on her even in this situation. But, instead, I looked straight through her. I could see that she was a very sexy woman, but felt nothing. It's funny how meeting the right person can completely change how you view other people. At least, it would have been funny at any other time, but right now I was struggling to find anything funny.

  "I think we're going to go through this again," said Agent Quint.

  "Fine."

  "What's that you said?"

  "I said, 'Fine'."

  "Oh, so it's all right with you, is it?" Quint asked, with mock sincerity. "Because I was really worried about getting your permission to continue this interrogation. Let's go back to the start. You're willing to give us the goods on Frank Rassi, Mafia kingpin, and, in return, you get immunity from prosecution for illegal sales of alcohol and running a protection racket?"

  "I don't run a protection racket." The last thing I wanted to do was to get into an argument with this man, but I didn't want anything on the record that might suggest I had admitted to that.

  "You sell protection?"

  "So does a security firm," I pointed out. So do the police, when it comes to that. They just get paid differently. A protection racket is when you threaten to beat someone up or to torch their business unless they pay you."

  "You seem to know a lot about it," Quint interrupted.

  "Because I protect people from it," I countered quickly. "One of the things from which I protect people is protection rackets. I've never threatened any of my clients, and if they don't want my help, then that's fine. My services are free to those who buy booze off me."

  "Quite the good Samaritan," Agent Quint sneered. "And your contention is that this benevolent work, plus your alcohol selling, is the limit of your illegal activity."

  "I don't always ride my bike according to the speed limit," I admitted. I wasn't trying to be cocky, I didn't want to say anything I'd have to backtrack on later. "And, recently, I stole a car, but that was an emergency, and it has now been returned."

  "And that's it."

  "Pretty much."

  "LIAR!" Quint slammed the table with his hand. "You want to know what I think?!" He had already told me multiple times, but Agent Quint was a man who liked the sound of his own voice. "I think you've got a finger in every pie around here. I think there's not a crime that happens in this area where you don't take your cut. I think you're into drugs, extortion, and whatever else is going on. I think you're looking to expand your biker gang, and you want the Mafia competition out of the way. And getting us to dispose of them is a hell of lot easier than doing it yourself. That's what I think."

  "His only permanent home is a motor home behind a bar," came a quieter voice from the corner.

  "What?!" Quint rounded on Sheriff Dugas, who had been standing, watching without saying a word.

  Dugas met the agent's gaze levelly. "I'm just saying that, for a man with a finger in every pie, taking a cut from every crime, he's not exactly living in luxury."

  "I didn't say he was good at it!" Quint snapped. "Besides, some people struggle to keep hold of their money."

  "Yes," Dugas nodded. He might have hated Quint even more than I did, and he was not even trying to hide his contempt. "Taxes, and so on."

  "Maybe you'd rather wait outside," Quint said, adding nastily, "This isn't really policemen's work."

  "It's my potential CI you're assessing," Dugas said, still not unsettled by Quint's confrontational manner. "I'm staying."

  I'm not an expert on the rules for the legitimizing of CIs (Confidential Informants), but, from the look on Quint's face, I could tell that Dugas knew his rights extremely well and wasn't going anywhere. Which, I had to say, I appreciated. He might not like me, what I stood for, or my relationship with his daughter, but he had taken me on as his responsibility, and he would stand by me. I could have used a man like Brian Dugas in War Cry.

  The thing was, none of this was going as planned. Predictably, Dugas had done things by the book. He had called in before we set out, and the agents were there on our arrival. I had assumed, and I guess Brian had too, that they were there because I was going to be handing out details on a gang they had been trying to take down for a while, but, as it turned out, they were more interested in me and War Cry. Why that might be, I couldn't be sure. A man like Rassi was sure to have his contacts in the cops, but could they extend this far? More likely, this was the perennial problem of crime statistics. Real cops, like Brian Dugas, care about preventing crime and putting those responsible behind bars, but the upper echelons - the commissioners, etc. - only care about the figures. Right now, they had a known criminal in their custody -me. If they could pin a bunch of crimes on me and War Cry, maybe get me to turn on the rest of my gang, then they could mark a bunch of crimes as solved. The fact that neither I, nor War Cry, were responsible was neither here nor there. They just wanted the statistics. The fact that I was offering them evidence to help in catching the man whose gang was likely responsible for all those crimes was of equally little interest to them. Why would they try to catch another criminal when they already had me? That was just a waste of energy, and a man could get himself hurt doing that sort of thing. This was the sad reality of policing, and it was the reason that so many felt forced to turn to men like me for protection.

  The only thing that made me feel slightly better about this unpleasant peep behind the curtain of law enforcement was that it was obviously angering Brian Dugas even more than me. Policemen are used to being accused of corruption, and there is nothing that angers an honest cop more than the people who drag down their reputation.

  "Well?" Agent Quint got to the end of his assessment of all the things I had done or was planning to do for what had to be the tenth time.

  I shrugged, still struggling to keep my composure. They were just waiting for me to snap, or to do or say something on tape that they could use in court to paint me as the mad dog biker they so wanted me to be. "I'm sorry. But it's just not true. I'm no saint, but the stuff you're talking about, I wouldn't touch. It's not who I am, and it's not what we do."

  "Ah," Quint leered. "There's that word again. ’We'. I think it's about time you expanded on that."

  It was bound to come up. They wanted me to name and shame all the members of War Cry. Of course, they had most of them on file, and, since we didn't meet in secret, it would have been easy enough to get the rest, but having me name them added a veneer of guilt. It would make them complicit in whatever these assholes finally pinned on me. Maybe it was empty symbolism, but either way, there were some things you
just didn’t do.

  "I'm sure you know most of their names."

  Quint sat back. "You want me to believe that you have useful information on one criminal, when you refuse to name others? How am I supposed to trust you?"

  "There's a difference between giving names of friends who've done nothing wrong, and getting a Mafia kingpin off the streets."