by Violet Blaze
I pause and pull in a deep breath, raising my chin and making sure that everyone's eyes are on me. If I ever needed to be make myself be heard as president of these assholes, today is the day.
“Mug, get all our Trinidad boys geared up and ready to ride out. Go south toward Ukiah and then take the overpass and veer off into Redwood National. The cartel's bound to have boys waiting for us, so lead 'em down to that logging road and take care of them. If they don't know about the FBI, then they don't know that we're not heading down to storm their shipment. My guess is they won't attack the compound until they get a signal from their guys.”
I swing around on Dober, taking strength from Lyric's comforting warmth at my back.
“Those scouts I wanted, get 'em out and have them stay on the radio. Hit up all our contacts and dealers, see if anyone's seen anything out of the ordinary. If I had to guess, their product and their officers, maybe even Mr. Saldaña himself, will be somewhere we don't expect. Find them.”
“Why the change of plans?” Glacier asks, tilting his blond head to the side and rubbing at the mermaid tattoo on his arm.
“The mayor's being held at Trinidad Wharf. Lyric just got a call from Mr. Rentz reading off a script. They want her to call the police and meet them there.” A tight smile. “And they want me to go with her.”
“An army without a leader is like a chicken with no head,” Glacier says with a big grin and a small laugh, shaking his head and ruffling up his hair. “I see. Take our president and distract him with bullshit at the wharf. They know you're dating Lyric, so they figure you'll go to help her father.”
“Bingo,” I say, nodding my head briskly. “And we'll take advantage of that. I want my officers with me down at the wharf, right in plain sight of Special Agent Heather Shelley from the FBI. I want her to see us standing there supporting my wife while the rest of her agents swarm this compound.”
“You want the fucking feds sniffing around your doghouse?” Hawkins asks, giving me a narrow eyed look, like he thinks I've officially lost it.
“I want to clear our name with the FBI at the same time we get rid of the cartel. Distract the feds here while we find the shipment and the cartel's major players at the same time. As far as they know, they're only dealing with rozzers here, just the pathetic set of boys in blue that Humboldt County has to offer. The FBI has resources we don't, so why not let them get a sneak peek at our lovely legal little operation here? See that the Wolves have officially changed our ways and that we can cooperate with the government.”
I hold my hand out to indicate Pint-Size in her wedding dress, my club jacket slung over her shoulders, looking tiny and fierce and wild with her purse hanging over her shoulder, her fingers rubbing the zipper and probably imagining taking that Glock out of there and blowing away some Saldaña fucks.
“The mayor's daughter—and my wife—will talk to the FBI for us and give them a little tip off while I head down to the wharf with my boys. I'll have her call up our old ladies, too, keep them home and away from the action.”
“Brilliant, Boss,” Glacier crows, tilting his head back and clapping his hands together in a prayer position. “Love it.”
“We don't have a lot of time,” I say, my lips tight as I look from Smoky to Jack to Mick to Mug to Dober, over at Mannon and Hawkins, back at Glacier, and then Lyric. “You ready?” I ask and she nods, holding up her phone with Heather Shelley's name on the screen.
“Ready.”
Royal's plan is good. Really good. I see another reason now why he's president. He's smart as hell and he's always thinking two steps ahead of everybody else.
God, I love him.
I take a deep breath before I climb onto the back of his bike—both of us once again dressed in body armor—and wrap my arms around his waist, thinking of Agent Shelley's tight voice on the phone, and then the relief that crept in when I told her what Royal asked of me.
The cartel is planning on hitting the Alpha Wolves Compound.
That was all I needed to say, nothing else mattered.
Royal kicks the engine to life and we speed out the gates in a blur of water and chain-link and redwood trees. The skies open up and drop icy rain on my helmet, stinging my bare legs and making me wonder why the hell I didn't take all of two minutes to change out of my torn wedding dress.
Please be okay, Dad, I think, feeling the anxious flutter of my heart, so different from the frantic way it beats for Royal. Nervous energy shoots through my limbs, makes my fingers curl tight in my new husband's wet t-shirt as I close my eyes and try to compose myself for what could happen. My dad could quite easily die today. I know a little about hostage negotiations; they don't often end well.
Royal's bike makes quick work of the distance between the compound and the wharf, skidding to a stop in the puddles as we come up to a police blockade at the top of the hill, at that corner where Van Wycke Street turns into Lighthouse Road. I hop off before he even kills the engine, tossing my helmet into the grass and shoving my skirt back down my hips.
My boots make loud sounds on the wet pavement as I sprint over to the two cruisers, their blue and white lights flickering in the dull gray afternoon light. Behind them, the sea creates a wicked brutal backdrop of navy and white crested waves.
“Conor,” I say, addressing the highest ranked officer that I recognize. Well, hell, who am I kidding? I know every guy here. “The mayor,” I say, my breath coming in sharp gasps, but my voice strong and confident. I throw on every ounce of political savvy I've saved up over the years and lift my chin. “Special Agent Heather Shelley is expecting us,” I say as I turn and nod my chin at Royal McBride. “Me, my husband, and,” I hold my hand out to indicate the other officers, “his best friends.”
Conor gives my ruined, wet wedding dress and leather jacket a long, confused once-over but nods his head, speaking softly to the other officers and then into a radio before he gestures for us to follow him down the hill. Behind us, a sea of media assholes, concerned citizens, and your usual rubberneckers stand behind police barricades and gape at the pack of Alpha Wolves following behind my five foot two frame.
“No matter what happens,” Royal begins, reaching down to squeeze my hand as we descend the hill and move across the empty parking lot. I can see Agent Shelley waiting with her arms crossed over a Creamsicle orange pantsuit. “We've got this, Pint-Size. Me and you.”
I suck in a deep breath and manage a weak smile for my husband, turning back to Heather only when I have to.
“Miss Rentz,” Agent Shelley says as she looks me up and down with one of her perfect eyebrows cocked. “Or should I say Mrs. McBride?”
“Lyric is fine,” I tell her as she stares at my borrowed leather Alpha Wolves jacket and shakes her head like she doesn't know what to think. “Where's my father?” I ask as she sighs and nods her head a few times, like she's trying to figure out a way to say what needs to be said.
“Before we go up there,” she starts and I lift my palm up to cut her off, noticing that the ocean around the Little Head outcropping is even choppier and angrier than I first thought.
“Don't,” I say as I breathe deep and look her dead in the face. “I'm assuming it's bad?” Agent Shelley tucks her hands into her front pockets and gestures with her chin, smiling tightly at Officer Conor behind me and then waving him off.
“Lyric, this tip you gave me—”
“It's quite accurate, I assure you,” I tell her as Royal stands silent and sturdy at my side, his arms crossed in front of him like a bodyguard or something. “Send your people over there. You'll get the bust you're looking for.”
“If we have probable cause, we may need to enter the compound,” she says with narrowed eyes.
“We have nothing to hide,” Royal tells her as he gestures behind us at his officers: Smoky, Mug, Jack, Mick, Dober and Glacier. “My brothers and I are here to support my wife. We trust the FBI to take care of us like they would any other American citizens.”
“Sure,” Heather sa
ys, running her tongue against the inside of her cheek. “Now this situation we're dealing with up here, it has the possibility to end very badly.”
“I understand,” I say with another deep breath, resisting the urge to fist my hands in the white lace of my dress. I make myself stand there, stoic and unblinking as Heather's dark gaze sweeps me from head to toe again. “What do you want me to do?”
“I've given the men on the dock a cell number to contact, but they're demanding to speak with you”—Heather gives Royal a scrutinizing look and shakes her head again—“and your husband. In the meantime, we've been issuing warnings via a loudspeaker. Now, when we get up on the wharf, we'll need to take things slowly. Hostage situations are … razor edged. One wrong move and we could be looking at a homicide or possible shoot-out. Listen to me or the other agents at all times and Lyric,” Heather raises a warning brow at me, “don't do anything reckless, you understand?”
“I'll do whatever it takes to save Mayor Rentz,” I tell her honestly, speaking like a true politician without really agreeing to anything at all. As if she can sense the game I'm playing, Heather sighs and turns, motioning for us to follow her up another hill and toward a sea of waiting police and the two federal agents in dark suits that I talked to before.
As soon as I break through the crowd, I see the mayor—my father—and my throat gets tight.
No.
My dad is virtually unrecognizable in his torn white button-up, the fabric discolored with dirt and blood. His hands are curled into strange red, swollen claws, and I know even from this distance that his fingers are broken. All of them. But that's nothing compared to his face, to the strange and crooked way his jaw looks, to the swollen purple mass where his right eye should be.
My hands curl into fists at my sides.
The men holding him don't look particularly concerned. Actually, they seem happy with the pitiful turnout at the end of the wharf, the few officers and federal agents standing in tense silence. It's exactly what they expected, but it's not what they're going to end up with.
I look back at Royal and his officers, noting as I do that Glacier is missing.
Royal gives me a look and the slight incline of his head, turning my attention back to the long stretch of dock jutting out into the water. At our left, a massive rocky cliff climbs into the sky, covered in gulls, barnacles and moss. At the top, a cluster of brave trees sway in the wind. On our right, the restaurant my family frequents for brunch sits quiet and empty, looking out over a small stretch of cold, angry beach.
Agent Heather Shelley steps forward with a small black radio in her hand, her lips pinched and frustrated. I imagine hostage negotiation isn't really in her job description. But who else is going to do it? The severely undertrained, underpaid, and understaffed Trinidad PD? The county cops who suffer under too much work, too many citizens, and too much ground to handle? The tiny bunch of FBI agents sent to investigate first Brent's death and then the shoot-out at the grow house? The nearest big cities are a six hour drive—and a two hour flight—outside the curtain of forest around us. Help is a long way away.
“I'm here!” I shout into the wind, before Heather even gets a chance to use the loudspeaker, my dress whipping around my legs, salty air stinging my lips as I shove short strands of dark hair from my face. “What the fuck do you want?”
A cell phone rings in the crowd and Agent Shelley answers it immediately.
“We're listening,” she says, and I notice when I squint that one of the guys in the group surrounding my father is also on his phone. Fucker. I want nothing more than to pull my Glock and shoot him in the face. But there's a knife pressed into my father's throat and even from here, I can see blood trickling down his neck and soaking into the cotton fabric of his shirt.
There's a good two dozen guys at the end of the wharf anyway. The chances of killing them all before they end the mayor's life are pretty slim.
“They want to talk ransom money,” Agent Shelley says from beside me.
“They want time to hit the compound,” Royal corrects as he glances past me and at the FBI agent. She looks back at him and nods her chin slightly, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “We need to keep them busy here until your people move in and take care of the rest of those twats.”
“Are you telling me how to do my job, Mr. McBride?”
“I'm asking what your plan is. How are you going to deal with this and the mess at my place of business?”
“We have boats on the way,” she says, her voice nearly lost in the wind. “And a helicopter, but these things take time, Royal McBride.”
“Obviously, they won't kill him yet,” I say as I look into Heather's brown eyes, slitted against the salty wet breeze. “Not until or unless they see movement from the FBI or their own people, correct? So let me talk to them. They're the ones that asked me here, right?”
“Speak slowly and try not to get angry,” Heather says, her eyes boring into mine. “And don't make any promises without checking with me first. I'll be listening in with this.” She shows me some kind of small black radio clipped to her belt before passing over the cell phone.
I take a brief moment to close my eyes and slow my breathing before I put the phone to my ear.
“Hello?”
“This is Lyric Rentz?” the man on the other end says, his accent heavy and thick and hard to understand.
“This is she,” I reply cooly, opening my eyes back up and watching my father's broken body lilt to one side before pain flashes over his face and he stiffens up again; the blood at his throat starts to run fresh and hot. “Lower the knife, please, and we'll talk. If it's money you want, we can arrange that.”
Heather gives me a harsh look, but I'm not really paying attention anymore, my sole focus locked onto my dad's face. This man has been nothing but a pain in the ass my entire life and the only time I ever even remotely saw him look at me like he was proud was last night when I told him about D.C. It crosses my mind then how disappointed he'll be to learn that I stayed, that I married a man he hates, but … that doesn't matter. Disappointment and pride are fleeting emotions, but love … that's eternal and unconditional. Whether my father is proud of me or not, I still love him and I'll do whatever it takes to save him.
“Come to the center of the dock, so we can do this mano a mano. And get esa puta del FBI off the fucking phone. Bring your man, too.”
The call cuts out suddenly and I suck in a sharp breath.
“Call them back,” Agent Shelley instructs, but my fingers are tightening around the cell and I can feel my blood pumping hard and fierce in my head, like the sound of drums. “Lyric?”
“You heard them,” I tell her, glancing her way and wondering what she'll do if I try to walk out there. “I won't let them kill my father.”
“And I won't let a citizen put themselves in the line of fire,” she says, a split second before I take off down the dock at a brisk pace, my leather riding boots loud against the aged wood. I'm confident that they won't shoot me, not yet. These men are here to provide a distraction and although I have no clue what their plan is to get out of this one unscathed, I know they won't start a shooting war with the cops just now, not unless they have to.
“Miss Rentz, goddamn it!” Heather Shelley calls, but I ignore her, moving forward even when the men at the end of the dock raise their weapons in my direction. None of the other officers follow me, but I didn't expect they would. Any movement on their part could start a war.
The wind is even fiercer out here, wild and angry, whipping my dress and hair into a frenzy, stinging my eyes and mouth and turning my skin to stone with the chill. Within a second, Royal is standing by my side, his body warm and solid and comforting, an anchor to ground myself against the churning water visible between the boards at our feet.
“They're not going to just let him walk away,” I whisper as Royal and I stand there within shouting distance of the cartel members. “However this ends, they have no intention of letting my dad go, do they?
”
“Let me worry about that, Pint-Size,” Royal says as I lift my hands and cup them around my mouth.
“Dad!” I shout, my voice barely audible above the sea and the wind, gulls crying out and circling above us. “I'm here, Dad,” I yell again, wondering briefly where the rest of my family is. Shouldn't they be here, too?
Almost as if he's arriving on cue, I hear someone shouting my name and glance over my shoulder to see Sully standing with the FBI agents, cradling his broken arm at his side as his dark suit flaps in the wind. Our green eyes snap together and I take in a deep, soothing breath before I turn back to my dad.
If he can hear me, he doesn't let on, his head lolling against the knife as my fingers worry at my purse and I resist grabbing my Glock with every ounce of my being. I know I could blow Knife Guy's head off before he cuts my father, but what about the rest of the men?
The cell in my hand rings, but I take my time answering it.
“After this,” Royal says, his voice confident and warm, drawing my attention up to his handsome face. He looks down at me with those dark eyes of his, mouth set in a dead serious line as he studies my face with an aching heap of tenderness and a nice dollop of danger to top it all off. I know he's trying to distract me, ground me, keep me from making a move too soon; I appreciate that. “Your father might have a lengthy stay in hospital ahead of him, don't you think? You'll be the interim mayor then, won't you, Deputy Rentz?”
“Assuming my father lives through this,” I say calmly, my voice betraying nothing of the way I'm feeling inside. “He'll be in no shape to act as Trinidad's mayor, so yes. Yes, I will be.” I stare at my dad's broken body and try to distance myself from the image. The talking helps, at least. “Before all of this happened, he told me he wanted me to run in his place anyway.”