HWY 550 (Rock Point Book 3)
Page 17
At this point I suspect just about everyone else. There’s no way I can possibly monitor all, so I decided to call Dylan in for backup. Ouray was less than impressed when I told him, but he had to agree that having Dylan pose as my brother would be the easiest way to lend him some credibility. Not to mention add some to mine.
The handful of club members who saw him in official capacity won’t clue in when they see him arrive in full disguise. Dylan is good at transforming his clean-cut exterior. I’ve seen him pose as a homeless guy and even I walked right by him.
That’s why, when a big, bearded, burly-looking biker comes straight for our table, a grin on his face, I don’t clue in who it is. Not until he calls out, “Sis,” in a big booming voice.
“Dylan!” I jump up and walk into his widespread arms, leaving the other women staring curiously.
“Fuck, Lulu, don’t call me that. It’s Bullseye.”
I almost choke holding back my laugh at the nickname he’s given himself. When he was first assigned to the La Plata office, the guy couldn’t hit the broadside of a fucking barn. Then James pulled him to Denver on a case, and apparently our junior agent spent a lot of time at the shooting range, because our first time out, he pumped an entire clip into a three-inch diameter circle. The target still hangs over his desk at the office as a trophy.
“Who’s this?” Ginger asks from behind me, and I turn to the girls, my arm still around his waist.
“This is my little brother...” I throw a sideways glance at him, biting my cheek not to laugh. “...Bullseye.”
“Well, hello there, handsome,” she coos, eliciting a wink from Dylan.
“This is Ginger, and my friend, Lea. Both have men, so if you want to hang on to your testicles, I’d tread carefully,” I warn him with an elbow to the ribs. “What are you doing here anyway? I thought you said you weren’t coming?”
“Changed my mind. Figure it’s time I check out this new guy of yours.”
“Looks like you won’t have to wait long. Incoming,” Lea points out with a nod in the direction of a very pissed-off looking Ouray stalking this way. Shit. He probably doesn’t recognize Dylan either.
“Hey, babe, come meet my brother,” I call out, placing myself squarely between them in case he doesn’t hear me, but his pace slows and his shoulders aren’t up around his ears anymore when he gets near. Still, the first thing he does is pull me close and with a hard kiss on my lips, anchors me with an arm against his side. Only then does he look up at Dylan and offers him his free hand.
I provide introductions—again—and this time Dylan’s road name already slides a little easier from my lips. It doesn’t take long for Dylan to be absorbed into the group of men over by the beer tent, and I’m pleasantly surprised to see him make connections so easily. I have to admit, I haven’t had much of an opportunity to see him work outside of the office— where there’s a certain hierarchy—but he’s impressing me so far.
“You never mentioned a brother,” Britney, who’d come sauntering to inquire about the ‘new meat,’ says in an accusatory tone.
“Didn’t know I was required to share every detail of my life,” I fire back. Since building friendship with her is clearly not an option, I figure perhaps if I antagonize her, she’ll let something slip.
“I figure since he’s a biker and all.”
“Not club related. He’s a loner, generally goes where the weather is nice.” Her interest is clear, which is why I immediately nip any hopes she has of ingratiating herself.
“Then how does he make a living? Is he like, independently wealthy or something?”
God how I dislike the woman, but this time I make no effort to hide it. “You don’t give up, do you? He works when he needs money. Whatever he can get his hands on. Trust me, he’s not your speed.”
“No need to be snippy about it,” she blusters, tossing her hair over her shoulder and marching off to where Jill is sitting on her man’s lap. Both have been watching the interaction rather intently.
Christ, I’m starting to look at everything and everyone with suspicion. Britney appears to be trying her luck with Manny, who barely acknowledges her. He’s deep in conversation with Red. Over in the beer tent, Dylan looks to be the center of attention in a group that includes Wheels, and most of Ouray’s brothers. The only ones I can’t locate are my guy and Paco.
Worried, I get up for a better vantage point, when an arm slips around my waist from behind.
“Looking for me?”
I let go of the lungful of air I’ve been holding at the sound of Ouray’s voice in my ear. I turn and slip my arms around his neck. “I was,” I admit, opening willingly when his lips cover mine.
“You okay grabbing something to eat from a vendor here?” he mumbles with his face in my neck. “I think everyone’s gonna hang around for the band. They start at six.”
“Fine by me.”
“Good. We won’t make it too late. It’ll be an early day tomorrow for the parade and the party after often goes all night. You’ll wanna be sharp: lots of booze which means lots of loose lips.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
One more heady kiss and he wanders back to the beer tent.
The phone in my pocket buzzes with a new message.
Dylan: That PDA for show? Dayum, Sis, who’da thunk?
I look over and catch him fanning himself, wearing a big grin.
OURAY
“Let’s dance.”
I raise an eyebrow at Luna’s question. It’s on my tongue to tell her hell no, I don’t dance—ever—but her head is bobbing to the music, and I can’t resist the big smile on her face. So when the band starts playing Eric Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight,” I grab her hand, pull her through the crowd to the makeshift dance floor in front of the stage, and take her in my arms.
I shake my head at the whistles and catcalls from most of the guys. I’m the only sap dancing—the rest are all fucking women. I’d rather have a root canal than be the only fool out here, but the look on Luna’s face when she looks up at me is worth every bit of torture. Pretty soon I don’t even notice the heckles from the crowd, I’m lost in her blue eyes.
“Let’s get a beer, darlin’,” I finally whisper in her ear after the third slow song in a row, and grin when she easily slips her hand in mine.
“You owe me, you son of a bitch,” Red grumbles over Ginger’s shoulder when we pass him on the dance floor. By now there are quite a few guys with thunder on their faces, leading their ladies around.
“Fuckin’ treason to the brotherhood, asshole.” Kaga glares at me as Lea is pulling him closer to the band.
“Serves you right for makin’ fun of your chief, brother,” I fire back.
“I’m thinking I may have started a new trend,” Luna says, a satisfied smirk on her face.
Grinning, I curl an arm around her neck and rub my knuckles on her head. “You’re a shit disturber, you know that?”
Despite several attempts, I manage to avoid letting Luna drag me back out there. She finally gave up and is dancing with a group of girls.
Scanning the crowd, I’m looking for Paco again. I kept an eye on him earlier tonight, but he’s been missing in action for a few hours now. It cuts, the thought one of my most trusted men is betraying me. It’s enough to make me look at everyone through different eyes. My brothers, guys I’d consider friends, if I can’t trust them, then what the hell is the purpose?
I pull my phone out of my pocket when I feel the buzz of a message notification, and swipe my finger over the screen when I see Paco’s number come up.
Paco: Need to talk. Alone. Behind porta-potty. I’m in trouble, brother.
I take a quick look over where Luna has her arms up in the air and is bumping hips with Ginger, before heading to the john at the edge of the parking lot.
It’s fucking dark back here. With floodlights illuminating the lot, stepping into the shade of the trees behind the blue portable toilets almost renders me blind. I flick on the flashl
ight on my phone, and step deeper into the trees.
“The fuck are ya, Paco?”
I hear a light rustle behind me and start to turn, but before I can register anything, my world suddenly goes dark.
LUNA
“Have you seen Ouray?”
Kaga looks surprised at my question. “Not in a while, why?”
“I haven’t seen him since I left the dance floor.”
“Tried calling?”
“And sent texts. Nothing.”
“Not like Chief. He’s usually on the ball.”
Dylan, who’s been doing his own thing most of the night, walks over. “Something wrong?”
“Looking for Ouray,” Kaga answers, scanning the crowd.
“Saw him heading for the can maybe half an hour ago.” Dylan starts moving toward the portables and I follow right behind.
“I’ll check the beer tent and see if his bike is still here.” Ouray’s second-in-command starts jogging in the opposite direction.
Two of the three stalls look to be occupied and we each pick a door to bang on. An embarrassed girl comes out of the one Dylan’s standing in front of and he mumbles an apology. Finally the door I’m blocking opens to reveal a very pissed-off, gruff looking biker with a dirty gray beard almost covering his big gut. My eyes water when I get a whiff.
“Can’t even take a fuckin’ dump in peace,” he grumbles, shoving past me.
I quickly take a few steps to the side, where the air is a little more tolerable.
“Jesus, pretty sure something died in there,” Dylan comments, coming to stand beside me. “Did you try calling him?”
“Yes, several times. I’ll try again.” I hit redial on my cell, with the same result as before. “Nothing.”
“Well shit. I hate to ask, ‘cause from what I can tell you guys are quite cozy, but any chance he’s off enjoying some extracurricular activity?”
“What?”
“Schtupping a piece on the side?”
“Christ, Barnes—can you be more crass?”
“Just staying in character,” he says with an apologetic smile.
“Whatever. And to answer your question—no—he’s not that guy.” I’m surprisingly sure of that. Call it naïveté, but I’m generally good at reading people, and Ouray has been nothing but straightforward with me.
“Fine. So what would make him take off without a word?”
“An emergency,” I suggest, although I’m not really buying that explanation. He would’ve let someone know.
“Don’t think so,” Kaga volunteers, as he walks up to us. “His bike’s still there. He’s gotta be around.”
“Then let’s find him. This is the last place he was seen.”
I don’t wait for the others and head around the back of the porta-potties. I hear footsteps following. It’s dark, but a faint glow is visible from the brush about fifteen feet in. Turning on my phone’s light, I aim it where I noticed the diffuse light, and move closer.
“What’ve you got?” Dylan asks behind me.
“Not sure. I swear I saw a faint light coming from somewhere around here.”
A second stream of light hits the same area when Kaga uses his phone as well.
“I see it,” Dylan announces. He steps forward, reaches down, and comes up with an iPhone, its light on. I immediately hit redial and watch the phone vibrate in his hand.
Kaga curses under his breath. “That’s not good.”
“No, it’s not,” I agree.
Just then we hear a bunch sirens in the distance and a cold fist closes around my heart.
CHAPTER 21
OURAY
Jesus, my head.
I smell fuel and try to open my eyes, but bright light is like a hot poker straight into my brain. I’m disoriented, it feels as if I’m falling forward as I’m slowly registering loud noises—yelling—and then the sound of metal grinding. The next thing I know, I’m pulled by my arm and tumble down, the fall jarring my skull.
“Stay still,” a disembodied voice yells at me when I try to grab my head.
Hands pat me down, rifling through my pockets.
“Let EMTs at him. Looks like we have another head injury. He’s bleeding.”
I’m confused. I’m trying to make sense of what I’m hearing. Bleeding? I try to bring my hand to my head. “Hold still or I’m gonna slap handcuffs on you.” Handcuffs?
Next I feel hands on me. “What...” I carefully squint against the flashing lights, seeing someone lean over me.
“You’ve been in an accident.” A woman’s voice this time. “Looks like you hit your head, you have a nasty cut.”
“My bike?” I mumble.
“Your pickup, I’m afraid it’s a write-off,” she says as she places a collar around my neck. “Just a precaution until they can check you out in the hospital. Your friend is already on his way there.”
I close my eyes as my mind is trying to process information as I’m being strapped to a backboard. There’s something very wrong here.
“Call Luna.”
“The police will take care of that,” she says.
I hiss when I’m lifted, jarring my head. “My phone.”
During the ride to the hospital, I start remembering. Dancing with Luna. A text message. Paco in trouble.
“I really need my phone.” I turn to the cop who climbed into the back of the ambulance and is riding along. That’s never a good sign.
“You didn’t have one. You’ll get your one call eventually.”
Yeah, I’m in deep shit. If only I knew what I stepped into.
“YOU’RE NOT FUCKING listening to me. Find my goddamn phone and you can see the text for yourself.”
The two cops seem unimpressed. I’ve tried to explain the events as I recall them a few times now, but I’m not getting anywhere.
Apparently I ended up behind the wheel of a pickup with Paco beside me, and a cache of stolen guns hidden under a tarp in the back. Some from a heist on a local gun shop earlier tonight, and a few they’ve traced back to the fucking Bloomfield robbery.
Looks like whoever has been trying to set me up is succeeding. At least with these yokels.
I’d really like a word with Paco.
LUNA
“This is bullshit.”
The officer shrugs. “Following instructions. Both suspects are off limits until we’ve finished interviewing them.”
“You’re interfering with an ongoing FBI investigation,” I hiss, trying to keep my voice low but the man doesn’t seem to care.
“Call Damian,” I tell Dylan, who’s stayed beside me. Kaga is calming down the other brothers in the waiting room we were all hustled into. Emotions are high, and a mob of angry bikers isn’t going to do Ouray any favors.
“Already did. He’s on it. You’ve gotta cool it, Luna, or you’ll blow this investigation and all the work you put in it will be lost.”
I can’t help snort. Who the fuck cares about work? Right now I’m more concerned getting in to see Ouray. Making sure he’s okay. Getting these goddamn local cops off his ass.
“Are you related to Mr. Strongbow?” A young guy reminding me of Doogie Howser, with his pristine white coat and stethoscope around his neck, walks up.
“I’m his old lady.”
With a hint of distaste he looks me up down. “Right. Well, your...Mr. Strongbow sustained a hard blow to the right side of his head in the accident. There was a small laceration we were able to close up with just a few stitches, and his scan was clear, but because he lost consciousness, we’re keeping him for observation. He was lucky. From what I understand, the truck he was driving wasn’t outfitted with airbags, so the damage could have been much worse. There’s not even a mark on his chest where he must’ve hit the steering wheel.”
“Wait,” I call out when he starts walking away, my head spinning. “You said he was behind the wheel?”
“That’s what I understand. The impact must’ve caused his head to hit the side window.”
Dylan throws his arm over my shoulder, giving me a squeeze. “Good catch, Sis.”
IT’S ALREADY EARLY Saturday morning when the cavalry rolls in.
Kaga was finally able to convince the club members to head back to the cabins to grab some sleep, with my promise I’d call right away—once I get to see him—which hasn’t happened yet.
Dylan also left, hoping to catch what—if any—chatter he might be able to pick up at the resort.
I’m outside getting a bit of fresh air to go with my disgusting vending machine coffee—both intended to keep me awake—when a black Explorer pulls into the parking lot. The man getting out of the SUV is top to toe G-man. Ill-fitting black suit, scuffed shoes, and mirrored shades despite the watery light of dawn.
He stops in his tracks when I approach him. I can only imagine the picture I make, with my ass-kicker boots, ripped jeans, and leather jacket—not to mention the messy mop of curls and haggard face.
“Special Agent Luna Roosberg,” I introduce myself, holding out a hand he looks at as if I’m trying to pass on a communicable disease. Hardly promising.
“Special Agent Brent Nylander,” he finally says, shaking my hand.
“Did my SAC explain the situation?”
“For the most part, why don’t we go in and you can fill in the blanks.”
“I’d prefer not to be seen talking to you. Only a few know I’m FBI, and no one knows I’m working a case. Other than my colleague, Agent Barnes, and of course Ouray.”
“Is that the gang’s president?” he asks, and I bristle at the faulty presumption.
“Arrow’s Edge is completely legit. A club, not a gang.” I can’t keep the edge out of my voice.
The man looks duly chastised, but I still worry about the impact his preconceived ideas might have. “Apologies. Club it is.”
After that dubious start, I quickly update him with the latest information, including the inconsistencies of Ouray’s injuries with the claim he was driving.