Cowboy
Not wanting to return to the compound only to discover we needed to head back to the general area around Daytona Beach, we stayed at the abandoned property.
We weren’t worried about the owner coming to kick us off or calling the cops.
Micro learned the owner was a third cousin of Neeley’s on his mom’s side, who lived in New York State.
This place had been his family’s homestead when he was a kid.
He inherited it after his parents died. Rarely was he here.
I paced to keep from exploding. My temper was on a hair-trigger, and my club knew it. They tiptoed around me. It was an hour and eight minutes after the license plate, make, and model of the truck Jordan drove off in were communicated to Micro that there was an update.
Gathering around Diablo’s phone, we listened to our tech. Pres announced he was on speaker.
“Please, tell me you know something,” I said gruffly.
“I do. I might’ve found them,” he said cautiously.
“Where?” I shouted.
“Hang on, let me explain. When I was researching it, which, by the way, is in the guy’s dad’s name, I found that it has one of those anti-theft systems, which you can activate if your vehicle is stolen, so that the police can find it.
I triggered it as soon as I logged in to the system.
The signal indicates the truck is about twenty-five miles from your current position.
Did you hear what I just said? The truck is there.
He might’ve ditched it and taken another vehicle, Cowboy.
I have no way of knowing,” Micro forewarned me.
“Micro, I hear you, but it’s better than nothing. Send me the addy. I’m going to check it out.” My tone left no room to argue with me. I was going with or without them.
“Give it to us,” Diablo requested.
Less than four minutes later, I was aimed at the beacon.
I wasn’t alone. The others were with me.
As we drew near the place, I noticed we were in another rural spot, like the first barn.
Where in the hell did this guy keep finding these?
Was the one here connected to his family or a friend? Or had he happened upon it by accident?
As agreed before leaving the previous house, we stopped about half a mile or so before the address.
This was a move we often made when pursuing the bad guys.
It was to prevent the ones we were after from panicking, then harming or killing those they held when they heard the rumble of multiple motorcycle engines swarming onto their property.
“Butcher with Thunder and Crash with Lucky. Turbo, you, and Judge stick together. That leaves Wolverine and Cowboy with me—weapons at the ready. We don't know if he’s alone in there, or if they’re there. I want all of us to come home tonight. Watch your asses,” Diablo decreed.
Everyone nodded and murmured their assent, including me.
With that out of the way, we divided into pairs or trios and began walking.
We cut through a small grove of trees that separated the spot where we parked and hid our bikes from the house.
When the trees thinned, a small house, one in better repair than the last one, came into view.
The moonlight allowed us to see it. There were two lights on, one upstairs and one downstairs.
Parked alongside the house was the getaway truck. A thirst for reprisal filled me. My body grew more vigilant. I refused to fuck up and cause harm to my woman or my brothers. This was life or death. And the only one who would die tonight was Jordan Neely.
Using hand signals we’d all learned from our former military club brothers, we moved to our positions—half at the rear entrance, and the rest at the front. My trio was in the rear with Judge and Turbo.
When Diablo signaled he was breaching the door, I inhaled and tensed.