Chapter 20
The small interrogation room at the police station was only big enough for one person. Hunter crossed his arms, leaning back in the chair, and kept his eyes on the two officers pushing down on him. He refused to budge, keeping his boots firmly planted on the floor.
They'd already done the worst thing they could do to him. They'd taken his Royalla vest. His hunting knife. His phone.
Two law enforcement officers faced him from the other side of the small table.
One leaned forward, speaking, but Hunter couldn't catch a word.
The man's overgrown mustache covered his mouth, hiding the shape of his lips.
The other policeman spoke more animatedly, making it clearer for Hunter to see what was said, though it wasn't perfect.
He'd often turn away from him and speak toward the other man.
Hunter caught fragments— suspect... kidnapping. .. questions.
Hunter didn't answer. Didn't even try to speak. He'd been here before, too many times. He knew better than to volunteer any information.
All he could do was point to his ear, shake his head, and shrug. Again. And again.
The officers exchanged a look as if he was antagonizing them on purpose.
While he knew exactly why he was taken to the station, he had no idea how to convince them he was not involved in removing Leigh from Jason Stevens' house or in hiding her and Annie from him.
The only crime he committed was entering someone else's home.
If he could hear and speak clearly enough for others to understand him, he could tell them that Annie had given him permission to break in, given that she was living there at the time, under duress.
But who the hell would believe him wearing a Royalla Motorcycle Club patch?
He'd been down this road before and spent eighteen months in the state pen for stealing a car.
He'd gotten away with the same crime many times throughout the years riding for Royalla.
But the few seconds a siren would warn him of an incoming police officer didn't work for him when he couldn't hear and relied on his sight instead.
Just like tonight.
Fuck.
He hoped Baddy got the girls somewhere safe. It was the fear on Annie's face, sitting in the truck, that warned him something was wrong. At first, he thought she was in danger. He'd scanned the area around the truck and came up empty. Only then had it dawned on him that her fear was for him.
But by that time, it was too late. He'd turned around, and the policeman had drawn his pistol.
He was a criminal. A biker. He wasn't stupid. He had a record. He couldn't outrun a bullet.
The door opened. Another man stepped in, folder in hand, and passed it to the nearby cop. The mustached officer flipped it open, his brow furrowing as he scanned the pages.
The other officer leaned closer, reading over his shoulder. "Prior records show him as deaf..."
The police officer handed the folder back and then leaned on the table, facing Hunter. "Can you hear me, you son of a bitch?"
He stayed uninvolved. He could read the man's lips. He was angry. He was frustrated. If he thought he was going to get a rise out of him, he thought wrong.
"Get someone who knows sign language," he said finally, his lips slow enough for Hunter to catch.
Hunter sat still, his face unreadable.
The other officer frowned. "I'd be surprised if this is our suspect. The report says Officer Stevens was verbally threatened by him before he kidnapped Stevens' wife."
Hunter's jaw tightened, but he didn't move.
The officer pushed off the table and shrugged. "Jason Stevens is higher up than I am. I'm not losing my job over this."
Hunter leaned back in his chair, his silence louder than any words. The rest of the conversation between the officers was lost to him.
He knew the game. All he could do was wait until he had more information.
The door opened again, and this time a woman stepped inside. She carried herself with calm authority, her eyes steady as she sat across from him. She lifted her hands and signed: Do you know why you are here?
Hunter blinked, the hand motions stirring something deep in him. It had been years since he'd used ASL—three years of tutoring after he lost his hearing, paid for by the state, but no one in his life had ever spoken with their hands. In the clubhouse, there wasn't much use for it.
But now he found himself wanting to talk, having understood every sign.
He lifted his hands, stiff and achy, but once he started, the fluency returned. "No. I don't understand why I was picked up. I was riding my buddy's motorcycle to Seattle as a favor to him. He just got married. I only stopped to get gas. I paid for the gas inside and hadn't even filled the tank."
If they wanted to look, they'd find Baddy's Harley at the gas station. It was a clean alibi.
The woman nodded, then spoke to the officers. "What do you want to ask him?"
For the next several minutes, she relayed their questions. Where had he been? Did he know Leigh Stevens? Was he in Vancouver on the day that he'd taken the women?
Hunter answered each one, his hands moving with precision, his face calm.
He hid what mattered. He would never give up the girls' location.
He gave no hint that he even knew who they were talking about.
He explained that he worked at the garage owned by the Royalla Motorcycle Club and expressed his gratitude for being hired despite his disability.
It gave him a chance to work with his hands, which he did well.
He'd been stuck in the room for hours. They'd tried to feed him lunch and had given him two-bathroom breaks.
The officers exchanged looks as the interpreter gave them the information they sought.
The mustached one frowned, flipping through the folder again.
The interpreter spoke directly to him without signing.
He dropped his hands and frowned. She was testing him.
Maybe they believed he was pretending to be deaf.
Assholes.
Hunter kept his expression blank, his hands folded in his lap.
The officer shrugged. "This man has a record. He's deaf and unable to talk. We brought an interpreter in. If Stevens has something on him, he'll need a warrant. We have nothing to keep him. I'm not losing my job over this."
The woman signed that he was free to go and collect his belongings at the desk.
Minutes later, he was escorted to the front, where his vest, wallet, knife, and phone were returned. Thank fuck, he'd left his pistol with Annie.
Hunter walked out of the station, the afternoon air hitting his face like freedom.
He adjusted his cut, scanning the lot before he tried to get his bearings. He pulled out his phone, but before he could text Prez, he saw Kodiak leaning against a black SUV, arms folded.
Hunter walked over, glad to see someone here to help him.
Kodiak studied him. "You good?"
Hunter gave a short nod.
Kodiak's gaze flicked toward the road. "Baddy's got the girls. Took them north."
Hunter's chest eased, but only slightly. He wanted to see Annie, to know she was okay, but he trusted Baddy.
Kodiak stepped closer. "Cruz spotted more cruisers. They're circling. Jason's pushing hard. We can't sit still."
Hunter's jaw tightened.
"We ride out," Kodiak said. "Before they box us in."
Hunter frowned. "Hide them?"
The girls were still recovering. Last night and today were rough on them. They couldn't handle too much stress.
Kodiak shook his head. "Baddy's already rolling them toward the...route. You'll catch up."
Hunter nodded once. His Harley would get him to Annie faster, but his bike was back in Vancouver.
Kodiak clapped him on the shoulder. "You did well. Now let's finish it."
Hunter glanced back at the station, the glow of the lights fading behind him. He'd walked out free, but Jason's grip was tightening.
And if Jason thought Hunter would stop fighting, he was dead wrong.