Chapter 12 #2
"I'd like that." A rare smile crosses his weathered face. "I'd like that a lot."
I'm halfway back to the clubhouse when my phone buzzes.
Zenon's name flashes on the screen.
I pull over, answering on the second ring. "What?"
"We've got a problem." His voice is tight. Controlled. "Varro's people just picked up Ripley."
The world stops.
"What do you mean, picked up?"
"Two plainclothes showed up at Steel Kittens about an hour ago. Said they had questions about Cain's death. Tawny tried to stall them, but they had a subpoena." He pauses. "They took her to the station for questioning."
The rage that floods through me is white-hot, blinding. My hand tightens on the phone until the plastic creaks.
"Which station?"
"Number 3. Levi, wait—"
I hang up and gun the engine, tearing through traffic with one thought burning in my mind.
He took her. That bastard took her.
If he touches one hair on her head, I'll burn his whole world down.
The Number 3 station is a squat brick building in a neighborhood that's seen better days.
I park my bike out front, not caring about the looks I get from the officers coming and going.
Let them look. Let them see exactly who's coming through their doors.
Inside, the desk sergeant takes one look at my cut and reaches for his radio.
"I need to see Chief Varro," I say before he can speak. "Now."
"Sir, you can't just—"
"I'm not leaving until I talk to him." I plant my hands on the counter, leaning in. "So you can either call him down here, or I can start making a scene. Your choice."
The sergeant hesitates, weighing his options.
I'm betting he's been warned about me—the outlaw biker president with blood on his hands and a grudge against the Chief.
He doesn't want this escalating any more than I do.
"Wait here," he says finally, picking up the phone.
I wait.
The minutes stretch like hours.
I'm acutely aware of every cop in the building, every suspicious glance, every hand drifting toward a weapon.
They're scared of me. Good. They should be.
Finally, a door opens. Varro steps through, his face carefully blank.
"President Hale. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Where is she?"
"I assume you mean Ms. Tiernan." He adjusts his cuffs, casual and unhurried. "She's being questioned about her relationship with my son. Standard procedure in a murder investigation."
"Your son beat her. For three years. She's a victim, not a suspect."
"That remains to be determined." His eyes are cold. Calculating. "We have reason to believe she may have been involved in Cain's death. Perhaps even helped plan it."
"That's bullshit and you know it."
"Do I?" Varro steps closer, lowering his voice so only I can hear. "She was the last person to see him alive. She had motive—years of alleged abuse. And she immediately fled to your clubhouse, where she's been ever since." He smiles, thin and sharp. "It's not a hard case to make."
"She had nothing to do with what happened to Cain."
"Then she has nothing to worry about, does she?" He spreads his hands, the picture of reasonableness. "She answers our questions, tells us what she knows, and goes home. Simple."
"Without a lawyer?"
"She hasn't asked for one."
Because she's scared. Because she doesn't know her rights. Because three years with Cain taught her to comply, to submit, to do whatever the man in charge tells her.
"I want to see her."
"I'm afraid that's not possible. She's in the middle of an interview."
"Then I'll wait."
Varro's smile doesn't waver, but something flickers in his eyes. "Suit yourself. Though I should warn you—these things can take a while. Hours, sometimes. Depends on how cooperative the subject is."
The threat is clear. He's going to keep her as long as he can. Make her sweat. Break her down.
Over my dead body.
"You're making a mistake," I say quietly. "You think targeting her will hurt me? You're right. It will. But it'll also make me very, very motivated to hurt you back. And unlike you, I don't have rules to follow."
"Is that a threat, President Hale?"
"It's a promise." I hold his gaze, letting him see exactly how serious I am. "You have dirt, Varro. Everyone in your position does. And I'm very good at finding dirt. So you can let her go now, with a polite apology, or you can keep playing this game and see what I dig up."
For a long moment, neither of us moves. The tension stretches between us, thick enough to cut.
Then Varro laughs.
"You've got balls, I'll give you that." He steps back, shaking his head. "Fine. I'll have her brought up. But this isn't over, Hale. Not by a long shot."
"No," I agree. "It's not."
He disappears through the door. I wait, fists clenched, heart pounding.
Ten minutes later, Ripley emerges.
She looks pale. Shaken. But when her eyes find mine, something in her expression shifts. Steadies.
"Levi."
"I'm here." I cross to her, pulling her into my arms right there in the middle of the police station. Let them watch. Let them all watch. "I'm here. You're okay."
"They kept asking about Cain," she whispers into my chest. "About where I was that night. About whether I knew what you were going to do."
"What did you tell them?"
"The truth. That I didn't know anything. That I was at the clubhouse when it happened." She pulls back, her eyes searching my face. "Was that right? Did I say the right things?"
"You did perfect." I cup her face, brushing my thumbs over her cheeks. "You did perfect, baby. Now let's get out of here."
I keep my arm around her as we walk out, feeling the weight of Varro's gaze on our backs. He wanted to rattle her. Wanted to use her to get to me.
It didn't work.
But he's not going to stop. I know that now with absolute certainty. He's going to keep coming, keep pushing, keep looking for ways to hurt us both.
Which means I need to end this. One way or another.
We're halfway to my bike when Ripley stops, turning to face me.
"This is because of me," she says. "He's targeting me because of you. Because of us."
"He's targeting you because he's a bastard who can't accept that his son got what he deserved." I take her hands. "This isn't your fault."
"But if I wasn't here—"
"Then I'd have nothing worth protecting." The words come out fiercer than I intended. "You're not the problem, Ripley. You're the reason I'm still fighting. You understand?"
She stares at me for a long moment. Then, slowly, she nods.
"I understand."
"Good." I pull her close, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Now let's go home. We've got a war to plan."
We ride back to the clubhouse together, her arms wrapped tight around my waist. And in my mind, I'm already mapping out the next moves.
Varro wants a fight? I'll give him one.
But I'm going to win.