Chapter 30
Quinn
“It’s been too long,” Kade says. “I don’t like this.”
Everyone’s eyes are pinned to the firehouse.
I stand a few feet away from them, my hands in front of me as I remind myself to breathe.
If he gets himself killed…
Tears well in my eyes, and I can’t even imagine how he’s going to come out of this in one piece. Is Farrow in there? Would he back Lucas up? God, please be okay.
I stare at the door, waiting for any shadow to pass by the glass block windows. Any commotion. Or a bellow or a gunshot.
I lock my jaw, anger making the heat rise on my cheeks. If he still thinks he doesn’t need his family at his back, then what do I care? He hasn’t changed. Still just as stubborn and irresponsible and—
Squeezing my eyes shut, I blow out a quiet breath, reeling myself in. He’s going to be okay. He has to be.
And just as I open my eyes, Lucas emerges from the firehouse on his own two legs—alive. I suck in a breath, holding back a sob.
Fuck, thank you, God.
With one hand around Tommy’s upper arm, he marches her out, glancing behind him and keeping his eyes peeled.
He strides across the street as she pries herself out of his hold and charges away.
I shift on my feet, and he must see the look on my face because he wraps his arms around me as he buries his face in my neck.
I squeeze him. Fire courses down my arms, and I can’t unball my fists, but I’m enjoying hugging him too much to hit him.
Tucking me under his arm, he walks us to the others, Dylan, Aro, Kade, and Hunter crowding around Hawke.
“What happened?” Kade demands.
“It’s Farrow’s.” Lucas nods. “I gave the firehouse to Farrow. We’ll have to wait and see if Hugo abides.”
“No one even got hit?” Kade gripes.
Well, there’s still time, moron. I can’t imagine Lucas or Farrow can take anything without some force.
I look up at Lucas. “Are we in danger here?”
He places his fingers under my chin. “We stay together for now.”
But where? We’d be safest at my parents’ or Madoc’s, but that might mean alerting them to the trouble.
“Why did you give it to Farrow?”
Glancing at Aro, I see her brow strained as she glowers.
He simply shakes his head. “Because the community relies on it. We need an infrastructure in place before we take away any means they have to support themselves.”
But she presses, “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“It was a gamble.”
Definitely.
For Lucas’s sake, the ideal thing to do would be to end it, but he’s probably right. Transition to phasing it out would be less detrimental to the people who rely on it for income. If it dissolved abruptly, the most vulnerable would suffer.
“One step at a time,” he tells her.
But the worried look on Aro’s face remains.
Lucas leads us down the curb to our cars. “Did you guys see someone outside the club, dropping off an envelope?” he asks, unlocking the doors of the Mustang.
Hawke replies, “A man handed the doorman something and left.”
“Didn’t see his face,” Dylan adds. “Why?”
Lucas opens my car door for me. “Let’s go,” he tells everyone, ignoring the question. “We need to check something out.”
I climb in as everyone scatters to their cars, and Lucas starts the engine, pulling away. Tommy is gone, and I twist my neck, searching the street for her. If they know she helped us, she might not be safe, either.
Lucas leads the way through the warehouse district, up into the hills, and around Weston High School. He doesn’t offer any information, and I don’t know why. Are we in danger?
I peer over at him. “Who was the man who dropped off the envelope?”
We didn’t think much of some lonely guy on foot, Green Street probably having all sorts of people filtering in and out of the place every day.
But now that I think about it, there was something about him.
The fit of his brown leather jacket. The cut of his hair peeking out of his hood.
As if the clothes were tailored to him. It’s not how most people look, except for men like Madoc and only men like Jared and Jax, because their wives pick their clothes.
“I’m not sure,” he says in a breathy voice. “I need to see something first.”
He drives over the weeds that have sprouted up through the broken road, and it looks like a lot is happening in his head, but I don’t give a shit. He can be quiet, just not with me.
“What happened in there?” I demand.
“It’s still happening.”
I growl, “Lucas.”
Dammit. What the hell is going on?
“I transferred control of the building to Farrow,” he finally blurts out. “It’s not over yet, but I can help him.”
“How?”
Why Farrow? Is that safe? And how did Lucas manage that? How are we going to help him?
I’m about to press for details, but we pass through an open, rusty gate hanging off its hinges. Rows of low buildings appear ahead in the darkness, and he pulls up closer, his headlights illuminating the large doors. Where are we?
Headlights from the others’ cars reflect in our mirrors. I lean in closer to the windshield, avoiding the glare and taking in the sight before me.
Storage units?
I had no idea these were here. Dark brown structures with burgundy-colored garage-style doors, some of them are open and empty. Others are closed and still locked. Some sit exposed with boxes or pieces of furniture abandoned inside as if they’ve been raided.
Pulling my collar back, he checks the numbers on the back of my shoulder again and continues around the corner. Everyone follows slowly behind until Lucas stops in front of number twenty-two. My heart pounds harder as I stare up at the stickers of the two twos, faded from years of sun and weather.
I study the back of my shoulder again. Two-eight-eight-four. I lock my gaze on the combination padlock still securing the unit’s door.
I shiver, thinking about whoever wrote it on me last night.
Lucas swings open his door, and I don’t wait, quickly stepping out of the car too.
“What is this?” Hawke asks, everyone piling in to see what’s inside.
Without replying, Lucas dials in the numbers, the shackle clicking free, and my breathing speeds up.
Is this his unit?
Wait, no. He would’ve had the combination already. Two-eight-eight-four adds up to twenty-two, the unit number.
Does it belong to Green Street? My brain swims with all the stuff that could be in there. Are we sure we want to know?
But as Lucas lifts the door, phones start lighting up as everyone brings up their flashlights. We all inch inside, my eyes trying to focus on everything at once.
My gaze registers a wardrobe, then flits to a trunk, tables, lamps, chairs, a piano, carpets, a mirror, books, statues, suitcases, paintings…
quickly assessing what’s dangerous and what’s not.
No weapons, no bodies, but plenty of storage for them.
Eyeing the wardrobe again, I wander inside the unit, all of us spreading out to investigate the pieces.
Turning the handle, I try to pry the door open, but can only get it cracked enough to see a sliver inside. Dresses.
Kade climbs onto a chair and checks out behind a tall bed frame, while Dylan and Aro flip through a photo album, and the others inspect various boxes and antiques.
Something feels off. If this belongs to the Dorans—or Winslet—it doesn’t seem like it belongs here. The furniture is antique, the art dramatic, and the pieces too ornate. It’s not the style of most residents in this region—blue-collar workers, farmers, and middle Americans.
I draw in air through my nose, the scent triggering a memory.
Wet, aged wood, musty like an old building.
I take in more air, noticing a subtle hint of jasmine, gardenias, coffee, rain, and sweet liquor all mixed together to create a scent cooked in humidity that I’ve only smelled once before in the only place in the world it can be made. New Orleans.
“It was Manas Doran,” Lucas says, fanning a file folder. “The man who left the envelope at the door.”
I come to his side, scanning the ownership documents to several properties, all located in Weston. I grab a picture of one young man and twin boys with a woman, whom I assume is their mother. I look at the back, reading Conor, Deacon, Manas, and Mom.
“They’re watching,” Lucas tells us. “They’re listening.”
“Why were they following us, though?” I ask. “In the Dodge? Trying to scare us if they’re giving all of this to us?”
But he shakes his head, looking at me. “It wasn’t them following us.”
He still doesn’t believe me. He thinks it’s someone else. Maybe Reeves.
“And they’re giving this to Weston,” Lucas clarifies. “Not us, not Farrow, but to be used for the town.”
“How much is in here?” Aro asks anyone who has a guess.
Hawke just ponders. “Hard to say. Maybe a few thousand. Maybe a few hundred thousand.”
Anything would help Weston, but we need an appraiser to look at the furniture. And the dresses and the paintings. I’m not hopeful, though. If any of this was valuable, they wouldn’t have left it in a non-temperature-controlled unit without more security.
“Catalog it.” Lucas studies the documents, continuing to tell Hawke and the rest, “Take whatever pictures and keepsakes you want for your research. The rest we sell.”
Lucas slips a pile of papers to Hawke that he’s pulled from the file. “And we sell these too.”
My nephew takes them, and I peer over, noticing they’re deeds.
“Why would they own parcels of land up and down the river, in various towns?” he questions, studying the papers. “For farms? A flood wall?”
“Fallon told me that ComVista, Inc. and East Labs wanted land to create a railway corridor,” Lucas tells him. “The government was interested too. I think the Doran brothers stockpiled real estate when it had little value to sell as a whole for train tracks.”
He blinks. “Shit. That’s brilliant.”
“That’s a hundred grand an acre,” Lucas states.
Millions of dollars. That they’re giving to rebuild Weston.
“And if one of the hubs on the corridor ends up being here?” Hawke’s eyes gleam.
Meaning one of the railway stops?
Lucas grins. “Now you’re thinking like them.”