Chapter 10
CHAPTER
TEN
LoneStar
Here we are again, in church. For some reason I can’t decipher, I’m antsy as hell.
I can’t stop fidgeting and my feet are bouncing.
I should be out scouring the streets for Jerome or scaring the piss out of Patrick, but church is sacred and there’s no excuse for missing it unless someone is dying or has recently passed.
Another exception would be if you’re laid up in the hospital.
Even then, we’ll find a way to hook you in via the teleprompter.
“What’s the word on the street?” Rip asks.
“A package was delivered to Patrick through a courier last night,” Indiana reports.
“How do we know it was for him and not his mother?” Slayer inquires.
“Because after the councilwoman answered the door and received the parcel, Patrick was standing behind her, anxiously dancing on the balls of his feet. As she swung it shut, we saw her hand it to him,” Rebel, our tail gunner and Indiana’s appointed partner, answers.
“Do y’all think this means Jerome’s still in town?” I probe. “He has proven to be a bit of a control freak, wanting to keep all of his minions close by so he can watch over them.”
“We never thought he strayed far from town, if he ever left in the first place,” Riptide utters, causing Icer to snarl. “He’s just not reacting to our antagonizing.”
“He’s letting his men do his dirty work for him,” Renegade supplies. “I can’t seem to wrap my head around why he’s hiding. He gets off on being neck deep in the chaos he creates.”
“He’s laying low for a reason, we just need to figure out why that is,” Riptide muses.
“It’s because he has a flair for the dramatics,” I conclude. “He’s not going to make his appearance until he can make it grand.”
“He is a bit of a showboater,” Rebel acknowledges.
“Everything he does is with calculated precision,” Slayer points out. “He’s an asshole, but he’s not a dumb one.”
“After what happened to his dad, he’s biding his time, and trying to make us sweat while planning the ultimate payback,” Indiana remarks.
“But there’s no proof we were behind that,” Renegade adds.
“That may be so, but he knows we were behind it even without the evidence showing we were,” Riptide states. “It may have been officially ruled as a suicide, but those close to him are aware he was too egotistical to take his own life.”
“The sheriff was pretty damn self-absorbed,” I remark, snorting. “Even so, we covered all of our tracks and no forensic evidence was left behind that’ll lead them to our doorstep.”
“But that won’t stop Jerome from coming up with his own conclusions,” Slayer conveys.
“We need to pry him out of his hidey hole,” Riptide insists.
“That’s what we’ve been trying to do, Rip,” I remind him. “So far, nothing’s working. Whoever is hiding him, is doing a damn good job of keeping his location a secret.”
“We need to start taking his men out,” Icer grunts.
“I concur,” Shade endorses. “We’ve been on the defense chasing a ghost, it’s high time we go on the offense.”
“That could bring the law down on us,” Slayer snaps, looking none too pleased by that suggestion. “We have women and children depending on us to be here.”
Leaning forward in my seat, I bring something up that’s been plaguing me. “What I want to know is how he’s managed to stay one step in front of us. He knows what we’re going to do before we make our play.”
“What are you saying, LoneStar?” Riptide asks through a clenched jaw.
“You know what I’m saying, Rip,” I say, lowering my voice. “I can’t be the only one thinking this.”
“He’s right. It’s crossed my mind a time or two as well,” Indiana concedes.
“You think we have a rat in our midst?” Riptide asks, turning green at the thought.
“I trust every man in this room! The suggestion that someone is betraying us is a punishable offense, LoneStar. Your life could be forfeited with an unverified accusation like that. You better have some damn solid proof of that before bringing it to the table.”
“I don’t think it’s anybody in this room, pres,” I solemnly swear, meaning every word of it. “But somebody is yapping their gums. I just don’t know who.”
“Jesus fuck, we do not need this on top of everything,” Riptide mumbles.
“We may not need it but that doesn’t mean it’s not happening,” Renegade points out.
“You too?” Slayer asks him.
Renegade may not be thrilled about admitting it, but eventually, he does. “Yeah. Me too.”
Slayer slaps his hands down on the table, a lethal look blanketing his face. “Then we need to find out who this motherfucker is and take him out.”
“Not without proof we won’t,” Riptide announces. “Just because we have suspicions doesn’t mean we damn someone to an eternal afterlife. There may be another way they know what we’re doing without being told.” Riptide stands up and walks over to our whiteboard, writing out, Sweep for bugs.
What he’s not thinking, and what I refuse to voice aloud, is if we do have bugs in-house, someone had to plant them.
Once the idea of there being listening devices planted in church resonated, we all snapped out mouths shut and refused to talk.
Even without it being validated, we were skeptical of continuing our meeting where we’d usually wrap things up by talking about our finances and other club related topics.
Even making someone aware of what we have in the bank or our petty cash didn’t sit right with us.
Rip quickly dismissed us and like roaches, we all scattered and hauled ass from the room.
None of us even speak in the common area as we spread out, taking seats at the bar and booths. It’s an uncomfortable silence as we visually scan for the potential threat. “I don’t like not feeling free to talk in my own damn house,” Riptide spits out, emptying his beer in one continual swallow.
I hum with agreement because even I feel the tension of keeping my lips sealed shut.
I swivel around on my stool with my back planted to the bar so I can watch my brothers.
None of them are talking shit like they usually would.
They all look somber. Forlorn. Not something I’m used to seeing from any of them.
As I go to point that out to Rip, the door to the clubhouse swings open and Jersey comes rushing in.
Her lack of color has me jumping up and walking in her direction, Slayer at my back.
“Jersey, you okay?” I inquire, scanning her over, looking for injuries.
“I don’t know,” she answers, waving her hands through the air.
“If you can’t tell us what’s wrong, we won’t know how to help you,” Slayer states.
“It’s Britton,” she whispers to the point that I have to lean down to hear what she says.
“What about Britton?” I growl out, my heart heavily beating in my chest. “Did something happen to her, Jersey?”
“I don’t know,” she says, repeating her earlier phrase. “I don’t even know if I should be here telling you anything.”
“Why don’t you let us be the judge of that. If it’s something that shouldn’t be a big deal, we’ll act like you didn’t say anything and wave it off. But if it’s bad, Jersey, we can’t step in and help if you don’t share what’s going on,” I impart.
“You’re right, I think. But if you’re not, I’m betraying my best friend,” she whines. “I don’t know what the right thing is!”
“How about we head outside, get some fresh air, and you tell us what you know,” Slayer suggests. We glance at each other out the side of our eyes, both thinking the same thing. If there are prying ears, we don’t want them to hear what is being said.
“That’s a fantastic idea. We could all use some fresh air,” I reiterate, hoping she won’t ask any questions about why we’re being pushy about heading outdoors.
“Sure,” she says, giving us a distrustful look as we usher her along the path we want her to take.
We’re being domineering and bossy with the way we’re shuffling her out the doors. But if Britton is in true trouble, and we have spying equipment throughout the clubhouse, we need to tread with caution. Especially when it comes to a woman that may be carrying my kid.
We lead her over to where all the chairs are set up and help her down into one of the folding ones. “Talk to us, Jersey,” I implore. Not sure why, but what she has to say feels ominous, as if we don’t act now, things are going to turn out bad—really fucking bad.
She shoots back up out of the chair and begins pacing, biting her cuticle around her thumbnail. “Some moron has been prank calling Britton. At least, that’s what she initially thought before the guy issued a threat.”
“What sort of threat?” I ask, my voice turning thunderous.
“See you soon. That’s what she told me the distorted voice told her,” Jersey admits.
“Distorted how?” Slayer asks. “Mechanical? A voice over?”
“She said it was breathy. Panting. Deep. Whoever it is, was trying to alter their voice so she wouldn’t recognize it,” she states.
“So it’s somebody she knows,” I determine.
“But that doesn’t answer why you’re upset, Jersey. Something else has happened, am I right?” Slayer probes.
“She hasn’t answered her phone in two days. That’s not like her,” she acknowledges. “She always answers when I call. If she can’t talk, she lets me know that either ahead of time, or answers it long enough to tell me that.”
“Do you know where she is, Jersey?” I inquire, knowing time is of the essence.
“No, but maybe y’all could follow her credit card’s trail?” she asks.
“Did she use her credit card where she is? Has she shared any of that with you, Jersey?”
“No, LoneStar, she hasn’t,” she answers, growing paler by the minute.
“I’ll go find Booker, pull him aside and tell him what’s going on. I’ll get him to track her whereabouts,” Slayer tells me as he leaves and starts to walk back toward the clubhouse.
“I shouldn’t have given her the privacy she wanted and should have already had Booker locating her,” I mumble, scolding myself.
“I’m scared, LoneStar,” Jersey confesses.
“Me, too, Jersey. Me too.”