Chapter Eight
Eli
The office reeked of cigar smoke and sweat. He had a horrible, fucking headache that rage and panic had started building the minute Rick Earle called him last night.
He’d painstakingly set up that evening at the lake house for Earle, a higher-up in the organization that he needed to keep happy.
When he signed up to be part of their operations, he hadn’t realized how often some of the Sinister Skin lieutenants would be coming around to “check on things.” And on one such evening, the night he met Earle to begin with, he took him over to Ned’s and the man’s eye fell on Dylan, his niece. Of course it had.
That was another sore subject all in itself.
He hadn’t wanted Dylan working at Ned’s.
Eli had explained it wasn’t the kind of place for her, not with the deals being made in the back and the kinds of men sliding into booths like they owned the damn place.
But she was stubborn, just like her mother had been, and refused to take no for an answer.
Dylan said she needed the money, and that she could handle herself.
Eli knew he should have shut it down right then.
He should’ve found some strings to pull to make sure she didn’t get the damn job.
Then he could have kept her at arm’s length like he’d originally intended.
But she’d worn him down, and somewhere along the line, he started to believe maybe having her close was better.
It would be easier to keep an eye on her at Ned’s, keep her out of trouble.
It would also be easier to make sure she didn’t start digging into things she didn’t understand and didn’t need to be a part of.
The choice blew up in his fucking face. Eli told himself at the time when he made the arrangement that it was just business. Handing Dylan over to Earle wasn’t personal, it was leverage. A show of loyalty to the network, and solid proof that Eli Crizer was still useful to them and dependable.
But deep down, he knew the truth. It had been about control.
Dylan’s involvement in his world wasn’t the best look for him. She’d come back to Oak Grove and turned a blind eye to how the town had changed. She’d insisted on working at the bar against his advice. She’d run her mouth about independence, like her blood wasn’t soaked in Cottonmouth legacy.
Worst of all, she reminded him of her mother.
She’d been a firebrand too. She’d been defiant and independent, always questioning club business, and pushing boundaries.
She never quite bent the way women in their world were supposed to.
She’d called him out, challenged his leadership.
And when she got pregnant with Dylan, she’d walked away from the club entirely. From him. And she never came back.
He saw that same rebellious look in Dylan’s eyes now.
The quiet judgment, the stubborn pride, and worst of all, her refusal to fall in line and follow orders.
It was like looking at a ghost. Maybe that made it easier to hand her over to Earle.
Dylan wasn’t just another mouthy girl trying to slip out from under his thumb, she was a reminder that the blood in his family had always rebelled.
Jared had been the same way. His only son had thought he knew better.
After taking the name Babyface in their MC, he’d thought he could game the system, cut corners, and make deals without Eli’s approval.
When he went too far and crossed a line that couldn’t be uncrossed, Eli did what had to be done, family or not.
Besides, putting a bullet in his son’s brain put the fear of God into the rest of the Cottonmouths.
Operations in his chapter had been smooth as glass until recently.
Dylan was walking the same path right now. Blood didn’t make them loyal. If anything, it made the betrayal so much fucking worse.
Eli Crizer didn’t tolerate betrayal. Not from outsiders, but especially not from his own fucking blood.
When the offer came down, one night with Dylan in exchange for a seat at the table, he took it.
Not because the approval he’d garner was worth that much to him.
It was because she wasn’t. Not anymore. She’d made her choice.
Now that choice had made him a liability. Dylan hadn’t just walked away, she’d run. And the only thing he knew for certain right now was that she hadn’t done it alone.
They’d torn through her apartment the same night she vanished and found nothing. No notes or burner phones. Hell, there was nothing to indicate she even packed a bag. Just the scent of her cheap perfume and the ghost of a girl who used to believe in him.
Ned’s had been scrubbed too. He’d had his men go over every inch -- the freezer, staff room, and storage.
His niece left no trail or clues behind.
Dylan had vanished like smoke, and that wasn’t an accident.
Someone had fucking helped her, and that someone was strategic and fast. Eli was now the one scrambling to catch up.
Dylan was the fucking reason he was here now.
His niece wasn’t just a threat to the operation; she was a stain on his name.
She’d betrayed him. He was choking on the rage that threatened to consume him.
Rising from his seat in the corner of the room, he started pacing like a caged animal.
The muscles in his neck were tight, his fingers itching for another smoke, but he didn’t light one yet.
Across the room, Peggy slumped in the metal chair they’d tied her to. Her lip was split, and one eye was already swelling shut. Trucker, one of his enforcers, stood next to her, rolling his shoulders like he was ready for round two.
“She’s not talking,” Trucker muttered.
“She will,” Eli said coldly.
Peggy lifted her head, shakily. Fat tears rolled down the older woman’s face. “I swear I don’t know who helped her…”
“Bullshit,” Eli snapped, his voice low and dangerous. “You were the one always covering for her. Running drinks for her. Watching out for her.”
“She’s my friend,” Peggy muttered.
“She’s a fucking liability,” Eli growled. “And someone helped her run. Someone helped her make me look weak. So, unless you want Trucker here to do permanent damage…”
“I don’t know his name!” she shouted, wincing as Trucker stepped forward again, holding a pair of pliers. “I don’t… I just heard her call him Jason. He’s a delivery driver. He works at that medical place -- INeeda.”
The room went silent. Eli paused, turned back to her. “Now we’re getting somewhere. What’s his fucking name?”
“Jason,” Peggy cried as Trucker waved the pliers in her face.
“Last name?”
“I don’t know,” she said, her desperate gaze fixed on those pliers. “I never got a last name. I swear!”
“How do you know he works at the warehouse?” Eli wanted to know.
“He made deliveries to Ned’s all the time,” she said. “He always drives that white cargo van. I never saw him drive anything else.”
“So, we need to talk to Freddie,” Eli said more to Trucker than to Peggy. “See who Jason is.”
Peggy exhaled in relief, thinking maybe her ordeal was over. But it wasn’t.
“Describe him,” Eli said, gaze snapping back to her. “Now.”
Peggy licked her split lip. “Tall… six-four, maybe? Dark hair, dark eyes. Beard. Wore a cap sometimes. He’s real quiet. He doesn’t talk a lot.”
Eli stared her down. “And how’d he find the lake house?” he asked, voice sharpening.
“I don’t know.”
He took a step closer. “How’d he find it? I took Dylan’s phone so he couldn’t have tracked her by GPS.”
“I said I don’t know!” Peggy cried, shrinking back.
Eli grabbed her face, his fingers digging into her cheeks. Trucker stepped forward, the pliers in his hand gleaming in the light.
“Last chance,” Eli hissed. “How did he know where she was?”
“I told him she left in a black sedan. I -- I didn’t know what was happening. I thought it was just a private party she was working. She looked scared, and I got a picture of the license plate, okay? I showed it to him.”
Eli stilled. A license plate wouldn’t lead someone to a lake house like that.
Not without tracking experience or working knowledge of some things he shouldn’t have known.
His stomach turned. Something was deeply fucking off.
Peggy’s description of the man circled in his mind like a ghost. The physical appearance she gave sounded familiar.
She’d described him as tall and quiet. The only other thing Eli knew about this mystery boyfriend of Dylan’s was that he’d found her fast, without an address.
Then he’d proceeded to take down Earle and his armed guards and leave with Dylan.
Only a certain type of man could pull something like that off, and he matched her description.
Eli had known a man like that once.
Tank was supposed to be dead. They’d left him swinging from that tree, dead as a hammer. Eli had made sure of it. But the next day, uneasy and itching with something he couldn’t shake, Eli went back to the spot alone, just to be sure.
The body was gone. The rope lay in the dirt, bloodied and frayed next to the crate, but the chains were missing. No Tank. No sign of animals dragging off the remains. Just empty woods and silence.
For weeks, Eli waited. For cops to ask questions. For a body to turn up. For someone to say something. But no word ever came, making the story they made up about him going nomad plausible.
Maybe Tank had died out there and someone stumbled across the body first -- some hunter, maybe, or a local kid sneaking through the woods. And maybe they didn’t want to get dragged into a police investigation, didn’t want to answer questions or explain what they saw.
That’s what he’d told himself on a regular basis. No way Tank survived all that. Not the beating and the hanging.
But the longer the silence stretched, the more that seed of doubt in Eli’s gut sank roots. What if he hadn’t died? What if someone had helped him? What if Tank was still out there, hiding and planning?