Protect Read online

  As she had spoken Jayce’s face went from grief, to rage, to honest confusion. She believed every change.

  “Okay. Thanks, Sheriff.”

  She nodded, then her eyes went to Jolene. The woman wasn’t wearing make-up for the second day in a row and Sharon found that to be the single most telling aspect of her appearance. She’d done her hair but somehow Jolene still looked destroyed. “Is she going to be okay?”

  Jayce followed her gaze then nodded. “Yeah.” He turned back to her. “She got something to help keep her calm. She’s still ... in shock.”

  “If anything else comes up I’ll let you know,” Sharon promised, voice low. “As much as I can without sticking my neck out too far, Jayce.”

  He was already nodding, taking her arm in his hand. “I know. I know, I understand the shitty spot we put you in here. Thank you, Sharon. I mean it.”

  She looked down at his hand, then pulled free. “It’s Markham,” she reminded him. “Everything we’ve done is for Markham. Isn’t it?”

  Jayce shoved his hands in his pockets, his own veil of calm falling back into place. “Yeah, it is.”

  “So don’t thank me. Just find them and end them.”

  “Plan on it.”

  She’d never been in a position where she was sanctioning and discussing a murder. If it hadn’t been a resident that might as well have been a born-and-bred member of the Markham Club, she might be bothered by this. But for Mickey, she’d ignore a few laws and ethical cornerstones.

  Jolene approached them then, and her hand went to Jayce’s elbow. He let her hold it, his eyes going to Sharon with a flare of worry.

  “I’m sorry for what I did yesterday,” Jolene said slowly, almost in a slurred way. Her eyes were fuzzy, her pupils pinned. “That wasn’t fair of me.”

  “It’s okay,” Sharon assured her, uncomfortable with apologies. “You had reasons.”

  Jolene snorted. “Yeah, I guess I did. Can I go home now?”

  Jayce was nodding just as a cell phone began ringing. Sharon knew it wasn’t hers, and Jayce pulled an ancient-looking flip phone, turning away from her. Jolene went with him, and Sharon took her chance to get the hell out of there.

  She went up the stairs to the entrance to the emergency administration desk of the hospital. As she did her phone went off and she slowed to answer it. “Downey.”

  “Sharon, are you able to get to the Sheriff’s office in about ten minutes?”

  It took her a couple seconds to place Agent Hogan’s voice. “Um, I suppose. What’s this about?”

  “Press conference.” Then he hung up on her.

  She paused, looking down at her phone. What the hell? A press conference at her office? Without her?

  With a few slammed doors and muttered curses she made her way back to the department, the sun long gone as she pulled into her spot. She shoved the door open with more force than it really needed and stopped, totally surprised to find two three-team news crews in her lobby as well as Dylan Prescott, the local news reporter that put out his own weekly newspaper in Markham. She checked her watch. Yep, it was nearly nine o’clock.

  The TV crews were both from Bakersfield. Markham did not have a TV station, nor did it usually garner the kind of attention that would bring two different stations out for a press conference. Then again, it wasn’t a country sheriff calling for the conference. It was a fancy-ass DEA agent, and when Hogan saw her, he gave her his widest smile and motioned her over.

  Too stunned to do anything else, she made her way through the small crowd and stood next to him. Without a word to her Hogan cleared his throat loudly, which brought the three microphones in attendance even closer. No sound system for this press conference.

  “Thank you all for attending at this late hour. I’m Agent Terrance Hogan, Drug Enforcement Agency. This is in response to the multiple requests we’ve had for a statement on the bloodshed experienced lately here in Markham. The most recent incident is being investigated by the Federal Bureau of Investigations, and we will be assisting them with that as well.

  “What I am prepared to discuss tonight is last month’s shoot out on the Lion Gate freeway here in Markham County. Nine people were killed, and we have officially connected them all to the Galiendo drug cartel, which have recently gone through an upheaval in Mexico from a rival cartel. A lieutenant in the Galiendo cartel was taken hostage and flown here for unknown reasons. It appears a faction still loyal to the Galiendos attempted to retrieve him and he was accidentally shot in the process. That is where our investigation stands. I will now take questions.”

  There was a clamor of voices and Sharon wondered why it was so damn important for her be here. Then she clued into the questions being asked.

  “What can you tell us about the twenty-seven homicides carried out here in Markham just three nights ago?”

  “The recent synchronized killings at various homes in Markham have people concerned. Is there any reason to be afraid?”

  Hogan held out a hand as he replied. “As I stated, the most recent incident is under investigation by the FBI. I am not here to comment on their case, only the one I’m working on.” His smile turned to Sharon, wide and way too fucking sincere. It reeked of practice. “I’d also like to thank the Markham County Sheriff’s Department for their cooperation with our investigation.”

  It was obvious very few were interested in the freeway slayings. And the Bakersfield reporters could give a shit about the county sheriff; no one asked her anything. The in-home homicides were fresher, still bloody. The assembled media asked a few half-hearted questions about suspects and public safety, then started packing up their gear. As that was happening, and after he’d spelled his last name for one of the reporters, he jerked his head toward Sharon’s office and headed in that direction.

  Still completely snowed on what her function was supposed to be, she followed and let him close the door behind her. Before she could say anything he was spitting out, “So what the fuck, Sharon?” with such venom she didn’t take her seat. She stayed standing at her desk.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Hogan’s hand was on his hip, the other one rubbing his chin hard enough to make it red. “You gotta back off the Grainger case. You gotta let me handle it.”

  She set her jaw. “No.”

  “You have to. You can’t handle this one—this department is not equipped for it.”

  “That case is a Markham case. Robbery gone wrong. That’s ours.”

  “Bullshit!” he roared, slamming a fist down on her desk. He leaned toward her on both hands. “Grainger’s van is reported stolen as it’s involved in a freeway shootout, then the owner of the place ends up dead? Don’t fucking bullshit me.”

  “I know our limits,” she said calmly, impressing herself. “The freeway, these assassinations this week, I handed those over because of obvious criminal organization connections that we can’t handle. This is a botched robbery, nothing more.”

  “Don’t fucking bullshit me.” One hand came up, pointing at her. She fucking hated when people did that. “You’re keeping this local so your little biker group can exact their revenge. It’s a stupid move and you’re gonna lose your job.”

  She swallowed. “That almost sounds like a threat.”

  “It’s a warning. You’re not so stupid you can’t see what’s happening around here.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Where is this coming from?”

  He flattened both hands on her cheap furniture again. “I’m telling you what’s best.”

  “You’re trying to get your way. What’s wrong? FBI stealing your thunder?” She pointed to her door. “That bullshit press conference? You didn’t tell them anything. Just trying to keep your investigation top of mind?”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “Don’t tell me how to do my job.” She leaned towards him now. “Remember whose jurisdiction this is. You wanna bring a US Marshall by to force me to hand over the Grainger killing, you go ahead. I can’t se
e them clearing their schedule for one dead mechanic is this fucking county of all places.”

  He straightened, rubbing his chin again. His eyes were clouded with barely contained fury, and she wondered at this completely different demeanor. She wondered, for one moment, if she was dealing with a mental disorder. That’s how out of character he seemed.

  Like clouds revealing the sun, it came to her. So fucking bright and obvious she wondered if she wasn’t getting dumber as time went on. “How long did you work undercover?”

  He scoffed at that and turned away, but she didn’t need his confirmation. It was plain as day.

  “MC? Or cartel?”

  “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

  Something was still bothering her, though. And it was him; his demeanor after they’d fucked at his hotel. She’d believed he was concerned, she really thought he’d wanted her to trust in him.

  “How is Markham playing into the bigger picture here? There’s something you’re not telling me. You may be full of shit but I also know things don’t happen, aren’t said, for no reason. So where do I fit in all this?”

  He turned back to her, still flushed with irritation, but he wasn’t spitting mad anymore. “Your biker boys are on the radar, big time. Michael Sachetti is branching out into new arenas, which is where I come into this. He’s toying with the idea of getting into the cartel game, but you know damn well he doesn’t get where he is by doing his own dirty work. He needs lackeys for that.”

  She took a breath. “The Red Rebels.”

  “Little bit of weed, few gun protection runs for their friends, who the fuck cares how the Rebels make their roll. They start getting into bed with Sachetti, that changes. Hell, it’s already changed. Look at this town. When’s the last time you had two Federal law branches living here at the same time?”

  Sharon swallowed now and sat down.

  “This town needs a Sheriff that’s going to know how this shit works to keep it contained. That’s why I’m pissed about this Grainger case.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not handing that case over unless you’ve got proof.”

  “I got a stolen van and it’s dead owner, Sharon!” There it was again, his shouting. Yes, he didn’t fit in with the suits. His entire being was rougher, more realistic. His suits were ill-fitting because he saw no point and had no patience to have one made. For him, they’d never be comfortable.

  “You were deep in an MC,” she guessed, his loud sigh confirming it. “How long?”

  “I am not having this conversation.”

  “I know you can’t tell me,” she said, standing again. “But I can tell you this. I am not handing over the death of Mickey Grainger so it can be lumped into this almighty investigation you’ve got going. He is not going to be just a tick in the casualty column while you go after your so-called important targets.”

  “You’re letting them handle this.”

  “My deputies? Yes, I am.” She purposefully misunderstood. “When I’m convinced that this is beyond what we can handle and civilians are in danger, I’ll be happy to ask for your advice. Terry.”

  At his first name he smirked, stalked to the door but paused with his hand on the knob. “Gotta say, you played me pretty well, too.”

  She shook her head. “I wasn’t playing anything. I wanted to get laid, just like you.”

  Without a reaction he was gone and she was staring at her open door, stomach flip-flopping. She hadn’t known the Rebels were in with a mob family, and now she was just finding out that mob family was sniffing around fucking drug cartels. They had to know, didn’t they?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  There were birds in the trees overhead, and Fritter wondered if it was inappropriate for a memorial service to be held on a day where the rest of the world was so happy that the sun was shining and the outside world wasn’t a huge steam bath.

  Around an urn on a low round table, Red Rebels were circled. Markham and Nomads, shoulder to shoulder, staring down at the last bit of Mickey Grainger that was left.

  When Richey had died and it had been kept under wraps; that had been the way of the club. If a man’s death being found out meant the club could feel the heat, it was fully expected that your club would gather a brother’s shit, clear out his dorm, and burn him in his grave in the desert. They all accepted and agreed to it. Attachments like women and family made that harder to do, but so far only bachelors had met their end violently and quietly.

  In this case, the cops had become involved. They’d found a brother already dead so papers had to be signed and filed and then the remains had to officially be dealt with. So Mickey had been cremated the day before, forty-eight hours after the coroner released him. But what they did with his ashes was up to them.

  It was illegal to scatter ashes, not a lot of people realized that. But for the Red Rebels this bit of illegal activity was laughable and they didn’t give a shit.

  Jolene had picked this spot. No one really knew why, and they didn’t press. At the moment she was standing between Trinny and Gertie, holding a hand of each woman. She was put together today; a fifties’ style black dress that hugged her body, sleeveless in what he supposed was a halter top. Her sleeves of brightly colored ink were on full display, and her make-up was in place. Her shoes were shiny red pumps. For all the world she looked like Jolene but from across their group he could tell she was hollow.

  Her eyes weren’t really registering what was going on around her. She hadn’t cried or shown a lick of recognition to anyone. Trinny’s arrival had gotten a half-smile before she collapsed into tears again. Watching her, Fritter wondered if the way Richey went wasn’t better. Drawing it all out like this was fucking awful for everyone left behind.

  Jayce was talking about Mickey, the kind of man he was, and he was spot-on the whole way but Fritter was only half-listening. When he gave the floor, so to speak, to Tank, that surprised Fritter. The big guy hated talking in groups since he’d been injured and his speech impeded. But for a special occasion, apparently, he’d suck it up.

  “The first time we handed Mickey his Secretary patch I’d told him to get me a coffee and slapped him on the ass,” Tank rumbled, fidgeting a little bit as some of the words came out with more effort than others. Next to him, Rose stepped closer to his back and wrapped her arms around one of his, just as the group chuckled at the story. Fritter saw how she squeezed him before resting her head on his shoulder. Tension eased out of the VP’s body and the words came just fine. “He punched me in the mouth. Told me he was married and I should keep my hands to myself. He was one of the funniest guys I ever knew. I also saw him be fearless, and I saw the one thing he worried about more than anything; himself, the club, his bike. Jolene.”

  At her name they all looked at her, but she was just staring. At Tank at least, so she knew who was talking. But she still just stared.

  “One soft spot that guy had was you. Lotta clubs say the club before anything else, and when I got here we might have been like that. When Jayce took the head of the table I wasn’t sure if that would end or not, and I didn’t have anything else in my life at that time so I wasn’t worried about it. When Mickey prospected in, already married, I wasn’t sure I liked that. Someone counting on him, ready to be second-best. But I watched him walk that line, and I knew he had more love to give than just club or wife. He had plenty, and everyone got their share. And he loved you, darlin’. I never knew such love until the last while. I dare say you two brought that into this club because I know Jayce liked seeing it, too.”

  The Prez nodded, eyes going to Trinny. Hers were already on him, growing wet.

  “I’ve known you both a long time. And this hurts, fuck this really hurts.” Tank’s voice broke and Rose tightened her hold on his arm. His head tilted her way slightly. That made Fritter’s eyes prickle a little; Tank needed her close just to have the strength to talk. “You two taught us all how to love and make this a real family. We are all indebted to you, Jolene. W
e love you honey, not nearly as much as Mickey did. I know that’s a piss-poor substitute, but we’re here for you.”

  Trinny slid her arm around Jolene’s shoulders, but the woman just kept staring at Tank. When it was obvious he was done talking she went back to studying the grass under her feet.

  A few more people threw out a few words of admiration and respect for Mickey, then it was time to scatter his ashes. But first shot glasses were handed out, little plastic things, and Trinny went from mourner to mourner pouring out a share of Jack. There were no “traditions” in the club anymore, not really, but back in Jayce’s dad’s day the widow performed this duty. However, Jolene was officially checked out of the proceedings.

  “To Mickey,” Jayce declared, glass up. Everyone followed suit and echoed out their toast, downed the bourbon and Trinny lifted the lid on the urn. Jayce dipped his shot glass inside, pulled out a share of Mickey and threw it straight into the air. They all did the same, a few took a second share before the urn was empty.

  Fritter was staring at his ash-coated glass, wondering at the bits of his friend stuck in the wet left behind by the JD. It seemed impossible.

  The Jack made another round to rinse everyone’s cup before being poured out onto the earth below their boots. That was a last drink strictly for Mickey. Then one more shot for them.

  It tasted weird. He didn’t dwell on it, just accepted that he’d likely drank down a bit of Mickey but who the fuck cared. He was wearing a little bit of the guy on his leather, too, once everyone got done throwing ash around.

  The wake was next. The old ladies all headed for the black limo that Rose had booked for them. Red Rebels mounted their bikes to escort the car back to the clubhouse. As he pulled his lid on, a figure caught this eye. A woman hanging back, like she’d been there for the funeral but hadn’t really participated.