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Apparently it was so obvious Margreat saw it, too. “All right Adeel, we’ll let the Sheriff get back to work. Can you tell her goodbye?”

  “Goodbye, Sheriff,” he said so softly it was nearly missed.

  “Goodbye Adeel. Anytime, you come visit.”

  He nodded then followed closely at Margreat’s side as she led him from the room. He went out of his way to avoid Brayden, despite her son’s honest smile at him. Then her son stepped into her office and shut the door.

  “What’s going on?”

  Brayden swallowed and pulled out his phone. “Mom, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. We’ve got a major issue.”

  She frowned as he started stabbing at the screen. “So you’re sending a text?”

  “No, Mom. I’ve got to show you something.” He finished just as he was turning his phone to her, and there was a video playing on the screen.

  Honestly, it took about five seconds for her to really see what he was showing her. It was a couple making out, a Red Rebels kutte clear and visible on screen, but when the man’s head moved to the side and she saw her own face, eyes closed, she actually gasped and covered her mouth.

  “It keeps going, Mom.”

  Shaking her head, she knew very damn well what came after this. Watching Fritter spin her around and walk her to the table she felt the ground tilt, the world narrow to one fine point playing out on a smartphone screen, and her body temperature dropped sixty degrees. It didn’t fucking stop, either. She watched as she was bent over and fucked across the floor, riding her damn kitchen table. At least she couldn’t hear it, but that probably wouldn’t matter.

  “Turn it off,” she mumbled, and he brought the phone around again, jabbing at the screen. Everything swam before her eyes, and her knees turned to jelly. She perched on the edge of her desk, fighting back the urge to retch.

  “Fucking Justin fucking Turnbull put it on the campaign page on Facebook, that’s how I found it. Before I got to it there were all these fucking disgusting messages. As far as I can tell it was only seen by 100 people, but half of them had something rude to say.”

  “Like what?”

  He swallowed again and shoved his phone in his back pocket. He was fighting back on fury, like her, but barely. “Nothing. Just rude. And kinda scary.”

  She swallowed a stomach heave. “Like. What?”

  The way she said it left him no choices. “Talking about getting a group together to show up to each take a turn tonight. One put your address on there.”

  “That’s public knowledge, honey.”

  “I know. But it still pissed me off that he said ‘Gang rape at 7,’ then put your house number out there for everyone to see.”

  Now she just felt pale. “They said that?”

  “I deleted it, I deleted everything. But first I screen captured every comment with their fucking names to use against them. Then I had to delete my own Facebook account because people were saying that shit on my own damn Timeline.”

  Her hand went to her chest. She might actually be sick. “I am so sorry, baby.”

  “Don’t fucking apologize, Mom. It’s these fucking animals who should be apologizing to you. I haven’t even tried to look and see where else this video has been posted.”

  It was on the internet. Her getting fucked by a Red Rebel, in his kutte to make sure there could be no doubt, on the internet. For all to see, condemn, and revel in.

  She was done for.

  In a move so fast she couldn’t remember making it she was bent over the garbage can, evacuating her mostly digested breakfast into the black liner.

  “Jesus, Mom!”

  “It’s okay,” she groaned, waving him off. That actually did feel a bit better. “I’m ... fuck. I’m not okay. I’m finished.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  She laughed, setting the can down and circling back behind her desk to grab a Kleenex. “No, I am. Trust me. There are many things a sheriff can and can’t do if she happens to be female. Sex out of wedlock is one in most small towns, and with an outlaw, most certainly not.” Sinking into her chair she lamented the loss of her office. She’d finally gotten it arranged the way she wanted it. Not an easy feat given the fifty-year-old furniture.

  “Mom, don’t give up.”

  “I won’t be laughed at, carrying on like nothing happened.” Even in here, this small room, she could sense the shit storm heading her way. “I have to drop out of the election.”

  “But then they get what they want, and they get it with that bullshit!”

  With a small, sad smile she nodded at her son. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure everyone knows where the video came from. It could only be Archie Turnbull behind all this. He likely didn’t get the video, but it was his idea. I know it.”

  “You think he had you followed? Waiting for dirt to smear you with?” Brayden kicked a chair out to sit in, and the noise it made was loud and angry.

  “Yes I do,” she replied wearily, rubbing her temple. Great, here came the headache. She always got headaches right after throwing up.

  “There’s gotta be a way to charge him.”

  “Yeah, we can. Invasion of privacy, trespassing. We might win. But it won’t keep me in this office, Bray.” She leaned forward. “What do we do now? Fuck, I’m lost for ideas.”

  “Well, you just found out about this, Mom. Hardly enough time to come up with a plan.” He stared at the front of her desk, jaw set and to the side. Pissed off mode. That’s exactly what she did when she was mad.

  “I think it might be a good idea to get out of town,” she mused, thinking out loud, mostly to herself.

  “Grandma and Grandpa’s?”

  She nodded. “Although, explaining all this to them might be the worst experience of my life.”

  “Couldn’t be worse than how I found out, Mom.”

  “I’ve apologized for that a lot.”

  “I know.” Bless his heart, he tried to smile for her. “We can go see Grandma and Grandpa, but I don’t think we should stay at their house. That’d be too much. I agree with out of town, but keep them as the home base. We go to a hotel or something.”

  She nodded. “Good idea.” Then she pushed her chair back, and as she stood the room spun again but she nearly went over.

  “Mom!” She heard Brayden shout it from far away, and the world was glowing golden for a minute before she got it together.

  Shaking her head she noted that her son was next to her, holding her arm. “Sorry, Bray. Throwing up doesn’t agree with me.”

  “You sure you don’t want to sit again?”

  She shook her head, then took a deep, steadying breath. “I gotta get rid of that garbage bag. And I have to explain to Troy when I’m dropping out of the Sheriff’s race. Then I have to go home and start packing. Can you go online and book a place? You know where the credit card is.”

  He was nodding, concern making his forehead crinkle up. “Yeah, I can do that. I’ll start packing, too.”

  “You mean you’ve unpacked?” she teased, and then she got a full smile.

  “Yeah yeah, just ‘cause you got sick doesn’t mean you get to nag.”

  “It does, actually. But go ahead, get out of here. I’ll try to avoid people until I get home.”

  After a pause for thinking Brayden dropped his long, lanky arms around her shoulders and pulled her in for a big hug. “We’ll be okay, Mom.”

  She rubbed his back but already she was contemplating having to sell her house, move out of Markham County, change her name, and the lovely logistics all that would entail.

  “Okay, go,” she instructed, stepping out of his comfort. “I’ve got shit to do, and I don’t want to be here longer than I have to be.”

  He nodded, then turned and left her in her empty office, blinking at the walls and wondering what the fuck to do next.

  Troy knew how to finish up everything she was leaving half done. She meant what she’d told him; he was the best fucking deputy she had. She’d rather have him in charge than
anyone else.

  Her face was likely red—it felt as hot as a torch—as she told him what had happened. They didn’t get along, but his indignation at her news made her feel a little better. He was pissed, vowed to look into it, and she smiled her thanks right before dropping the whole bomb that meant she was resigning.

  “You can’t. Don’t do that.”

  She gave him a look. “Think about what you’re saying. You want me continue to make appearances, shake hands and meet people when everyone’s at least heard about—if not seen—this video? No. Not going to do it.”

  “Sharon—”

  “I can’t. I’m humiliated beyond belief and I’ve only talked to two people about it—you and my son. I need to not do this. I’ll take leave immediately, come back to tender my resignation. He won. He fought really fucking dirty but he won.”

  Troy’s jaw got that rock-hard tension to it as well. “This is such bullshit.”

  “You’ll notice I’m not denying this relationship, Troy. This video I mentioned? This happened. I am that person. It’s all over the place. Everyone knows how the sheriff got her rocks off. It won’t matter at all for Fritter—the club likely knows. They’re probably high-fiving him.” Jesus, she felt so stupid. And the worst part is, the part that made her want to slam her head down on her desk, was that she liked the guy. She had started to really let him in. Why? There was no conceivable way that could work out for either of them.

  She deserved this.

  “Sharon, it doesn’t matter. This is an invasion of privacy—”

  “And I still won’t keep my job. You’re right. I did nothing wrong. I’m an adult, in a consenting relationship. But it doesn’t fucking matter, does it?”

  That made him drop it. Of course he knew she was right.

  “I’m going home. My phone will be unplugged. I’m heading out of town. If you need me, text me. I’m putting the cell on silent and taking off with Bray. Anything comes up you think I need to know, you pass it along that way. I’ll check for texts regularly.”

  Troy nodded, still pissed. “Okay. I understand that.” He turned to leave, then spun at the door to look at her again. “What the fuck is that smell?”

  “Sorry. I threw up. I’ll get rid of the bag.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get Marge to handle it.”

  “No, she doesn’t need to do that. I’ll clean up after myself. Believe me, I love Marge too much for that.”

  “If you’re sure—”

  “I’m sure. Let me tidy this shit up then I’m gone.”

  With another nod he turned sharply on his heel and left, then she distracted herself by doing what she said she would, emptying the trash in a bin out back and tidying all the files on her desk. Then, without a word or look to anyone else she darted for her car and sped all the way home.

  The tight, painful feeling in her chest didn’t let up when she to the one place that was usually welcoming enough to relax her. Maybe that tension would be gone once she was out of Markham town limits.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The sun wasn’t as ruthless as it had been in the past, and a strong wind threatened to toss even a few hundred pounds of motorcycle off the highway on the road to Markham. It felt good though, and it made Fritter calm down a little bit before they arrived at the address Spaz provided. Sure enough there were strings of police tape marking off a street, and as they parked in formation they drew plenty of stares from locals and law enforcement alike.

  “Shit, it’s a stand-off?” Jayce muttered, removing his helmet. “I thought they’d been taken in.”

  Sure enough, there were barricades blocking the street on both sides of a small, two-level motel that squatted close to the sidewalk. Black sedans and SUVs were parked out front with people in formal office attire walking around in bullet proof vests. Those vests all had white lettering that read FBI.

  “What do we do?” Tank asked. None of them dismounted, they just sat comfortably watching the show like the civvies gathered at the wooden sawhorses on the road.

  “Don’t know.” Jayce cast his eyes both ways up the street.

  “Maybe they’ll just get shot.”

  “That would suck. I’d rather have a conversation with them first,” Tiny said, giving a cold, maniacal grin. “See what we can find out.”

  “Ain’t no way that’s happening now.” Fritter jerked his head at the suits. “Look at them. The Feds know about the Mazaris. They take ‘em alive and they’re protected real quiet-like. They’re not coming out upright.”

  “I hate to agree.” Jayce squinted at the line-ups of people. “Just want to make sure.”

  “Wouldn’t it be nuts if they faked their fucking deaths like they did for that DEA nark, Bark?” Spaz started tittering. “Bark the Nark.”

  “Shut the fuck up.” Tiny and Fritter said it in perfect unison, Tank just chuckled.

  “If it stays boring we’ll—”

  Jayce didn’t get to finish because it got very not boring really fast. There was the popping sound of gunfire, and a trained ear knew it was inside a building somewhere close. All the FBI agents had already been in positions of cover, and there were words being shouted but nothing discernable. The spectator gallery dropped to the ground and a few shrieks could be heard. The Rebels stayed on their bikes, growing quiet.

  One word was understood, and it was repeated about ten times. “Clear!” Then two paramedics were rushing forward while another readied a gurney and dragged it out of the ambulance.

  “Well shit,” Tank drawled, pulling his helmet back on.

  “Fuck,” Jayce added, doing the same. “All right. Let’s head home, guys. I think we have a stop to make in Markham?”

  “Where?” Fritter asked, tightening his chin strap.

  “The offices of the Markham Marker,” Jayce answered lightly, firing up his Dyna.

  Fritter felt a smile, but didn’t let it get too big. He might actually not lose his patch here, and that was enough to keep him buzzing as they fell into formation and hit the pavement back to Markham.

  -oOo-

  The Markham Marker was in the middle of a sad-looking strip mall, which was a great indicator of how legitimate it was as a source of news. Between an adult video store and a twenty-four hour, delivery only pizza parlor.

  The bell jingled over the door, and the reception desk was abandoned when they strolled inside. The blinds were drawn over the front windows, rendering the lobby dim with a grayish light slipping in around the edges. No other lights on.

  “What the hell?” Tank mumbled as he slipped off his shades. Fritter did the same.

  There was a voice trailing out of an office behind reception, the door standing open next to the decal on the wall that read Markham Marker in stately lettering. The lights in that room were on, and there was the sound of a phone being hung up before the door filled with the portly shadow of Dylan Prescott as he stumbled out, a napkin tucked into the neck of his golf shirt.

  “Sorry about that, the receptionist is sick today. I’m here alone—” he stupidly shared too much, then realized who was standing in his lobby. “Shit,” he said before turning and darting back into his office, slamming his door shut.

  Fritter was already moving. Before the latch could catch on the lock he shoved his way in, bouncing Prescott in the process. The chubby fuck bounced off the wall behind the door then stumbled sideways, scrambling on hands and knees away from Fritter.

  “You probably know why we’re here?” Fritter asked, reaching for the neck of the bastard’s shirt and pulling him to his feet. A quick look at the desk in the room proved Prescott had been enjoying a late lunch. Fritter yanked the napkin out of Prescott’s collar and tossed it down.

  “Listen, it’s too late. It’s gone to print—”

  “Yeah, I know. Nothing to be done to take it back. Which is gonna suck for you.”

  Prescott’s dishwater-grey eyes widened. “What?”

  “Nothing you can do to stop me hurting you. So
I ain’t here for torture. I’m just here to hurt you.”

  “He could still be some use,” Jayce said, stepping inside the office with Tank, Spaz, and Tiny. Clearly Buck was going to be look out.

  Prescott swallowed so hard Fritter heard it.

  “After all,” his Prez went on, thoughtful. “We can guess who is behind all this bullshit. But there’s a big why I don’t quite get. For example, I know Sheriff Downey was very accommodating with this joke of a newspaper. That’s the only reason any of your shitty stories ever got printed anywhere other than here, asshole.”

  “I-I’m a member of the press. I have a duty to report the news.” Prescott stammered, eyes on Jayce now.

  “You’re a fucking joke. Half the paper is bake sales and community fluff pieces. Downey gave you the only meat you had. If you think Turnbull will still be your buddy after this you’re out of your mind.”

  Fritter suddenly saw it, and he gave the newspaper man a light slap that still made him squeal. Probably from surprise. “How much does Turnbull spend in advertising in this pathetic rag?”

  “You’re kidding,” Tank boomed. “You sold out the Sheriff for an advertiser?”

  “My biggest account,” Prescott spat back. “I lose that and the paper’s done. I employ four full-time people and two part-timers.”

  “Was it his idea?” Fritter asked, getting right in the man’s grill. “He tell you exactly what to do? Just follow her and wait for something good to happen?”

  “Maybe he was already following you, Fritter. After all, he only got a shot flashing your shit.” Tiny was chuckling, making himself at home in an ancient chair in front of Prescott’s desk. Spaz was already sitting down and clicking away at the keyboard.

  “Yeah, thanks for that by the way. It was a good angle. My dick looked pretty good, actually.”

  “I had no choice,” Prescott whispered.

  “So was it you lurking around her house, peeping in her windows? Like a fucking pervert?” Fritter was close enough his chest was pushing into Prescott’s man-boobs. “Or do we have to visit someone else, too?”