Whoosh had a vested interest in monitoring Carl Wingren. He also had street connections in Harrisburg. Which meant that when his buddy witnessed Carl getting dropped off by a police cruiser with quote, “some frumpy chick” in tow, he knew within hours, maybe even minutes. I found out almost as soon as I walked in the door of our clubhouse because, like Jackson unfortunately pointed out, he wasn’t president anymore, and it left a void when Wolf filled his shoes. And Whoosh targeted me as next in line.
Rumors the club could ignore. In fact, rumors were good for business. I didn’t mind anyone spreading the word that the Destroyers were “bad news,” and “don’t mess with them, because they’ll kill you.” As long as no one mentioned names, and certainly not to the police. But if that last part happened, it became not only something to handle, but something that needed to be handled urgently by me.
And that fit my plans perfectly.
Before I went into Carl’s house, guns blazing, I needed more than a rumor for information. “Who is the chick?” I snapped my fingers at our tech twins, Hickey and Skinner. “And which cop was it?” Then to Whoosh, “Your guy, he’s cool, right? Does he need anything for the tip?”
Whoosh shook his head. “I go way back with this dude. Maybe an invite?” He said it tentatively.
I stuck my thumb in Sprout’s direction. “Waterskiing at the house.”
To which Sprout asked, “Aren’t we waiting for Wolf?” At least he understood hierarchy, but failed to understand urgency.
“We’ll catch him up when he gets here. If the cops are asking around to figure out who and what went down last week with Whoosh, Izzy, and Sketch, this can’t fucking wait.”
Not more than a week ago, Sketch and Whoosh tangled with a lowlife, pissant gangbanger named Victor who stole the car Izzy sat in right out of Carl’s backyard. That asshole and one of his buddies ended up dead behind an Italian restaurant. Whoosh stepped up that night, big-time, tagging one of the bodies. Sketch took care of the other.
A day later, two other members of his gang disappeared without a trace—courtesy of yours truly. I knew exactly where they were buried. No one else did. I planted Whoosh’s unregistered gun at one of their homes with the hope that the cops would think this was an internal gang dispute and look no further.
But there was one person who could take Sketch and Whoosh down—Carl. He was present when the whole mess started and was instrumental in identifying the leader. That was a problem. One we needed to correct ASAP.
With Wolf, our president, on route, and Griz, the club’s sergeant at arms, out of town, and no one filling the VP role yet, Sprout technically was the highest-ranking officer present, and I should be listening to him. But taking time to listen to the village idiot wasn’t what this club needed right now. So, I barked orders, fruitlessly hoping they’d be listened to.
But maybe it wasn’t a bad idea to kiss his ass?
“And Sprout? Unless you want the VP role this minute, can you please make a good suggestion for damage control?”
“Naw, I think you’re covering it. Bear for VP, anyone?”
Several “yeahs” sounded around the table.
I had to squash that shit fast. “Who’s on kiddie patrol then? Anyone want to tangle with Jackson’s spawn for me? I’d gladly hand that over.” I waited to see who’d bite. No one did. Obviously. “Fuck off to all of you assholes. Let’s just work this shit in front of us and worry about the other steaming piles of excrement later, okay?”
Hickey snorted. “Steaming piles of excrement,” he muttered as he tapped away on his laptop. “Might have a hit.” He flipped the unit around and showed Whoosh a picture. “This her?”
I peeked over his shoulder. “Yup.”
The room went quiet.
Whoosh broke the silence by stating the obvious. “Considering it was my friend who saw her, not me, I can’t say, but Bear seems pretty convinced. Are you clairvoyant now?”
Fuck.
“I saw that chick climb into a green F/8 Charger last week.”
“And that’s how the mighty fall…” Sprout propped his arm up on the table and made creaking noises until his hand hit the table. “Boom. Snatched up by the pussy.”
My fists curled in on themselves. “Are you calling me a pussy?”
Sprout’s grin was a little too broad.
I might have to wipe it off his face.
He hesitated, knowing full well I’d clean his clock for giving me shit.
“Seriously, you kept a sighting like that secret?” Hickey asked. “We need intel on this guy. He’s been a good earner despite the obvious ‘serial killer’ vibes, but if he’s talking to cops, and this mysterious ‘woman’ shows up all of a sudden, that just smacks of a task force making moves.”
It did.
