Winston’s eyes narrowed. “And Cass?”
“What do you think happened to him?”
Gruff, hoarse laughter. “I think that prick believed me when I said he had two minutes. I think he went to hell—and I think that bitch FBI agent went with him.”
Gray’s jaw locked. “There are lots of definitions when it comes to hell.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about hell.” Another nod. “You’re about to visit your own hell. With the charges that we have against you, with the evidence, with the recorded confession, you aren’t going to walk. You will be locked away for the rest of your life.”
More of that hoarse laughter. “Like I’m scared of prison.”
“People died in those bombs that you set across the US. Additionally, with that sick-ass killing game that you were playing, you murdered people in half a dozen states. States with the death penalty. You have more than cold prison bars to fear.” His head tilted to the side. “You’re not going to have any power in prison.”
“I have power everywhere.”
“So does Cass.” Low.
Some of the smug cockiness faded from Winston’s eyes. “He died.”
Gray didn’t speak.
“If he didn’t die in that blast, he will be dead. He can’t turn evidence over to the Feds and expect the Strikers and the other crews to just let him walk. You don’t walk away from the MCs!”
Actually, sometimes, you did.
You just had to know the right people.
People…like me.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Three months later…
* * *
Agnes Quinn stopped in front of the bar. It was a small place, in a tiny town in south Alabama. One nestled on the quiet shores of Mobile Bay. She could feel a light breeze blowing against her cheeks, and when she looked toward the old, massive oaks, she could see the Spanish moss swaying lightly.
Sunset had turned the sky a burnished gold. The bar was open, with a few locals inside. She shouldn’t be afraid to cross the threshold and walk in and yet…she was.
What if he’s changed? Changed his mind…changed his heart.
What if he doesn’t want me any longer?
Something that terrified her.
And yet, she hadn’t been able to stay away. Not even a day longer.
Her shoulders squared. She strode inside with her chin up and her heart racing. Agnes barely noticed the interior. Barely heard the soft, jazz music from the performer on the small stage. Her gaze was drawn to the wooden bar counter on the right and to the man who stood behind the bar.
Tall, with broad shoulders, his back was to her. His dark hair had been cut shorter, and when he turned slowly to talk to a customer at the counter, she saw his profile.
Clean shaven. Handsome.
Her lips pressed together.
No leather jacket. Just a faded, gray shirt. He nodded to the customer, and then his head angled a bit more. Shifted to the right.
