For once, things seemed to be going his way, because when Jericho got to the garage, the first person he saw was Mike DeMonte peering at the dented passenger door of a flatbed truck. Older, hairier, fatter, but still clearly Mike, along with four other good-sized men, all of them wearing the cuts of the local motorcycle club. And they all saw Jericho too, and stared at him coldly as he approached: the intimidating glare of men for whom violence was a way of life. After eight years in the Marines, Jericho had his own version of that look, but didn’t use it right then, not when it was five on one.
“Hey, Mike,” Jericho said. They were in the front lot of the garage, in full view of the street. As long as he stayed cool, there shouldn’t be any danger in the situation. Well, as long as he stayed cool and the bikers did the same. “Been a while.”
Mike squinted at him. “Holy shit. Junior Crewe? That you?”
Not quite the nickname Jericho would have chosen for himself, but he managed to smile anyway. “’Fraid so,” he admitted. “How’ve you been, man?”
They gripped forearms but didn’t hug, thank god. Jericho wasn’t a hugger. “Not bad,” Mike said. “How ’bout you?”
“Can’t complain.” Jericho made sure his shoulders were relaxed and his voice easy. “You married yet? When I left you were dating . . . damn, what was her name? Blonde, curvy—”
“Careful, now. That’s the mother of my children you’re talking about.”
“Really? Congratulations, man. How many?”
“Two boys. Eight and five.”
Jericho nodded. That was useful information. He could have found it from a different source, of course, but no words on a computer screen would tell him about the proud light in Mike’s eyes as he spoke about the kids. A loving father.
“You don’t have any kids?” Mike asked, and when Jericho shook his head, Mike continued with, “Heard you’re stepping in with Nikki’s kids, though. That’s good of you.”
“I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”
“None of us do!” Mike laughed, then turned to the other men. “This is Eli Crewe’s boy, Jericho.” Mike gave Jericho a quick look, then shrugged at the men. “Junior’s made a few unfortunate life choices. But as long as he doesn’t go rubbing it in our faces, I think we can ignore it for old times’ sake.”
Jericho had the strange feeling that Mike was talking more about Jericho’s sexuality than his profession, but unless the biker intel was better than he expected, that was just paranoia. Of course, Wade might have said something, but he couldn’t really have exposed Jericho without outing himself. Or maybe Wade alreadywasout. And damn it, there he was, thinking about Wade Granger again, this time in the middle of a goddamn investigation. “I appreciate your understanding,” he said to Mike, trying to sound cool.
“Well, no, I don’t think I could go all the way to saying I ‘understand.’” Mike looked a bit more serious now. “I mean, your great-granddaddy and mine ran rum together, and every generation since then, Crewes have been out in the woods, crossing the border with whatever the hell they feel like carrying. Now you’re back, and you’re on the other side of it all?”
“I’m on the side that keeps children from getting murdered.” It was a bit early to play that card, but Jericho went for it anyway. “Two local kids get grabbed and terrorized? I’m on whatever side stops that shit. Absolutely.” He saw Mike’s thoughtful frown, and added, “I honestly don’t give a good goddamn who carries a couple cartons of cigarettes north or a couple bags of weed south. The world has bigger things to worry about. But when there starts being enough money involved for cops to go crooked, that worries me. When people start getting killed to cover shit up? That’s a problem. When we’ve got fucking federal agents crawling up our asses and acting like they own the damn town? I don’t like it.”
He leaned closer. “And when we get three out-of-state assholes coming around looking for trouble, pushing hard enough that someone had to make them dead? That worries me too.” He shrugged and leaned back, then smiled. “Shit, that was more of a speech than you were expecting, huh? Got a little carried away.”
Mike was watching him warily, but it was one of the other men who stepped forward and said, “So what are you doing about it? Why are you here?”
“Mostly just to say hi to Mike,” Jericho said, slow and casual and easy. He hoped. “But, yeah, I also wanted to make contact, I guess. I don’t want to start trouble with you guys. You’re local, I’m local; I just want everyone to get along. I want our kids to be safe, and I want outsiders to stop stirring shit up.” He stepped back. “I figured you all might want that too. So I just wanted to come by and make that clear. I was just planning to talk to Mike, but it’s good that a few others of you heard me. You all can talk it over. And if you need any help with anything, you can let me know. Okay?”
Mike gave him a careful gaze and an even-more-careful nod. No commitments, but not an absolute refusal, either. It was a step in the right direction.
So, of course, that was when the dark sedan showed up, wheeling up onto the asphalt pad in front of the garage like the occupants were Secret Service men late to protect the president. Agent Hockley stepped out from behind the wheel, Agent Montgomery from the passenger side; they both stared at Jericho, and he could feel the bikers staring at him too.
It wasn’t hard to find a sullen, disinterested gaze to fix on the feds. “You looking for someone?” he asked. He was a local, they were outsiders. The bikers could trust him; the enemy of an enemy was a friend. At least he hoped that was how they’d see it.
The agents continued to stare at him. “We’re in the middle of an investigation, Mr. Crewe. We’ll talk to you later.”
“Right,” Jericho drawled. He was pretty sure he was channeling Wade’s attitude. “Your work is very important.”
Agent Hockley gave him a furious glare, then turned to the bikers. “We’re DEA. Federal agents. We’re interested in speaking to Michael Anthony DeMonte.”
Nobody moved. Jericho kept his face still. Part of his brain was busy realizing that Mike’s parents had made his initials M.A.D., but mostly he was trying to figure out how to play this. He wanted the bikers to think he was on their side against the feds. He didn’t want to get in the way of the feds’ investigation, but if they didn’t even know what Mike looked like, they clearly weren’t all that far into the process. Hopefully it wasn’t too important for them to identify Mike right then.
So he stepped to the side, out of the scene, and waited for the bikers to draw their own conclusions.
“Michael DeMonte,” Agent Hockley repeated, louder this time, in case Mike was hiding behind one of the cars in the lot.
Did the asshole not have a mug shot or surveillance photo he could have consulted? They’d just driven over expecting cooperation? Damn, that was a special kind of stupid.
The bikers were still keeping half an eye on Jericho, clearly waiting for him to point Mike out, and when he didn’t, the atmosphere shifted. One of them stepped forward and said, “I could get a message to him, probably. He’ll want to know what you want to talk to him about.”
