“All the better. She’ll have plenty of female company.”
Since Samantha had been inside the Black Knights compound, she knew Washington was right. Not taking into account the massive brick wall topped by razor wire that surrounded the place, the warehouse itself was a throwback to a bygone era, with masonry walls that were three feet thick and insulated with what was probably clay and horsehair. It was a fortress. She would certainly be safe from the Basilisks in there.
And honestly? She was curious to get back inside. Maybe there she’d find the answers to why Ozzie had those old warrior’s eyes.
I mean, they have to come from somewhere, right?
Somewhere other than the year he matriculated at Stanford before going to see his nearest navy recruiter. Somewhere other than the three years he spent as a rescue swimmer attached to a navy aircraft carrier, because as far as she could figure, he hadn’t seen much action. Maybe he had acquired those eyes during the year following his stint with the navy. In all her research, she hadn’t been able to account for those thirteen months postnavy and pre–Black Knights Inc.
“And the days?” Christian asked.
“What do you mean?” Washington frowned.
“I mean, if we muck about and do your dirty work, providing Samantha with protection at night”—she wasn’t sure she cared for being labeled anyone’s dirty work—“who will follow her around all day while she’s at work or…or…” Christian shot her a dagger-eyed look. “Whatever else she gets up to, including but not limited to accusing innocent men of murder?”
“I said I was sorry about that.” She frowned at him.
“Indeed?” He raised one dark eyebrow. “I must have missed it.”
That took her aback. She glanced at Ozzie, then at Carver, and lastly at Chief Washington. “I apologized, didn’t I?” She was sure that she had.
“Not that I recall,” Washington said.
Carver’s answer was a succinct “Nope.”
Ozzie remained silent.
Despite her dark hair and dark eyes, her complexion was rather fair, which meant there was no way to hide the color that stole into her cheeks. Damn. “I’m sorry.” She forced out the words.
“What’s that?” Christian cupped his hand around his ear. “You were mumbling, so…”
“I’m sorry!” She glared at him, her fingers inching toward the side pocket of her purse and the pepper spray inside. They started inching faster when his face split into a smug grin.
“I forgive you,” he said magnanimously.
Her hand was suddenly around the canister of pepper spray. It would be so satisfying.
Unaware of the violence bubbling in her heart, Washington said, “You can call me in the morning when you’re ready to leave the shop, Miss Tate. I’ll arrange for a police escort to follow you while you’re out and about.”
“No need,” Ozzie said. “With everyone gone from the shop, we’ve pretty much stopped production on new bikes. So I’m free to do a little work as a bullet catcher.”
Chapter 6
Basilisk Clubhouse
The name on his birth certificate read John George Peabody III. But nobody dared call him that. Sometimes he wondered if his parents had saddled him with the highfalutin-sounding name in the hopes he’d do what John George Peabody Sr. and John George Peabody Jr. had not. Namely, rise above the poverty and the violence that was life for so many on Chicago’s South Side. Of course, if that was their aim, they had failed utterly.
When it comes to rising above the violence, he conceded. As for rising above poverty? Not to toot his own horn or anything, but he’d kicked that in the pants pretty early on. The platinum Rolex glinting on his tattooed wrist proved it.
He only allowed himself two overt luxuries in life, the watch and his motorcycle. Any more than that, and he might draw the attention of law-enforcement types. Now, as he glanced at the first of those luxuries and noted the time, his lips curved into a severe frown. “How fucking long does it take to bag up a hundred-and-twenty-pound woman?”
When silence stretched, he realized his question had been construed as rhetorical. He made it clear it was not when he lifted his eyes to Crutch, his vice president.
“It’s raining cats and dogs out there,” Crutch said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over the patches on the front of his cut. The overhead light caught the scar running across Crutch’s temple and the occasional sandy-colored strand of hair that salted his bushy brown beard. “It might’ve put a crimp in Bulldog’s plan if she ran in somewhere to wait out the storm. But don’t you worry, Venom, he’ll get it done.”
Venom. That was his name—the only one he’d gone by since way back in basic training, back around the time he met Crutch and found the man to be a kindred spirit. At first, Venom had been his nom de guerre. Now it was his road name. And it suited him just fine. Because in war and on the road, Venom was the same. Toxic to his enemies. Lethal to anyone he decided to sink his teeth into.
