“Hey.” Hawkeye turned to Crutch. “So what the heck happened to the gun Bulldog used to off the banger?”
“Same as always,” Crutch assured him. “We took it apart and scattered the pieces around Lake Michigan. The cops will never find it. So as long as Bulldog keeps his trap shut—”
“Which he will,” Venom insisted.
“Which he will,” Crutch agreed. “There will be nothing to link Bulldog to Monroe’s murder. Savoy says as long as we watch ourselves and don’t answer any of the cops’ questions, we should be good.”
A thought burned in the back of Venom’s brain. “What did Savoy come up with for a motive?”
Crutch laughed. “You’re going to love this. Savoy says Bulldog will claim he kidnapped her to force her to write an article about a real MC. Apparently”—Crutch’s voice was heavy with sarcasm—“Bulldog was sick of the way TV and movies portray us and wanted to set the record straight.”
Hawkeye snorted. “Radical, dude.”
Venom shrugged. “It’s a good motive. It’ll be impossible for the prosecution in his case to disprove it.”
“Okay. So then, what are we supposed to do?” Termite asked. His red hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and a black bandana covered his forehead. “We have no fuckin’ sergeant at arms.”
“True,” Venom allowed. “But more important than finding a replacement for Bulldog while he finishes his stint inside is finding out why that fat fuck of a detective brought up Iraq this morning.” He drummed his fingers on the table.
“Speaking of Iraq…” Crutch said. “Bulldog said Samantha railed at him, asked him all kinds of questions when she was in the back of that van, including the who, what, and how of us getting the weapons out of the Sandbox.”
“Yo! What…the…hell?” Hawkeye ran a hand through his scraggly blond hair. “How could she know any of that? Shit!”
“Cool your jets.” Venom lifted a hand. “It might not be as bad as it sounds.”
“Well, that’s good, bro.” Hawkeye’s voice was laced with sarcasm. “’Cause it sounds pretty damn bad.”
“Before we jump to conclusions”—Venom knew it was important to project calm even though his stomach had balled into a fist—“we needa get our hands on the reporter and find out exactly what she knows.”
“Given Bulldog’s botched kidnapping,” Crutch said, watching a smoke ring drift toward the ceiling fan overhead, “if we snatch her, the first place the pigs will come looking for her is here.” He turned and surveyed the room with its wood-paneled walls, neon beer signs, and general man-cave air. “Well, not here exactly.” The Basilisk’s clubhouse was in the basement of a flower shop owned by Termite’s second cousin. Its location was only known to those loyal to the club. “But they’ll come looking for us.”
Venom waved his hand unconcernedly. “They won’t find a thing. Same as always.”
“So then, what’s the plan?” Crutch asked. “How do we get our hands on Miss Tate?”
The thrill of the hunt filled Venom. It’d been a long time since he’d been involved in bringing down human quarry. He leaned forward, a smile stretching his lips. “I think I have an idea.”
* * *
Emily watched Ozzie slap more lasagna onto Samantha’s plate even though Samantha was laughing, shaking her head, and making a half dozen excuses for why she couldn’t eat another bite.
“That last reason was so lame it needs crutches,” Ozzie scoffed, forking a bite between his teeth and grinning the whole time.
“Are you still flapping your lips?” Samantha came right back at him. When Ozzie opened his mouth, she lifted a hand. “Shhh. Let me enjoy the visual image of duct tape over your mouth for just a little while longer.”
“Bondage?” Ozzie waggled his eyebrows. “Now we’re talking.”
“Are we?” Samantha cupped her chin in her hand and batted her eyelashes at him. “Are you sure you want to go there?”
“I’m a guy, sweetheart.” Ozzie spread his arms wide. “I pretty much live there.”
“Then what are we waiting for? Let’s head to one of those outbuildings”—Samantha hooked a thumb over her shoulder to the small rectangular structures BKI used for parts storage, weapons bunkers, and a home gym—“and get it on like Donkey Kong.”
“Fine by me.” Ozzie acted like he was about to stand from the table.
Samantha stopped him with, “Oh, sorry. Did you think I was talking about you? I meant Becky.”
Becky choked on her lasagna and reached for her glass of wine.
