“Don’t you dare hang up on me, Navarro. We need to at least set up a—”
He hung up, cutting her off and probably destroying what was left of his career. Somehow, he couldn’t seem to muster up the energy to care.
* * *
George was tipsy.
Tipsy turvy, her face hot, her brain out of focus.
“I’m wondering,” she said to Jessie, who looked as flushed and fuzzy as she felt. “Do you know anything about motorcycle gangs?”
“Motorcycle gangs?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” Jessie’s face crinkled up when she asked that, making her look exactly like her son.
“Curiosity,” George said as nonchalantly as possible. At Jessie’s narrowed eyes, she went on. “Really. Just interested in finding out more.”
“Hmm. Yeah,” she said slowly, doubtfully. “I’m not an expert, but I consult with a guy in DC when one of my probationers has been involved in a club. Got connections.”
“Who is he?”
“ATF. High up. He’s on some gang-related task force, and apparently, motorcycle clubs are right up there with the worst of them. Worse than the mafia.” Jessie leaned in, her easygoing drunkenness replaced by a laser-sharp interest. “What’s going on?”
Another sip of wine reinforced George’s sense of purpose—her zealous need to heal—and obliterated any worries about the very fine line she was treading. “Do you know anything about the Sultans Motorcycle Club?”
“They’re out of Maryland?”
“Yes. I looked them up, and they appear to be—”
“They’re rough. Like insanely rough. That’s what I know.”
“Rough. Yes.”
“Stay away. Like, if you see one, turn right the hell around. They’re vicious, violent lunatics, George. These are guys who don’t kill just for money or whatever. They kill for fun.”
“I…I’m not involved. I just…”
“Is it that guy?” Jessie asked, proving that George had no knack for prevarication.
“Who?”
“You know who. Your patient?”
“I’m really not in a position to—”
“Okay, George, fine. I can make a couple of phone calls, but”—Jessie put down her glass and grabbed George’s hand, looking her right in the eye—“don’t get involved with this guy. Please.”
George wanted to deny that they were talking about the same man, but it seemed pointless. And suddenly she was exhausted. “I want to help this person. That’s all,” George said, thinking as the words emerged that they were lies, all lies.
* * *
It was that special, syncopated double thrum of a Harley that pulled Clay from his vodka-induced stupor late that night. Not once or twice as you’d expect in a town like this, but over and over again, he heard them driving by. Two bikes, it sounded like, passing one too many times in the night.
They’re here.
The sound had his back tensing, his stomach burning, and his breath coming fast as he packed up his room, threw his shit in the back of the truck, and drove slowly, carefully through the otherwise quiet streets of Blackwood. He hunted them for an hour, watching, waiting, sure he’d catch sight of one of them. After long minutes of nothing, he headed straight to Jason Lane, pushed by a need to see George, to protect her. Maybe to be comforted just knowing she was close. He parked in an overgrown drive and jogged to her house. From the woods across the street, he watched, relieved, as she tripped her way over from the neighbor’s house and then stumbled up her porch stairs.
