“She’s still pissed about losing that income, but she understands the reason,” I mutter, scanning the streets. “Has the club put the word out?”
“Yeah, every hang-around and club friendly will be on the lookout for these fuckers,” Billy says.
I meet TJ’s eyes. “What about Gypsy Soul?” I know he has to be worried about his wife being at her tattoo shop.
“She’s got two other artists working in the shop. She’s in lockdown at the clubhouse with everyone else. There’s no way I’m taking a chance with her safety.”
“Bet the clubhouse is busy,” I murmur.
“It’s a madhouse with all the kids running around and babies crying. Billy and I were glad to get out of there. We’ve been working in shifts all last night and today searching the town but haven’t found a trace of ‘em.”
I drag a hand over my jaw. “They might not even be in town. Even if they stuck around, they could be in Oakland or Freemont or Los Gatos or a million other places.”
“Some sign of them will turn up.”
“What about Sonny’s?” I ask.
“Cole’s upped security there, too.”
We drive up and down San Jose in a grid pattern and search every bar and motel parking lot we come across.
It’s almost 1am, and we’re about to be changed out for a new team, when Billy gets a call from a hang-around.
His wife works the desk at a motel in Sunnyvale, and when she showed up for work at midnight, there were two motorcycles parked in the lot.
Billy gets the name of the place, and we make a beeline for it.
“This it?” I peer through the window as Billy slows the van.
“Yeah. Sunset View Motel.”
There’s a restaurant in front and a gas station next to it. Behind is the motel. We roll through, and Billy makes a circle of the place. It’s two stories just off a six-lane highway. Behind it is a side street with two entrances giving access.
There’s a pool between the restaurant and the motel. The building is an L shape, and we pass a walkway with several vending machines but still don’t spot any bikes. Then we roundthe last corner of the short side of the L and find two Harleys in a parking spot in front of the last door, room number 125.
Billy keeps driving, moving onto the side street, and we all study the bikes.
“I think that’s them. I remember those brown saddlebags,” I say.
“Bet they’re in that room. They’d park right next to their door if they could so they can keep an eye on their bikes,” TJ says.
“Call our contact, TJ,” Billy says. “Have him ask his wife who’s checked into room 125.”
TJ texts the guy, and we park half a block down, with a full view of the room on the end and the two bikes parked out front.
While we wait for a reply, Billy shifts in his seat, then looks at TJ. “You got any of those trackers with you?”
“Yeah. I’ve got ‘em.”
“I say we tag those bikes. I’d feel a lot better if we knew where they were at all times.”
“Gonna take some stealth.”
“Yeah, but we’ve got one thing workin’ for us. They’re at the end of the building.”
“True.”
I stare at the curtained windows. There’s flickering light beyond it. “The television is on.”
