More alarmingly, it stated, chillingly, Mac was in danger.
This was a problem more than it was already a colossalmotherfucking problem.
Any other one of his girls, he’d pick up the phone to LeeNightingale, the man behind Nightingale Investigations, the commander of thebaddestbadass motherfuckers in Denver.He’d hand over thisletter and he’d get this problem solved.
But Mac was Charlotte McAlister, Jet McAlister Chavez’slittle sister.Jet was married to Eddie Chavez.Eddie was Lee’s best friend.And Jet worked for Indy, Lee’s wife, the Queen of the Rock Chicks, and thus JetChavez was a bona fide Rock Chick.
Mac might not be a card-carrying member of the Rock Chicks,mostly because she had a job where she worked nights, the time those crazybitches instigated the most fucked-up of their varying antics.Though theyweren’t averse to mornings and afternoons.It was just that the stun-gunnings, kidnappings and the like mostly took place atnight, and Mac was busy then.
She was still a Rock Chick, or at least she was byassociation.
Considering the Rock Chick link and the blood ties to Jet,if Lee knew Mac was in danger, he’d tear the town apart to put a stop to it.
And Eddie…
Now Eddie, Smithie didn’t even want to think about it.Theman was a cop.The shit Lee and his boys did with flair and a flagrantdisregard to just about anything, Eddie could not do.
But Eddie wouldn’t blink at doing whatever he had to do tomake his sister-in-law safe.
And the man had mouths to feed.
So yeah.
This was a problem even more than it already was a colossalmotherfucking problem because Smithie couldn’t call Lee.
Which meant Smithie had to find a different set ofbadassesto deal with it.
His first call would normally be the Chaos Motorcycle Club.Mac wasn’t one of theirs, neither was Smithie, but they had ties to Lee, theycould keep a secret, and they didn’t dick around when it came to women andtheir safety.
But they’d just come out of a war, and like any war, thathad been some serious fucked-up shit.
They needed a breather.
Lee, and Chaos, also had ties to…
“Well, hell,” Smithie muttered, the words on the letterblurring, the sick feeling in the back of his throat easing.
He dropped the letter and picked up his cell.
If you couldn’t call a badass…
Then it was far from second best to call a commando.
“Let me see it.”
Smithie lifted his eyes from his laptop on which he wasdoing the club’s accounts to the tall, built, black-haired man prowling throughthe door.
Behind him strode a man that even gave Smithie, who thisdidn’t happentooften, a tingle of, “Holy fuck,don’t let me meet that guy in an alley.”
“Well, hey there, motherfucker,” Smithie greeted the man inthe lead.A man known as Hawk.“And by the way, come on in.”
Hawk Delgado had made it to the front of Smithie’s desk.
He stopped there and held out his hand.
“Smithie, let me see the letter.”
Seeing as the man was wearing a tight black T-shirt overblack cargos and black cargo boots, looking like he was about to invadeSomalia, and more,could, but he was in an office over a strip club inDenver, Smithie dug the letter out from under a bunch of stuff on his desk andhanded it to Hawk.
