Page 23 of Devil’s Snare

“G.D.” Nate murmured as he stood. “Interesting how your club knows so many people in town. They won’t say anything against you. I asked around.” He paused, staring at the cut Gravedigger wore. “People call you G.D. because of your name?”

I hated this guy. Arrogant. Too smart for his fucking good. And a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. There was coldness there that felt like a threat. He was a bomb wrapped in a pretty box with a bow. Someone sent to dig around and stir things up. Goad us into making a mistake.

Did Nate Barnes have ties to RICO? They looking to smack some racketeering charges on us? Good fucking luck, asshole.

I didn’t have a problem with the law if they left my club and me alone. This NCIS agent? He was gonna be a fucking problem. I could see it.

G.D. looked bored. Only those of us who knew him well would notice the slight clenching of his jaw, the tightening of his gaze that betrayed his annoyance. “No. Stands for God Damn.”

“Mr. God Damn to you,” I added as Fiend smirked.

Ghost, our VP, folded his arms and looked intimidating as fuck with his skull-themed bandana lifted around his face and his bare arms, covered in horror-themed tattoos that included blood dripping from a large knife on his right bicep. The freaky clown Pennywise, from It, covered his left. He moved closer to G.D.

Nate Barnes smiled. I wouldn’t call it friendly. “I’ll be in touch if I have more questions. Until then, I’ll leave my card in case you have a need to call me.”

There wouldn’t be one, but G.D. didn’t say it.

The agent dropped a business card by the bottle of whiskey before he turned toward the door. He never looked back at the room as he left.

Mike Castor looked frazzled. He sighed and shook his head. “Didn’t have much choice on this. Had to be done. Have a good evening, fellas. G.D.”

“Enjoy your ride back to town, Mike,” G.D. replied, watching until all three men left the clubhouse.

Nobody said a word until the parking lot was empty.

“Fuck, Pres.” Ghost’s fingers twitched like he wanted to shoot or punch something. Maybe both.

“Barnes is gonna be a fucking problem,” Nightmare announced. “Probably watching every move we make.”

G.D. wasn’t worried. “Doesn’t matter. Unless he finds the secret compartments in our coffins and decides to search the hearse, we’ve got nothing to be concerned about.”

Good point.

“And we’ll have bodies inside those coffins on Thursday,” I reminded Nightmare. “Several funerals are scheduled.”

What law-abiding citizen, police officer, or NCIS agent wanted to reach behind a dead person and dig around inside a casket?

BY THE TIME I LEFT the clubhouse, it was late. The sky had grown dark, the moon hidden behind dense gray clouds. Even the stars seemed muted as I rode to Gwen’s apartment building. Cool, crisp wind whipped the back of my neck until I reached my destination and slowed.

When I entered the lot, I noticed the unmarked police car right away. A bored-looking officer sat behind the wheel and sipped from a foam cup with a local coffee shop logo.

Well, shit. No climbing into her window tonight. Maybe not for a long time. That fucking irritated me.

My cut would have to come off briefly until I entered her apartment because I didn’t want the cops to know the Grave Prowlers associated with Gwen. Better for her that way.

Especially after the little visit we just had.

I parked my bike a street over and walked to her building, waiting in the shadows for someone to approach, since the only way in was a key card. I got lucky. A couple, totally oblivious to my presence as they argued over what to prepare for a late dinner, opened the door and left it wide. I caught it easily and entered behind them, smiling at the security guard with my cut folded over my arm like a jacket. I might still stick out and look a little shady, but I didn’t have colors to link my club.

He took in my boots, jeans, black T-shirt, and tattoos and frowned. His body stiffened behind the wooden desk. “Who are you here to see?” He asked as the couple pressed the elevator button.

“Gwen Carmichael. She’s expecting me.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he huffed. “Stay there.” He dialed a number on his cell.

I waited for Gwen to answer.

“Hello, Ms. Carmichael. It’s security. There’s a man here who says you’re expecting him... uh huh... yes. Lots of tattoos. Short, dark beard. Looks like trouble.”