Page 14 of Thug

“What emergency?” he asked.

“Whatever emergency forced you to leave your house in those ridiculous fucking shorts.”

After a few seconds of looking confused, it seemed he had a revelation. “Oh.” He raised his index finger. “The girl.”

I was puzzled. “What girl?”

“The girl from the bar.”

The puzzled look continued. “What about her?”

“I know who she is.”

From the look on his face, she was a spy who had been sent to infiltrate the MC, steal the money he buried in various spots on his property, and plant a bomb in the clubhouse.

“Who is she?” Before he answered, I continued. “And why were you digging up money at ten in the morning?”

He forced out a sigh. “Marbella’s cat had kittens, and I wanted the first choice of the litter. Cost a grand to reserve a spot. Figured I’d go ahead and pay the whole boat now, being I’ve got to ride up to her place, anyway. Don’t keep that kind of cash layin’ around, so I had to dig some up.”

Carp choked on his spit. “A grand?! For a cat?”

“It’s a Bengal,” Brisco said, trying to justify his spending. “They’re not cheap.”

Brisco was the type of guy that wouldn’t swerve to miss a pedestrian, but he’d sit at home with his cats in his lap while he watched TV shows about mass murderers, hitmen, and unsolved crimes. Hypersensitive to the care and treatment of animals, he wouldn’t think twice about breaking the neck of a man who crossed him or his MC brethren.

Looking thoroughly confused, Carp scratched the sides of his head. “Is it like those little spotted fuckers you’ve already got?”

“Yep.”

Carp’s eyes went wide. “You paid a grand for it?”

“Which one?” Brisco asked.

“The ones that wander around your house.”

“Paid five for each of them.”

“Hundred?” Carp asked.

Brisco shook his head. “Thousand.”

“Hoe-lee-shit.” Carp whistled through his teeth. “Five grand for those crazy little bastards? Each?”

“They’re not crazy,” Brisco argued. “They’re energetic. With good genetics comes long-lasting energy.”

“If you paid five grand apiece for the crazy ones, why’s the other one just a grand?”

“It’s not,” Brisco explained. “It’s a grand to reserve the spot to have pick of the litter. Sixty-five hundred is due when I pick it up.”

My hands shot in the air. “Stop with the fucking cat talk!” I insisted. “Who’s the girl?”

After a long glare, Brisco cleared his throat. He crossed his arms over his broad chest. “She’s Pig Pen’s daughter.”

Pig Pen Forester was the Hells Angels’ most notorious enforcer. Considering the men he’d allegedly killed, the countless he’d crippled, and the thousands he’d beaten senseless, it would stand to reason that he’d be doing life in federal prison. Instead, he rode with the red and white holding his head high, proud of the thirty-plus years he’d devoted to the MC.

The History Channel did a documentary on him, hoping their exposure of his alleged criminal acts would prompt an investigation by the feds. Mysteriously, the producer of the show—and the two pixelated bikers who gave on-air testimony—died in what was later claimed to be unrelated accidents. The lack of an investigation following the television show—and the subsequent deaths—did nothing but confirm Pig Pen’s untouchable status.

There was only one Pig Pen that I knew of. Hoping there might be two men who shared the name—one of which I knew nothing of—I asked. “Pig Pen Forester?”