Page 330 of Property of Whiskey

I still want to lock her down.

That’s the problem.

By the time we get to the Lockup, Twila has traded the bloodied uniform for jeans and a clean shirt, but her service pistol is still at her hip. Her knee is stiff where Pike kicked it, and a red mark is starting high on her forehead from the headbutt.

Legend has the whole Lockup wound tight. Rye has prospects covering every entrance while brothers rotate through the yard and parking lot, checking bikes, cages, tree lines, and anything that gets close enough to matter. Derby has county maps spread across half the big table, already marking routes in and out in case we have to move people fast. Phones keep ringing, and somebody has been printing property records so hard the machine in the old office smells hot.

Pearly Gates’ current property is mostly cleared out. Crowley is long gone. Pike is alive and in custody. Nobody knows how many people were moved before the county reached the place or where the fuck they went.

That’s enough to make every protective instinct I have start screaming.

Wren is here at the Lockup with Mama for now. Mama pulled her out of school the second Daddy found Pike’s pictures and brought her straight here under club escort.

Legend’s sister Amelia has taken over one of the tables with Lottie, because apparently women see an armed clubhouse lockdown and decide children need snacks. Lottie has produced chicken strips from somewhere, which tracks. Derby’s boy August sits beside Wren with Blue Rex tucked under one arm while the two of them argue over whether Prickle could beat a dinosaur in a fight.

“Dinosaur,” August says.

“Prickle has spikes,” Wren argues.

“Blue Rex has teeth.”

From the maps, Derby says, “Boy knows his weapons.”

Amelia points at him without looking away from the kids. “Do not encourage them.”

Holler, leaning against the bar beside his ol’ lady, says, “You’re wasting your breath.”

Lottie looks at him. “Did I ask you?”

“Nope.”

“Good.”

He shuts up.

Smart man.

Sophie and Becki have financial records spread across the bar, the same stack I should be helping sort because numbers are literally my fucking job. Instead, I’ve spent the last five minutes watching Twila’s busted mouth. Royal hasn’t moved more than ten feet from Cider, and Bullet sits beside Kaylee like somebody nailed his boots to the floor.

Derby gets up from the maps long enough to crouch beside August, listen to something deeply serious about Blue Rex, fix the kid’s untied shoe, then go right back to planning escape routes like none of that was worth noticing.

I notice.

Twila is across from me. Without the badge and duty belt distracting from it, the bruise around her mouth looks darker than it did in the sheriff’s parking lot.

It ain’t like the bruises she gets wrestling. Those she earns.

She finally catches me. “Quit staring.”

“Can’t.”

“Why?”

“Your mouth’s busted.”

“You busted Pike worse.”

“Nobody fucks with the Kings, Deputy.”