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“Mav will have a bullet lodged between your eyes before your weak little army gets a shot off. Then you’ll have the entire Handlers MC up your ass within an hour. I promise it won’t be a fun way to go,” Zach said.
Copper rose and slapped a hotel key down on the table. “Sweetwater Motel Six. Room ten. The girl is there, unharmed, by midnight, or I’ll be riding around with your head on my fender.”
The warehouse grew quiet, nothing but the sound of Lefty’s frustrated breaths hitting their ears. “She’ll be there,” he said through clenched teeth.
Copper nodded. “Pleasure doing business with you. Let’s ride boys.”
Mav and Zach trailed after him as he walked from the building like he owned the fucking place.
When he reached the door, Copper called out. “I hear another girl’s gone missing, and you won’t get a warning. I’ll slit your throat in your sleep.”
Time to head back to Townsend where Stephanie awaited. Mav smiled as he mounted his bike. As much as he wanted to watch the life drain from Lefty’s eyes, that wasn’t the way the world worked. They couldn’t go around killing every motherfucker that crossed their paths. Now, if Lefty didn’t stick to the game plan, all bets were off.
They did good today. Stephanie might not see it that way with her let-the-police-handle-it fairytale view of the world, but even she had to realize some things just needed a little MC justice.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
STEPHANIE EMERGED FROM the shower to the buzz of a cell phone. Not her personal phone, but the secure burner the FBI had given her.
Frowning, she fished it out of the tampon box she’d hidden in the bottom drawer of her dresser. She’d been staying at the Handlers’ clubhouse for five days and wasn’t supposed to check in with the powers that be for another two days.
After retrieving the phone from under some yoga pants, she closed herself in the bathroom attached to her room. No one would likely hear her since it was eleven on a weekday and most of the guys were downstairs or at work, but she wasn’t taking any chances.
“Little,” she said in a low voice.
“Agent Little, it’s Baccarella,” her SAC returned.
She pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it in disbelief for a beat. Why was he calling her? She was supposed to check in with him, not the reverse. It wasn’t protocol. Shit. Had something happened?
“Good morning, sir. Is everything all right? I’m not scheduled to check in for another few days?”
“Another girl went missing a few days ago. Older this time. She turned up at a hospital in Monroe County, shortly after midnight,” he said, not wasting any time on small talk. “I got a witness who says he saw a girl who matches her description, but looking like she went five rounds with a heavyweight champion, get on the back of a bike at a Motel Six in Sweetwater.”
Shit. Her stomach dropped to the ground. There was no way. Toni and Shell had already confirmed the Handlers had nothing to do with it. But it might not even matter. With Baccarella’s mission to become the FBI director, he’d likely dig until he found something, even if he had to stretch the truth. He couldn’t be trusted to conduct a fair and unbiased investigation. She almost snorted into the phone.
The last thing she was doing was conducting an unbiased investigation.
“Were they wearing Handlers’ colors, sir?” she asked, trying hard to sound professional and not like her world was crashing down around her.
If Baccarella found a way to pin this on the Handlers… God, she couldn’t even think about it. How could he even think the man who’d allowed himself to be burned with an iron to save her from being raped was involved in the buying and selling of women? Then again, Baccarella probably didn’t think it was the Handlers. It just fit with his agenda.
“Handlers’ colors?” Baccarella laughed. “Really getting into the biker chick role, huh?”
Shit. She was walking a fine line. All eyes would be on her, especially after Agent Rey flipped. The FBI could award him all the accolades they wanted, but they had to be feeling the sting of his betrayal. And here she was playing a game that was just as dangerous, just as wrong. There was a need inside her, a deep-seated need to protect Maverick and his brothers. If the FBI felt she was getting too close, they’d pull her. But that wouldn’t be the end of it. Someone else would be sent in, someone who didn’t give a shit what happened to any of the Handlers.
“Isn’t that the point? Assimilate while I’m here? Make them believe I’m here for them?”
“Fair enough,” he said. “And to answer your question, the witness said there weren’t any identifying marks on the biker. He wore a helmet with a face shield, so a description is out of the question. All the witness said was ‘big biker.’ Doesn’t exactly narrow it down.”
