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She quickly nodded. “None of his friends participated if that’s what you’re asking.”
Markie swallowed the knot in his throat. He’d already suspected the worst.
Most of the women who showed up at Trouble’s gates often went there after they’d been beaten within a breath of their death. Most of them had been abused for several years. Sometimes they’d been raped. Sometimes their exes had as
saulted them in front of their friends. Other times they’d shared their former spouses with their buddies. Some of the women showed up in Trouble with deep psychological scars and others came there with the spilled blood on their clothes to prove they’d endured the unimaginable.
Draegan jotted down a few notes. Then, he said, “Markie, if you don’t have the stomach for this, you might want to leave.”
Markie rose from his seat but Sable grabbed his wrist. “Please stay.”
He reluctantly reclaimed his chair.
Another nurse—not ample cheeks but a new nurse—entered the room. “The nurse on duty had a conflict of interest.” She ignored the men and focused on her patient. “Is there anything I can get for you, honey?”
“I’m fine,” Sable replied. “Thank you.”
“All right then.” The nurse addressed Draegan. “I placed the call. So you know, this young woman’s extended family is out there in the main lobby. They’ve been asking to see her.”
Sable’s small body shook uncontrollably. Then, she took a moment and seemingly collected herself. When she looked up again, she stated her wishes as firmly as anyone could. “I don’t want to see any of them.”
“And you don’t have to,” Draegan assured her, moving closer to the hospital bed. He turned to the nurse and added, “We’ll take it from here.”
“Just the two of you?” The nurse’s gaze bounced between men before she leveled a stare at Sable. “Maybe you should tell them about your husband’s people, honey. Maybe then they can call in an army before the next world war breaks out.”
Chapter Eight
Allister McCall and Ryan Thomas sat side by side in the control room, inputting the data Draegan sent them from the neighboring town’s local hospital. Allister had just run a thorough background check on Tony McCoy when Ryan pushed away from his computer terminal and leapt to his feet.
“Fuck. I’m not believing this.” Allister stared at the screen, slowly processing the information unfolding before him. Selecting the print option, he read over the highlighted headline captions. “Trevor ran a background check on the club and its owners. How did he miss this?”
“Last name was wrong,” Ryan pointed out. “Trevor had Samms. The hits are on McCoy.”
“Shit.” Allister hurriedly ran over the list of suspected charges, the domestic abuse allegations, and everything he could find from hospital records to a rap sheet. “This is gonna kill them.”
“We don’t know how much of it is true,” Ryan said. “Besides, look who she was married to. How do we know she wasn’t set up to take some falls for them?”
Allister stood next to the computer terminal. “This is taking too long. We need to get to the hospital and help with transport.”
“Then we can’t wait for that printer to spit out all the pages of a criminal’s life. We need to hurry down to Jackson Square and offer your brother and Markie a helping hand.”
“If what we’re seeing is true, they may need more than a helping hand.” Allister grabbed a few printed pages and his jacket at the same time. “Let’s go.”
In a matter of minutes, they were racing down the interstate. Ryan clutched the wheel and kept his eyes on the road. Allister sent out group text messages, placing his brothers and the rest of Trouble’s founding fathers on standby.
“Dixie Mafia,” Allister muttered, trying to remember if any of Trouble’s residents had been affiliated with the mob in the past. “How’d this gal find out about us?”
Ryan shook his head. He was likely miles away, thinking more about their little woman at home than the woman they would soon try and save. A few hundred feet down the highway, he glanced at Allister. “You should probably let Draegan know what he’s up against.”
“Why, so he can toss around threats that won’t make a difference?” Allister wasn’t one to spook. At the same time, he wasn’t an idiot. The offspring from some of the original Dixie Mafia members often thought they had something to prove. This Tony McCoy was one such guy. He had a rap sheet worthy of commendations.
McCoy had earned attention from the FBI, the DTF, and every other organization worth a mention. And for whatever reason, he hadn’t managed to keep it, which suggested he had learned an interesting trade—the art of getting away with whatever crimes he committed.
To make matters worse, his wife—or ex-wife—had a similar knack for escaping punishment.
Breaking every speed limit set, Ryan finally wheeled into the hospital lot. They took a front row parking space, reserved for drive-up emergencies. All things considered, this qualified.
They exited the vehicle, slammed their doors, and took off at a run. Before entering the hospital, Allister spotted them. He propelled his arm to the side and caught Ryan in the gut. “Hang on a minute.”
