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“Yes, Prez,” they say in unison.
Whipping out his cell, Atlas makes a call. “Piero? I’m calling in a favor. Don’t start with me. I’m not in the mood for your mafioso attitude.”
There’s a pause in the conversation, then booming laughter comes over the other line. Atlas holds his cell away from his ear ‘till Piero Bianchi settles.
“You done? Good. Are you willing to post bail with some of your dead cousin’s dirty money? I’ve got cash on hand, but it may not be enough... No brother of mine is going to sit in a cell… No, I don’t know what the fuck is happening. Just be on standby, okay?”
I can’t make out Piero’s garbled words, but it sounds like the Mafia Don agrees.
“Thanks, brother.” Atlas disconnects the call, motioning for me to follow him.
My insides tighten into one giant knot as uncertainty sets in. I’m concerned for myself, but more worried about Opal. If something is coming down the line, I want her kept safe. “Atlas, what about Opal?”
“Punk will get her out safely if it comes to that,” he reassures. “Trust the family to look after her. Focus on yourself for the moment. We ride in, show them who owns this fucking city.”
Without saying another word, we climb on our hogs, riding to the gate on the road. Security opens it, and we cruise out with the cops following close behind.
* * *
Dave Lopez is a ruthless motherfucker, making him a damn good lawyer for our MC. He’s gotten our crew out of some pretty hairy situations in the past, but this is the first time one of us is being questioned by authorities without knowing why.
“Let me do the talking,” Dave insists beside me in the shoebox-size cross-examination room.
“Fine by me,” I mutter, eager to find out what this is all about. I fold my arms over my chest, crossing my legs at the ankles in front of me, going for nonchalant. They’re definitely watching us through the two-way mirror on the wall. I’ll be damned if I let them think they can intimidate me.
We’re not left alone for long when two feds enter the room. The one is an older gentleman, maybe fifty, with a slight potbelly and an ill-fitting suit. Aside from his appearance, he looks alert and all business as he examines me. The second man to join the room is younger, closer to my age. He’s in far better shape than his partner. He sits across from me, scrutinizing me like I’m an insect he wants to smash under his fist.
The hairs on my arms stand at attention. This guy gives me uneasy vibes. There is something inherently sinister about the younger FBI agent. My body goes into instant alert mode. I sit up in my chair, leaning forward to rest my forearms on the table. Like he does me, I study every aspect of the fed, storing it away in my brain.
He’s about my size and build, maybe not as big, but built enough. It’s clear he knows his way around a gym, but I’m willing to wager he’s not combat trained. I can usually sniff out ex-military, and this dude ain’t it. He may be strong, but he’d crumble, taking me on one-on-one.
The harder I look at the guy, the more he takes it like a challenge. His brown eyes glare at me, almost like he’s angry to have me in his presence. It’s fucking weird. I didn’t ask to be here—he and his old duff partner requested my presence.
Somehow, I ended up in a pissing competition against Agent Asswipe that I never asked to participate in.
“Master Chief Petty Officer Clint Roberts,” the older fed drawls, flipping through a vanilla case file no doubt loaded with information about me. “I’m FBI Special Agent Braun, and this here is FBI Special Agent Grayson.”
Grayson?That name sends off alarm bells, but I can’t quite figure out why.
As my lawyer instructed, I say nothing, patiently waiting for them to reveal their cards.
“Gentlemen,” Dave greets. “To what do we owe the pleasure of being summoned before you today?”
“Like your client doesn’t know,” Agent Grayson accuses. He flips the case file around for us to see. A photo of a woman’s corpse with strangulation bruises around her neck sits on top.
This isn’t my first encounter seeing a photo of a dead person. Hell, it’s nothing compared to seeing the real deal up close in person. I look at Dave deadpan before looking back at the douchebag agents. “Am I supposed to know who this is?”
“Take another look,” Agent Braun says, pushing the photo closer.
Again, I look at the photo, but this time I analyze it. The victim is a middle-aged woman, somewhere between the ages of forty to fifty. Alive, she would have appeared ill with how frail her body is. She has platinum blond hair that appears natural—the lack of color change at her roots would suggest that. It’s hard to tell what color her eyes may have been with the broken capillaries.
It’s when I take in her heart-shaped face and pert nose I realize who I’m looking at. There’s not a doubt in my mind this is Opal’s mom, Shelly Allred.
Without so much as a flinch, I look back at the agents. “Never seen this woman before.”
Agent Grayson sneers. “That’s odd considering your DNA was found at the scene of the crime where Shelly Allred’s body was discovered.”
My blood runs cold. I shoot an incredulous look Dave’s way. “Say what now?”
