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“I’m on the side that makes everyone happy in the long run,” Punk hisses, rubbing his bruised leg. “Some things can’t be rushed.”
“Speaking from experience?” Ebony jabs.
“Don’t you have an Italian giant problem to deal with?” Punk counters quickly. “Word amongst the brothers is, Tank put a silent claim on you.”
Ebony’s mouth falls open. “Is that why the guys are avoiding me like I’m gas station sushi? Because Tank wants a snack?”
“He doesn’t want a snack, Eb. He wants the whole goddamn meal, every night from here on out.”
“Thatsonofabitch!”
Ebony stands with a huff. She grumbles something about neutering Tank, then storms off with Hades running after her. Candy and Red follow, trying to calm down their friend. We watch as they disappear around the bend in the trail.
I lightly punch Punk in the shoulder. “Thanks for the diversion.”
He shrugs. “I hate it when the guys get on my ass about moving on. Won’t stand by watching someone else go through it.”
We try to catch up to the girls, but they’re hauling ass. Ebony is on a mission to make Tank pay for interfering with her social life. She loves her freedom, with no intention of giving it up soon. If Tank is threatening the other brothers to back off from her, that shit won’t fly.
Their potential relationship has me thinking of my and Chase’s situation. I’m worried about the man who’s snuck into my heart.
“Punk?”
“Yeah?”
“Is Chase really on a mission to find Luca?”
He sighs, running a hand over his shaved head. “I can’t talk club business, Priss. It’s safer if you don’t know. Nothing to implicate you.”
Hold the fuck up.“Implicate me? They’re just going to find Luca to turn him in to the police, right?”
“Listen.” Punk places a hand on my shoulder. His steady, cool blue eyes tell me he’s being serious. “This is all I’ll say on the matter—you’ll never have to worry about Luca again.”
I wring my hands together. “Is Chase going to kill him?”
Punk doesn’t answer, his silence speaking volumes.
This news should unsettle me. Most people would freak discovering someone they cared about was about to commit murder. Strangely, it doesn’t have the same effect on me. If Luca is dead, I won’t feel the need to look over my shoulder every time I leave headquarters. Going to prison doesn’t ensure he’ll not get out one day. My only concern is for Chase. He’s going against a dangerous man—a raping, murdering sadist.
Punk must see my duress. He squeezes my shoulder. “He’ll be fine, Priss. Come on. Let’s get back to headquarters. I can smell Mama Bear’s cooking from here.”
CHAPTERSIX
CHASE
The trip to Trinidad dragged. Being undercover means you can’t do anything to bring attention to yourself, including speeding to your destination. Unmarked van, nondescript clothing, no leather biker cuts are all part of the disguise to blend in. I even took out my facial piercings and tucked my shoulder-length hair into a black baseball cap. Anything to hide who I really was.
As we approached the border of Trinidad, Butch and I pulled off to a rest stop to change into our tactical gear—the final step in our preparations.
Snagging Lucky Luca was almost too easy as we busted in the door of the rundown motel under cover of darkness. The butt end of Butch’s rifle connecting to Luca’s head was enough to keep him quiet until we reached our destination in the nature preserve next to the abandoned quarry Hawk suggested. It was a perfect place to dispose of a body.
I took my pound of flesh, throwing my weight into every punch I landed against Luca’s pudgy face. When I grew tired, Butch took over, making good use of his steel toe boots, kicking into Luca’s torso. I may have got a little trigger-happy and fired a round into his shin—I’m human; not a robot.
The beating proved fruitful, with Luca rambling off vital intel that could help find Esteban Moreno. In the end, I handed my pistol to Butch, giving him the honors. One bullet to Luca’s frontal lobe was his ticket to hell.
For shit, kicks, and giggles, I set his feet into cement shoes—a tribute to Luca’s gangster days—before we threw his lifeless body into the bottomless quarry. He sunk into oblivion and out of the lives of our women forever.
After finishing a call to Atlas on a burner to give him the news, we climbed into the van to make the four-hour trek back to Fort Collins. We’ve driven an hour in silence—not surprising with how Butch prefers not to talk—when the dude clears his throat to get my attention.
