HARDCORE: Storm MC(73)
“And just what exactly will you be handling?” Hemmick asked. “Because whatever it is, if it's going to involve more bullets and beatings in my jurisdiction, you can be damn sure I want to hear about it whether you feel like talking to me or not.”
Shit, Cain thought. The dirty pig is going to find a way to shake us down on this after all. Missy may as well have stayed at the Knife.
“We're not sure yet,” Cain answered carefully. “Some guys jumped me while I was running an errand with Keith. They were probably just some strung-out junkies who wanted to rob me to get money for their next fix. Keith scared them off with his gun. Probably not even worth worrying about. Certainly nothing you'd want to be bothered with.”
Hemmick laughed. “Kid, you must think I'm dumber than a sack of wrenches,” he said.
“Nah, I've known some pretty smart wrenches,” Cain shot back.
“My boys found a whole mess of baggies behind the motel, stuffed with meth and mushrooms,” Hemmick said. “There was blood on the ground next to them, and a trail to the front of the place, like someone had been shot while fleeing the scene and then dragged off. I'm willing to bet this happened after your beating and the person who dragged this mystery guy away was one of your guys, so eager to get back to you and make sure you were okay that he didn't even bother to pick up about a thousand bucks' worth of perfectly good drugs. Am I warm so far?”
Cain glared at Hemmick silently.
“I thought so,” the cop continued. “And I'm also willing to bet that whoever this missing person is, he's currently in the back room of the Lost Knife, screaming blue murder and wishing his dear old dad had worn a rubber.”
“You planning to go there and find out?” Cain asked. “Save him from being tortured by the big bad bikers, make sure he gets medical attention and a fair trial, all that?”
“Well, I suppose I could,” Hemmick agreed. “On the other hand, my wife's been asking me for one of those new TV sets. You know, the ultra-smart, 3D, HD plasma ones, wall-mounted, with the 98-inch screen? So I reckon if I were busy shopping for one of those instead, I'd have no particular reason to pay a visit to the Knife in this matter. In fact, I might get so distracted by my new purchase that I'd even forget we had this conversation.”
“You're a subtle guy, Ham-Hock,” Cain said, rolling his eyes.
“Coming from a dude who walks around wearing a patch with a blood-dripping eagle on it,” Hemmick answered, “I'll go ahead and take that as a compliment. When you see Hunter, tell him I'll be in touch about the price of the TV. He should probably expect it to be in the high four figures.” He turned to leave, pausing to tip his sheriff's hat at Missy. “Ma'am.”
As the sheriff left, a nurse walked in past him. “Mr. Vale? I'm here to take you to Radiology. Your girlfriend can wait for you in the waiting room.”
“Swell,” Cain said, standing up with a groan. He turned to Missy with a sardonic smile. “I'll see you when I'm done, honey.”
Missy's smile in return was just short of a grimace. “Okay, sweetie,” she replied through gritted teeth.
Missy walked toward the waiting room and the nurse led Cain to the radiology lab. “It's so wonderful that you've got a girlfriend who cares about you enough to wait for you,” the nurse said cheerily.
“Yeah, she's a real peach,” Cain answered, shaking his head.
Chapter 8
Keith
Keith poured his fourth shot of whiskey, drank it down, and immediately poured another. He still had the coppery taste of adrenaline at the back of his tongue. He’d tasted it enough times in his life to know that no amount of liquor could really wash it away. Usually, it had been accompanied by the taste of triumph that came with knowing he'd escaped death.
Tonight, though, it was paired with flavors that were far darker and more bitter in his throat.
Self-hatred. And shame.
Keith had been an Eagle for a long time, and an outlaw even longer. He had a lot of pride. He'd always had plenty of reason to be proud of how well he could ride, fight, shoot, and even drink. He was proud that he'd been able to carry himself as a biker and a badass without sacrificing the golden rule of “Don't fuck with anyone, and you won't get fucked with.”
But the two things he'd always been proudest of were his sharp instinct for sensing impending danger and his commitment to watching the backs of his fellow Eagles.
Tonight, both of those had failed him miserably.
He drained the shot glass again, but before he could reach for the bottle to refill it, Hunter's hand clamped down on his wrist.