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Risky and Wild(63)



“The slimy little douchebag that offed himself?” I ask, pulling out a pack and slapping it against the palm of my hand. “You musta done something to irk the higher-ups if they're sending you all the way out here for an open-and-shut case.”

“Actually,” Agent Shelley begins, her dark eyes sparkling as she takes me in with a keen interest that sends chills down my spine. I know right then that she's gonna give me hell. “This goes a little deeper than that.” She turns her painted lips up in a small smile. “Do you think we could have a few moments of your time, Mr. McBride?”

The agent pauses at the sound of Lyric's heels moving across the floor, following the direction of my gaze as I glance over my shoulder and find Pint-Size staring at me like I'm mad as a box of frogs. She schools her expression in less than a second, smoothing her hands down the front of her black jumpsuit as she comes up to stand next to me. We both pretend not to notice the broken mug and spilled coffee on the floor behind us.

The smug look on Agent Shelley's face is fucking infuriating.

“Miss Rentz,” she says, and her voice is cool and calculating. “I apologize for the intrusion, but our investigation is rather urgent, and we just couldn't seem to find Mr. McBride anywhere else.” That smile gets a little wider as the man behind her shifts slightly and sniffles. “Do you mind if we borrow him for a little while?”

“A suicide is rather urgent? Damn.” A small, smug smile of my own. “You really must not have a lot to do over there at the bureau.”

“Mr. McBride, are you aware that your vice president was working with a major Mexican drug trafficking ring known as the Saldaña Cartel?”

I feel the blood draining from my body. I know I should be putting on a poker face, but I just can't. I just fucking can't. I know without even having to ask that she's clearly not talking about Dober.

Landon. This is about fucking Landon.

“The … what a lot of tosh,” I spit because there's no way. I can't make my mind process the information she's just thrown at me. I knew it. Pain in the bloody arse. Agent Shelley keeps smiling at me, but there's a softness in her expression now, and I know I've just given heaps of free information away. He didn't know. That's what she'll be thinking. He's the fucking president of the mother chapter, and he didn't know.

“Landon White. I understand he hasn't been seen in a while? We're afraid he may have been embroiled in some inner violence that's been brewing with the cartels.” Agent Shelley stops smiling and looks between Lyric and me. I can feel Pint-Size staring at the side of my face, but I haven't gotten the energy to move yet.

Fuck.

It all makes sense now. The money, the paid thugs, the turf war. Clayton Moore, Mile Wide, they're working with the cartel and they need the Wolves' territory to expand their business.

Jesus Christ. This is big. Much bigger than I thought.

“You may have heard a little bit about it in the news? The Saldaña Cartel is actually an offshoot of the Villarreal Cartel. They've been having territory disputes for years. A lot of violence, a lot death. The infighting has finally pushed the Saldaña Cartel up north.” Agent Shelley adjusts herself, the fabric of her beige pantsuit rustling with the movement. I can hardly even look at her, can hardly even breathe.

Landon. The man I killed. The friend I shot.

Now I know exactly what he was doing with Mile Wide, but not why. I'm starting to wonder if I'll ever find out the answer to that question.

“What's any of that got to do with Brent?” I manage to say without so much as a stutter. “You think the Saldañas got him, too? That it?”

“Brent Gilman's death is still currently under investigation, but we were hoping you could help answer some of our questions.” Shelley gestures at my bike with her right hand. “The Trinidad Police Department has kindly offered us the use of their facilities while we're in town. If you'd like to follow us over, it shouldn't take more than an hour or two.”

I stare the woman down for a long moment, but what choice do I really have?

Christ.

I thought things couldn't get any worse. The FBI is bad. A drug cartel could be worse.

“I've got a meeting with the mayor at ten,” I tell them with a slow, easy smile that I don't feel anywhere but on my face. “S'long as you can be done before then, I'd be happy to comply.”





The sound of my car door slamming echoes loudly around the mostly empty parking. The mayor and I seem to be the only ones in at the moment. Across the lot, Sketch pulls his red and black bike up along the edge of the street. I watch him park and pull his helmet off before I reach down for the handles on the glass front doors.