Instead, she asked me to do it. She wanted me to write it.
It’s a dream come true — wrapped up in the trappings of my worst nightmare.
Because now not only do I have to find a way to free Leon and put a stop to the illicit affairs going down in Bayonne, I also have to write a kick-ass, no-holds-barred story about the whole shebang. But I couldn’t say no.
“Cherry? Are you there? What do you say?” Ellen had pressed.
Quickly I replied, “Yes. Yes, absolutely I will write it.”
And now here I am, driving down the highway dressed in my dark jeans, black blouse, black blazer, and — for once — comfortable shoes bought just this morning. If I’m gonna bust into the county jail guns a-blazin’ with Genn by my side to rescue my biker boyfriend, I damn well better wear my running shoes.
“Thanks for coming with me,” I blurt out suddenly. Genn looks over at me with compassionate eyes. He reaches across the console to pat my arm.
“Of course. You’re the brains, I’m the brawn. We make a good team,” he replies with an easygoing smile. Truth be told, I’m relieved he’s the one coming with me. I really like everyone in the Club, but Genn is such a teddy bear, he’s fast become my favorite.
Well, except for Leon.
And the two of us are both dogged and determined to get Leon out of jail and clear his name. Genn’s his best friend, and I’m… his girlfriend. His Old Lady, I inwardly correct myself, and I feel a bit giddy at the distinction. Because you can’t go through what we’ve gone through together without skipping a few steps in the relationship timeline.
So Genn and I are on the way to catch Leon and tell him everything we’ve found out, all the incriminating evidence we have on Doyle and Chandler, tell him we can take these bastards down without having to shed any more blood. And the feds are on their way to arrest Doyle, having finally caught on to the fact that he’s a dirty cop. But they don’t know who I am. Their information came from a journalist with a major paper — me. I knew they wouldn’t take the information seriously if it came from someone already associated with Leon Volkov and the Club so I didn’t mention it.
I just hope we get there before it’s too late.
As far as Leon knows, things are still dire. The county cops are probably goading him to hell, trying as hard as they can to force him into a corner. And when you corner a guy like Leon, he isn’t going to take it without a fight. Genn and I are going there to stop that from happening.
“Here, take a right on this exit,” Genn says suddenly. I pull the car onto the ramp and down a hill, then we drive for a few miles under Genn’s instructions until finally the building comes into view. My heart sinks at the sight of the ten-foot-tall chain link fence blocking our entrance.
“Oh no,” I murmur, “what are we gonna do?”
“Listen,” Genn whispers, holding up one finger. We hear the approaching squeal of tires and manage to pull the Focus off the road into a clearing behind a patch of trees just before a cavalcade of black sedans come thundering up to the gate.
“The feds,” I whisper, feeling nauseous. They’ve beaten us here. If they see me or Genn, they’ll immediately suspect something’s off. All they know is that Leon is innocent and that Doyle is not. Genn and I are still just trespassing citizens, and it doesn’t help that we’re both associated with the Club. These guys won’t recognize us on sight, I’m sure, but if they arrest us, our identities will inevitably come up. Even if the feds can’t pin this particular crime on us, they’ll never really be on our side — they’ll lock us up without a second thought.
“Look, the gate’s opening. What if we just…?” Genn trails off, raising an eyebrow questioningly. I catch his drift. We both shrug and jump out of the car, bolting after the sedans through the fence just before it closes again, my heart racing.
God, I hope they don’t arrest us, too!
“Genn, hide,” I hiss, waving my hand to shoo him off. He nods and wordlessly darts off the path into the shade of some trees and underbrush while I walk confidently up the driveway, even though I’m not sure if the plan I’m formulating on the way there is going to blow up in my face. Part of me wants to just tell them why I’m here, but I can’t risk muddying up their case against Doyle.
Still, I’ve got to try something. Fake it till you make it, I urge myself as I strut up through the rows of black sedans. The feds are pouring out now, holding up their hands to stop me, shouting at me to get back and stay back.
I simply hold my hands up in surrender and announce, “I’m a journalist! The people have a right to know about what Leon Volkov has done! I’m here to collect the truth and by God I am going to get it even if I have to spend the night in a cell to do so!”