Mine: Black Sparks MC (13 page)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Nick hadn't left the house that morning expecting to meet Jack Camus. He really hadn't. He'd gone to the bar for a meeting with the Black Sparks, to talk about the progress Tryg had made with the Russians. Needless to say, that news hadn't been encouraging, and only served to underscore the fact that the Vipers were circling them like piranhas on a cow leg. He had not liked the idea of leaving Liana alone, despite the fact that Helena had taken him on a tour of the house and grounds, pointing out all the relevant safety features, including the safe room, where she'd barricaded them both inside "to demonstrate," then happened to bump her thigh against his as she reached down to show him the button to turn on the surveillance camera. He didn't know what Helena's long game was; chances were she was just a lonely woman whose husband had betrayed her too may times. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t be dangerous, that she couldn’t have an agenda.

Not to mention, what Helena had said that night was still haunting him, not so much her words, but the idea that there was a part of Nick that wanted to believe that Liana wasn't on the up and up. Would it be easier for him if he could convince himself she was a liar and an opportunist who would sell herself to Jack, as she'd once sold herself to Noel, so long as she could hold that silver spoon between her teeth? That she was really back in Prudence not because she was frightened, but for her own gain? After all, if she had really been as desperate and hard-up for cash in New York as she'd claimed to be, riding with a crooked cop with connections to a far-reaching criminal gang would certainly be a prime way to move up in the world. And Liana, with her M.C. roots, would know better than your average starving actress how to exploit them.

After the meeting, he’d been on his bike, taking the curves of the winding roads near Helena’s, these thoughts clouding his head, when he’d noticed the car, perked half in the ditch on the side of a lonely dirt road on the north side of Helena's property. He'd recognized it immediately, stopping on the shoulder to decide his next move, dragging his bike into the ditch to disguise its presence as much as he could. He knew exactly what he'd like to do to Jack Camus if he saw him face to face and in a different world, one where outlaws could do whatever they wanted to cops and expect not to spend the rest of their lives in a cell, he'd probably rip him limb from limb and leave him bleeding out all over the customized napped leather seats of his Mercury. He could call for his fellow Sparks to back him up, but by the time they arrived Camus might be gone. No. There was only one option, he decided, just as the man himself appeared as if on cue.

Jack Camus was about thirty-five; already a sergeant for five years, and it showed in his bearing. Tall, his close-cropped hair, so blond it was almost white, framed his youthful, high-cheekboned face, his features blade-sharp. He took off his wraparound sunglasses and Nick could see his ice-blue eyes. He hated to think of Liana being attracted to this guy, though it was abundantly obvious to see why she would have been. His exit from the car was all so perfectly timed that Nick expected to see a Hollywood grip crew behind him. Completing the Hollywood effect, he was dressed in head to toe black, True Religion designer jeans topped by a black V-neck t-shirt and an expensive black leather bomber jacket. The only thing that would make it more perfect is if Nick had been dressed in head to toe white, taking the role of Liana's protector, her knight, her avenging angel. What a joke, he'd thought, chasing away the thought. That wasn’t a role anybody would ever cast Nicholas Stone in.

Jack's lips parted. "Looking for a badge?" he paused, but Nick said nothing, trying to stare him down. "Gun? Cuffs? In the trunk. I'm not trying to drop a sting on you, Nick. This is unofficial business."

It didn’t surprise him for a second that Jack recognized him. This was his business; this was why he always won. He knew things about people.

He grabbed for the gun in his waistband, the one Tryg had given him, grateful now that Tryg hadn't had a chance yet to ask for it back. He brandished it at Jack, the slick metal under his hand giving away his anxiety.

Jack waved it off. “I put my gun away. I think it’s only fair to ask the same courtesy from you.”

Nick nodded, tightened his grip, and replaced it behind his back, every movement cautious and deliberate. He couldn’t afford to look like he didn’t know what he was doing.

"I want to thank you for taking care of Liana," Jack said, his artificially whitened teeth parting in a grim smile. "I was surprised enough to find that my girlfriend was practically the heiress to the M.C. I've only heard about in storybooks. And now I’m lucky enough to meet one of her retinue, a genuine Black Spark in the flesh."

"The only way to take care of her is to keep her away from you," said Nick, hoping it wasn't obvious how he'd cringed to hear Jack refer to her as his girlfriend. The idea of Liana being anybody's girlfriend, let alone Jack's, disgusted him. He was afraid of what that meant. "Let's get one thing straight. I'm not here because I like you. If I had my way, you'd be bleeding out your aorta right now."

"Typical Middle American, always resorting to violence first thing. Out east, we've evolved."

"Evolved?"

"Yeah, it's a word that means to grow, to change--"

"I know what the fuck it means, Camus. Get to the point."

"You know the point. You have something that belongs to me, and I want it back." His tone was measured, calm. There was no doubt in this man's mind that Liana was his as much as if she'd been tattooed with his name.

"She doesn't belong to you. She never did."

A cool gleam of humor sparkled in Jack's eyes. "And they tell me I'm possessive."

Nick took a step back, his face reddening, ashamed of how he sounded. He knew how sensitive Liana was to being treated like a pawn. As a teen, he'd seen the pain it had brought her firsthand. If there was one thing he could do for her, if nothing else, it was to ensure he never treated her that way himself. "She's a person, Camus. Not some car accessory you can hang in the windshield of your cruiser."

"No cruiser," he said, patting the Mercury. "Only her." Jack stepped forward, the shadows of the willow dancing across his face, making it look half-purposeful. Nick gave no ground. "You won't get her, Nick, you know," he said. "She's my destiny. And I'm hers."

"Destiny?"

"You know, kismet. Fate. Written in the stars," he made a contemptuous little motion with his hand.

Nick got the idea he was treating him like an ignorant child, but he didn't know how to register his disgust without sounding like even more immature.

"You're insane."

Jack just nodded. Nothing seemed to ruffle this guy. "She told me what happened between you two, you know."

"How much?" Nick asked, swallowing.

"Everything." Jack flashed his white, jackal-like smile. "Nothing's changed. You're still not worth the ground she walks on, and she knows it. She needs more. She deserves more."  Nick wouldn't have minded this so much if deep down, he hadn't feared it was true. "And I'm the only man who can give it to her. Of course," he went on, "I can give you what you want, too. I wouldn't want you to think I'm only in this for myself. It's win-win."

"And just what do you think that is?” he challenged, fighting his urge to scream at him.

"I can get rid of that meth-head tweaker Malone, for one."

"How?"

“I know why he got kicked out of the Cleveland charter and I can make sure Tryg does, too. Anyway, Tryg's not going to be around forever. In case you hadn't noticed, you're in a rather dangerous business. He's got a kid to take care of and he's going to want to pass off the responsibility to someone younger. He's going to have to name somebody president before he makes his exit. How do you think it's going to look if you can't get that shipment back?"

Nick stared out the window, a flycatcher alighting on a beech bough. "I'll find a way."

"News flash, pretty boy: this
is
the way." His hand clenched on the side of the brick, as if he had the urge to grab the younger man, but was restraining himself. Nick could almost sense an undercurrent of anger under Jack's smooth, measured tone. Good; he could use that against him. "You know what was in that shipment, didn't you?"

"Pig iron. That's what it always was. That's what they manufacture at Chillicothe."

Jack reached for the handle of the Mercury. "Get in and I'll show you."

Nick crossed his arms and took a step back. "How much of a dumbass do you think I am?"

"Dumb enough not to know there's CCTVs all over this place. Just because you can't see them doesn't mean nobody's watching."

"I'm not going to hesitate to blow your head off if you try anything," said Nick, taking a step closer. "And that goes for pulling any cop shit. The handcuffs stay in the trunk," he added. "And the door stays open."

"Relax, kid," said Jack. "I know the cuffs make you jumpy. They should, after what you went through."

Nick opened his mouth, feeling stripped of what little armor he had. "How did you know that? Did Liana--"

"No. Not for lack of trying on my part. I knew there was a story there, but trying to pry it out of her was like giving her a root canal. Luckily, it wasn't hard to figure out the rest on my own, after a little digging."

The car was as neat as a pin, smelling as if it had been sold yesterday. As Nick perched gingerly on the edge of the plush leather passenger seat, Jack reached down to turn on his satellite radio to a classical music station, some string-heavy orchestral piece that was jarring in its incongruity. Did he really listen to this stuff?

"That was a juvenile conviction. It should have been sealed," he insisted.

Jack tipped his head back. "I don't know who's cuter, her or you. I'm a sergeant, Nick. If your great-grandma was arrested in 1923 for showing too much leg on the boardwalk, I can find out. Anyway, I'm not holding it against you. I'm sure it was an honest mistake." He wasn't laughing, but Nick was sure there was an element of scorn in it. "Far be it from me, as an officer of the law, to prevent an upright citizen from trying to put his life back together."

"That's what you call this?" Nick demanded, gesturing around the car.

"There are many ways of building a life."

"The shipment," Nick said, desperate to try to take control of the situation again. "What was in it?"

"Eager now, are we?” Jack said with a throaty laugh. “That's what I like to see. Anyway, the pig iron was a cover, what he told you until he could be sure he could trust you."

Jack reached under the seat and pulled up the carpet lining the floor, then, with one of his keys, pried up an ingenious false panel built into the car's chassis, as seamlessly as if the factory had included it specially. His hand emerged holding a duct-taped wrapped package. He unwrapped the plastic and swiped it with his index finger and held it to his lips. "Go ahead. Have a taste."

"No thanks."

"Heroin. Fresh in from Tora Bora; this is al-Qaeda's hobby when they're not blowing up jetliners. There are seventy kilos more where this came from. One-point-two million all told."

"How do you know?"

"Because the Vipers have it, and I can get it back for you." Nick stared into Jack's smooth, flawless face. "Now, Nick, you can't sit there straight-faced and tell me you don't want the chance to get back in Tryg Ryan's good graces."

"Since when do you care about the Black Sparks?"

"I don't. I don't care about the Vipers, either. They were convenient and they were there. Whatever I've done for them, I'll gladly do the same for you gentlemen if it can get me what I really want."

Nick opened his mouth. Behind him familiar the sound of a Harley Dyna Glide, its pipes customized to be loud enough to rattle windowpanes, roaring up the curved road toward Helena's neighborhood, jerking him back into reality. "Shit," Nick muttered. He choked, the new car leather smell flooding into his lungs suddenly, reminding him where he was. He had to get out of here before one of the Sparks spotted him and assumed the worst. He wouldn't even know how to begin explaining how or why he had sat in the car with a man who was not only a leader of the Vipers, but a cop, no less, calmly discussing deals as if he'd been in a corporate boardroom. As if he would ever consider it. How could he?