On a Knife's Edge (13 page)

She shook her head. “All this money, and no one questions
where it’s coming from? Do they all honestly believe it’s from the illegal
distribution of pharmaceuticals?”

 “Look…my guys are blue-collar. Living payout to payout
trying to provide for their families. With this kind of money on the line,
they’re not gonna ask a lot of questions.”

“Or none at all.” Jarvis sighed. “What else can you tell
me?”

“Junkyard also has his hand in the gun and heroin trade.
That might be the connection to Fuentes. And he was pretty pissed that Grunge
told me all this shit.”

Silence swallowed the next few moments as Jarvis finished
her notes. “All right.” She removed her glasses. “I’m leaving tomorrow for a
couple of weeks in DC, and here’s what I need from you...find out when the next
shipment is, the route and the number of people in the escort.”

He cocked his head. “That’s all you need from me?” He barely
contained his laugh. “Counselor, there’s
no way
I’m gonna find out any
of that info.”

“Why not?”

“Because Junkyard doesn’t trusts me. A feeling that’s
mutual.”

“Find a way around that.”

“And how would I do that?”

“Be creative. Put that criminal mind of yours to work. I
expect results by the time I get back.” She gave him a hard stare. “Just
remember, a lot of young girls—and your mother—are depending on you.”

He bit back a scathing retort as she scooted from the booth.
He reached out his hand to stop her. “There’s one more thing…”

She paused, an eyebrow raised.

“I think Junkyard plans to retaliate against the sheriff for
hauling me in earlier this week.

“Retaliate how?”

“Dunno. But you might wanna give him a heads up.”

She nodded. “I’ll have Newman handle it…thanks.”

With that, his lawyer walked out.

~*~

T
wo days later, on Friday
afternoon, Lynch eyed the cue ball up behind the eleven. “Corner pocket.” He
drew back his stick and smacked the white ball. It collided with the eleven,
but at an angle. The red-striped globe bounced off the rail and careened to the
center of the table. He bowed his head. “Shit.”

Mick laughed. “How could you miss such an easy shot,
brother? You must not have had much practice time while you were inside.”

Lynch uncurled his body then picked up his beer. “Not in the
least.”

Mick examined the table while chalking his stick. “You’ll be
back to your pool-sharking self in no time, I’m sure. In the meantime, though…”
He indicated the four ball. “Four in the side pocket.” The purple orb sailed
in. “I intend to take full advantage.” Grinning, Mick straightened and
re-chalked his stick.

Lynch smiled and tipped the bottle to his lips, but he took
barely a sip. He’d been nursing the same beer ever since he got to the
clubhouse that morning while keeping his ears open for information about any
future “pharmaceutical” shipments. With Jarvis out of town for a while, he had
some breathing room, but not much.

So far he’d heard nothing about the pharms, but he’d heard
plenty from the trio at the other table about an upcoming run of AK-47s. He
filed the information to tell Newman the next time he met him.

Watching Mick line up his next shot, Lynch thought back to
what he’d seen in the park between Newman and Murphy—along with dear Agent Jarvis.
He wanted to believe he could trust the agents, but years as a Streeter had
made him inherently cynical any trustworthy relationship could exist. Still it
didn’t make a lot of sense for them to spring him from prison just to screw him
over. Of course maybe they wanted him as a fall guy. If this operation tanked,
an ex-con would be the perfect candidate for blame. In any case, he needed to
stay on top of the situation…feed Jarvis and Newman just enough information to
keep them happy, and him out of prison.

Mick finished the game with an eight-ball bank shot to a
corner pocket. “Want me to rack ‘em again?” he asked.

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” Lynch answered, pulling out his
wallet. He handed a twenty to Mick. “I need to redeem my reputation. Plus win
back some of my money.”

“What’s this I hear? Lynch Callan losing money while playing
pool?”

Lynch looked over as Rolo approached. He also noted Junkyard
and Bowyer stood at the bar. Though the president wore a wide grin, he looked
haggard. He hugged first Mick then Lynch.

“What the hell happened to you?” Lynch asked. “You look like
you were dragged for ten miles on a dirt road.”

Rolo scowled. “Thanks, brother.” He sprawled into a nearby
armchair with a not-so-quiet groan. “Been a long trip is all. Mick, how ‘bout
you fetch another round?”

Mick laid his stick on the table. “Sure thing, boss.”

Lynch joined Rolo. “Heard you were in Henderson.”

“Who’d you hear that from?”

Lynch paused in sitting. “Was it a secret?”

Rolo grunted. “No.”

“From Grunge.” Lynch sank into the cushions. “He also gave
me your welcome-home present. It’s been a long time since I've seen that many
Ben Franks.”

Rolo smiled. “No need to thank me, son. You earned it.”

“How? By being locked up for the last seven years? It feels
like…charity.”

The president frowned. “It ain’t no goddamn charity. You
earned it by being a brother, brother.” He huffed. “I would’ve thought you
smart enough to remember that.”

“
I
remember being a brother who pulled his weight for
his payouts. Not goddamn handouts.”

Rolo’s scowl deepened, but he said nothing.

“C’mon, brother,” Lynch implored. “I gotta do something more
than shoot pool and drink. It’s making me bat-shit crazy.”

“I woulda thought you’d like the vacation.”

“Vacation from what?” Lynch rubbed his hands together. “I've
had seven years of vacation.”

Rolo sighed. “I suppose you have. All right, if it means so
much to you—”

“Here ya go, boss.” Mick returned, three beers in hand,
followed by Junkyard and Bowyer.

“Mind if we join you,” the VP asked, pulling up a chair.

“Not at all.” Rolo’s jolliness sounded forced.

Lynch flopped back in his seat.
Christ.
Just when he
thought he’d get some answers, Junkyard shows up. And with his pit bull no
less. Didn’t that guy go anywhere without Bowyer? Who knew when Lynch would get
another chance to talk with Rolo alone?

Rolo lifted his drink. “To a job done.”

Lynch tipped his beer to his lips. “What job?”

“A motherfucker that is now over,” Rolo answered. He shifted
in his chair with a grimace. “I know I look youthful and all, but I’m getting
too old to do these long rides.”

“Since when is a ride up from Henderson a long one?”

Junkyard scoffed. “You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?”

Lynch glared. “And if I do…?”

An uncomfortable silence descended.

“Well…?” Lynch prodded. He didn’t like the look that passed
between Rolo and Junkyard. He glanced at Mick who suddenly studied his lap with
intense interest while Bowyer smirked. He set his bottle down with a thunk and
stood. “I am done with this bullshit.”

“What the fuck’s your problem?” Rolo demanded.

Planting his hands low on his hips, Lynch glowered back. “My
problem is ever since I got back, I've been on the outside looking in. And I’m
sick of it. Either I’m a brother or I’m not.”

“I vote for not,” Bowyer sneered.

Lynch lowered his arms and balled his fists. “What did you
say, fucktard?”

Rage melted Bowyer’s face like a wax statue. He shoved to
his feet and lunged. The other three men jumped up. Junkyard grabbed Bowyer
while Mick did the same with Lynch.

“
Goddamn it
,” Rolo roared. “I’m too fucking tired for
a goddamn pissing contest.” He rubbed his palm down his face then aimed an
angry stare at Lynch. “Club meeting. Tomorrow. Eleven am. You wanna pull your
weight around here, then don’t be late. Happy?”

No, Lynch wasn’t happy. He’d be happy if he got to pound the
living shit out of Bowyer and Junkyard. But this would do. For now. He relaxed
his stance. “Yeah.”

“Good.” Rolo flopped back in his chair and picked up his
beer. “Now get the fuck out before you cause another ruckus.”

With a final glare to the VP and his pit bull, Lynch left.

Chapter Eleven

STARING
AT THE
monitor, I watch Callan stomp from camera range.

I hate that I can’t hear for shit in that damn clubhouse.
With all the goddamn money I spent to ensure I kept an eye and ear on the
Streeters and the only place I get good audio is in the meeting room. But even
though I couldn’t hear the words, I heard Callan’s body language loud and
clear.

His intense conversation with Pruett started a tick
pulsating behind my left eye. No doubt that fucker had pumped Pruett for
information, just like he had that idiot Grunge. Information about what, I
don’t know. Thank God Junkyard and Bowyer had walked up, ending the
conversation both times.

God…Callan looked so pissed as he left, I had to smile. When
he and Bowyer almost came to blows, even better. That’s a matchup I’d love to
see, especially with Bowyer wielding his knife.

I switch the feed to the stationhouse and see Shasta sitting
at her desk. When the new station was built three years ago, no one suspected
hidden cameras and microphones would be strategically placed throughout,
allowing me to monitor everyone. Especially my Shasta.

I zoom in and caress my fingertip over her face. She is so
beautiful…a shiver of pleasure dances up my spine. It won’t be long before I’ll
be touching her for real. Holding her. Kissing her. Making love to her…

I frown as Todd Weedly struts up and perched his hip on her
desk. Like the Streeter MC, the only decent audio I get in the stationhouse is
in the more confined spaces like Albright’s office, but I turn the volume all
the way up and strain to hear what’s being said.

“You sure you don’t want to go to lunch with me,” Weedly
says.

Shasta nods without looking up. “Need to finish this, but
thanks for the invite.”

Weedly leans close to her. “You’ve been bent over those
files all week, Shasta. Maybe it’s time you were bent over something…or
someone
…different
for a change.”

Shasta snaps up her head.

Weedly stands with a chuckle. “Let me know if you change
your mind about lunch.” He saunters off.

I glare at the screen, feeling my pulse thump in her my
head.

I've never considered Weedly a danger to Shasta, but then
he’s never been this blatant in his innuendos toward her. And that pisses me
off. A lot. I suppose it’s possible I’m just being overprotective because
Callan’s out and is making my life miserable. Still the suggestion Shasta would
allow Weedly to fuck her curdles my blood.

I close my eyes and steady my breathing. This is
Todd
Weedly,
a simpleton who’s absolutely
zero threat
to me or Shasta.
It’s ludicrous to afford him more significance than he’s worth.

Calmer, I open my eyes and smile. No way will anyone but me
touch Shasta.

Not ever again…

Chapter Twelve

SATURDAY
MORNING, LYNCH
grabbed his key ring off the dresser then exited his
bedroom in his mom’s house. “C’mon, Ma. You ‘bout ready? My meeting starts in
an hour.”

“Then go,” Edie answered from her room. “I can drive to the
salon on my own.” She appeared in the small hallway, putting on earrings. “Been
doing it for years, you know.”

“I know, but now that I’m home I want to spend as much time
with you as I can.” He grinned when she rolled her eyes before disappearing
back into her room.

He heard her long-suffering sigh followed by a resigned,
“Fine.”

“Awesome. I’ll go start your car.”

“Yeah…yeah.”

Still smiling, he walked outside…and saw Hez leaning against
the hood of his mom’s Camry talking with Grunge.

Guilt nipped Lynch at the purplish bruises covering most of
Hez’s face. He shook off the sensation—the bastard deserved that beating and
more—then stomped down the porch steps. “Why the hell are you here?”

Grunge immediately backed away while Hez maintained his lazy
posture. “Thought it was time we had a conversation.”

“I've got nuthin’ to say.”

“Good, cuz you’ve got nuthin’ I wanna hear. But you
will
listen to me.”

“What’s going on?” Edie asked, from behind.

“Nuthin’.” Lynch opened the passenger door. “Let’s go.”

“Mrs. C,” Hez said. “Is it okay if Grunge here escorts you
to the salon? Lynch and I have a few things to discuss.”

Lips pursed, Edie slid her gaze between Lynch and Hez then
shrugged. She closed the car door Lynch held open, walked around to the
driver’s side and slid behind the wheel. Grunge climbed on his bike and trailed
after Edie as she drove away.

Lynch watched the Toyota until it vanished. He crossed his
arms and glared at his former best friend. “All right. Talk.”

Hez stuffed his hands in his back pockets. “What happened
between Shasta and me is not what you think.”

“Don’t tell me what to think,” Lynch ground out through
tight lips.

“Look…I did as you asked. I kept an eye on her. Nothing
more. I didn’t even talk to her. After you’d been inside for a couple of years,
I was following her back from Reno and she got a flat tire. It was like a hundred
degrees and who knew how long it’d take for anyone to get to her. Plus she had
her kid in the car.” Hez blew out a breath. “So I stopped and helped.”

“And she repaid you by fucking you, right?”

Hez narrowed his eyes. “Keep being a dick and I’ll pound the
shit outta you. No, she didn’t fuck me. She baked me cookies.”

“Chocolate chip?”

“Yeah. Just like she made you.” Hez shook his head. “After
that, she’d text me whenever her old man was gone. She’d get a babysitter for
the kid and we’d…hang out at your trailer. It was innocent. We never did
anything more than talk.”

Lynch snorted. “Talk about what?”

“You mostly.”

Lynch tucked his chin back in surprise. “Me?”

“Yeah. She asked about everything from us growing up
together to how you were doing in the joint. And I swear to God I never did
more than kiss her cheek.”

“But something happened to change that, right?”

“Right.” Hez’s shoulders rose on a deep inhale as his gaze
lifted to the swaying treetops. “Around the fifth anniversary of her brother
getting shot, she asked me to meet her. When I got to the trailer, she was a
mess. Crying and so drunk on her ass, she could hardly stand. She kept saying
it was all her fault.”

“What was her fault?”

“Beats the shit outta me. I held her. Tried to comfort
her…and…”

Lynch clenched his jaw so tight he thought his molars
cracked.

A blush crept over Hez’s cheeks and he huffed a breath. “She
kissed me and I…uh…kissed her back.” He forced a chuckle. “I mean I’m only
human, right?” His small smile died. “We got into some pretty heaving petting
and she was making these gurgling noises…”

A growl caught in Lynch’s throat.

Hez scrubbed a hand down his face. “I figured things were
going full steam ahead. I whispered her name, and she whispered…yours.” He
shook his head. “When she realized what she’d said, she lost it completely.
Nothing I did calmed her. Finally she passed out and I left.” He scuffed his
shoe through the dirt. “Haven’t seen or heard from her since, until she told me
you were getting out.”

Lynch stared at the ground, his hands on his hips, taking a
moment to process his emotions.

On one hand, he felt grateful Hez hadn’t betrayed him, yet
on the other, remorse consumed him. He
never
expected Shasta
to…languish. Especially for him. After all, he’d been convicted of trying to
kill her brother. He always assumed she moved on, and she had. With a man in a
wheelchair.

Hez shifted. “You gotta believe I wouldn’t hurt you like
that, man. I love you.”

Lynch glanced up. “But you have been staying here, right?”

Hez rubbed his neck. “Yeah…me and the twins use your place
when they’re off shift from the ranch.”

Lynch nodded. Tears burned his eyes as silence settled in
the space around him and Hez. Not an awkward silence, but a clean one. Like
he’d just gotten back his best friend. He cleared his throat.
“You, ah,
wanna grab some lunch before the meeting?”

A crooked grin creased Hez’s face. “Yeah, I do. Mert’s?”

“Sounds great.”

Lynch turned, but Hez gripped his shoulder, pivoted him back
and enfolded him in a monster hug. Lynch clutched him tightly for a moment as a
tear eked from his eye. He slapped Hez once then stepped away. The other man
sniffed and wiped his nose.

“Enough of this shit,” Lynch said with a smile. “Let’s go
eat.”

~*~

F
rom his seat against the
wall, Lynch watched the club members file into the meeting room.

Time was when the brothers all sat at the same table with
the prospects delegated to the perimeter. But now only the officers sat around
the massive oval table.

Lynch crossed his arms, his knees wide and snarled under his
breath. He wasn’t no goddamn prospect…

Hez elbowed him, a question on his face. Lynch relaxed his
posture with a small shake of his head. He needed to keep his cool and not give
away his personal feelings. No matter how hard.

When the door closed, Rolo smacked the gavel on the oak
surface. “Order.”

The din of voices quieted.

While Rolo went through his version of Robert’s Rules of
Order, Lynch fought his impatience. Who gave a fuck about the secretary or
treasurer reports? When the hell would they get to the brass tacks of the
meeting? Finally the discussion moved onto old and new business. He perched his
ankle on the opposite knee, his hands folded in his lap, hoping to give the
impression of detachment, but he hung on every word spoken.

Everything from forming an alliance with a Latino gang in
Sacramento to guaranteeing the safe transport of guns to opening new
distribution lines in Seattle for heroin was hashed out. Lynch catalogued the
names and dates in his memory. The information might come in handy in the
future. But he heard nothing about any pharmaceuticals shipments.

Rolo struck the gavel. “If there’s nothing else, meeting’s
adjourned. See Junkyard for your assignments.”

Lynch stood. “I’m out,” he said to Hez then headed for the
door.

“Yo…wait a minute there, brother.”

Lynch turned and saw Junkyard grinning at him, as was Bowyer
and two more of Junkyard’s crew. Cocking his head, Lynch moved closer. “Yeah?”

“Don’t you want your assignment?” Junkyard asked.

Lynch narrowed his eyes. “Okay.”

“Good.” Junkyard wiped the smirk off his face. “Old Man
Perry’s behind on his protection money. Why don’t you go collect it?”

All Lynch could do was stare.

Junkyard rolled back on his heels, his mouth pulled into a
thoughtful frown. “I know it’s been a while for you…” Bowyer snickered,
followed by the other two morons, and Junkyard’s attempt to keep a straight
face failed. “But the old man’s bones should be brittle enough that if need be
even you could break them.”

The foursome dissolved into fits of laughter.

Lynch glared at the VP. “Let me get this straight…you want
me to lean on Old Man Perry?”

“Yeah,” Junkyard chortled. “Figured you needed something
simple to do.”

Lynch looked at Rolo, who didn’t meet his gaze. “You
approved this?”

The president shrugged. “You said you wanted to pull your
weight and the old man’s behind.”

“But I’m not a pimple-faced prospect looking to get patched
in.”

“You want something easier?” Junkyard’s pit bull taunted.

Blood pounded in Lynch’s ears as he squared off with Bowyer.
The atmosphere in the room changed. Became tenser. Lynch didn’t know what would
happen, but if he got the chance to beat the fuck out of Bowyer, he’d take it.

“Knock it off, both of you,” Rolo snapped, heaving to his
feet. The president gave Lynch a hard look. “Your assignment is Old Man Perry,
got it?”

“No.”

Rolo skewered him with a glower. “What?”

“I haven’t fought and bled for this club to be relegated to
shaking down a ninety-year-old man.” Lynch stalked toward the door.

“Where the hell you going?” Rolo asked.

“Vacation.”

~*~

T
he week passed in a bored
haze for Lynch. He’d been out of prison for two weeks…funny how one monotonous
schedule could be so easily replaced with another.

Every morning, he took his mom to her salon then spent the
day hanging at the clubhouse with the hope of garnering some tangible
information about any future “pharmaceutical” shipments. A hope that faded more
with each day.

He was treated like a pariah. Correction. He’d be lucky to
be treated as well as a pariah.

No one talked to him about anything more substantial than
the weather. And whenever he got within five feet of a group, the discussion
abruptly ended. The only bright spots were the facts he’d gotten back some of
his skills at the pool table and Jarvis wouldn’t be back in Stardust for
another week. But once she did return, she’d want a report. A report that, with
the current circumstances, would be mighty thin.

The nine ball sank into the closest corner pocket after
Lynch banked it off the far rail. He chalked his stick and rounded the table,
looking for his next shot. At just before noon on a Sunday, only a few
Streeters populated the clubhouse, and none wanted to challenge him to a game.
He lined up the cue ball behind the two when his cell buzzed.

Hez.

Smiling, Lynch flipped open the phone, put it on speaker
then bent back over the table. With all the crap he’d been going through, it
was a relief to have his best friend back. “Yo, brother.”

“Where are you?”

The hushed urgency in Hez’s voice snapped Lynch upright. He
grabbed his cell and put it to his ear. “Clubhouse. What’s wrong?”

“Junkyard plans to nab Shasta as payback against the
sheriff.”

Lynch’s stomach dropped through the floor as a cold sweat
broke out on his forehead. “When?”

“Now. They’ve watched her since Albright hauled you in, but
she’s under twenty-four—seven police protection. Except her old man left—with
the deputy. And she just headed out for a run.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I'm one of the guys keeping an eye on her. You know…kinda
like spying on the spies.”

Lynch hurried from the clubhouse. Later, he’d thank Hez for
his brilliance in keeping watch over Shasta, but right now, he needed to get to
her before anyone else. “You with Junkyard now?”

“Yeah…him and Bowyer and a couple others. We’re over at
Mert’s Diner waiting on a text from Spunky who’s following her. Once she leaves
the town limits, we’re riding.”

“So you think she’ll take the Miner Trail into the desert?”

“Yeah.”

Shit.

The outside, muggy air felt like a brick wall. Lightning lit
up the western sky. Lynch threw his leg over his Harley seat. “Is Rolo there?”

“Nah. Haven’t seen him all day. I don’t think he knows.

“Any chance you can stall?”

“Doubtful. Junkyard’s got a real mean glint in his eye. Once
he hears from Spunky, not much is gonna stop him.”

“Just five minutes.” Lynch’s bike roared to life. “That’s
all I need.”

“I’ll try. But you better hurry, bro.”

Lynch disconnected the call and sped from the parking lot.
He didn’t need to be told to hurry because he knew exactly what was at stake.
Shasta’s life.

He’d been stupid to think Junkyard would take revenge on
Albright himself. No…the VP didn’t have the stones for something like that.
He’d want an easier target. A softer one.

Shasta.

Lynch’s gut clenched. He didn’t doubt that Junkyard would
kill her, but first she’d be raped. Probably multiple times by multiple men.
His insides twisted harder. Egged on by terror, Lynch gunned the motor and rode
faster through the streets toward the north side of town.

The Miner Trail…an ambusher’s wet dream. Tall, sandy berms
lined the path which made for countless spots perfect for getting the drop on
an unwary jogger. But maybe Junkyard didn’t want to work that hard. The BLM had
constructed a small picnic and rest area in the shade of several Ponderosa Pine
trees where the trail branched off into dozens of others. With its easy access
for motorcycles, perhaps that’s where he intended to nab Shasta.

Or perhaps not.

Perhaps Junkyard already had her at his mercy.

Heart in his throat, he prayed that wasn’t the case…

~*~

P
erspiration trickled down
Shasta’s forehead and cheeks. She’d been jogging at an easy tempo, but the
overcast, humid weather had her sweating profusely. A few fat raindrops
splashed her shoulder as she sucked in a deep breath of sweet air.