Bishop's Folly (3 page)

His gaze flicked back to her, catching her brown gaze in his grey one. She watched him with a detached expression, making his unease and anger burn hotter. With a growl in his chest, Bishop snarled, “If you seriously think I'd do something so scummy, get the hell out of my room.”

The venom in his voice struck Stella like a smack across the face. She took a step back as his expression continued to darken. Fury stormed behind his eyes, made all the more potent with his lowered brows and deep frown. The air between them snapped with displeasure. An ache throbbed through Stella's heart.

This was good, though. He was showing her his criminal side. The one that could glare at citizens and get his way. The one who bypassed federal laws in favor of his own. Stella pressed her lips together tightly, her own hands curling into fists at her sides. Her nails bit into palm, echoing the pain in her chest. With a curt nod, she backed out of the room. Bishop and Stella never broke their locked gaze, didn't take one breath, until the door slid shut between them.

CHAPTER FIVE

Stella stormed down the corridor, her face hot and her thoughts treading molasses. It felt like a monsoon careened through her thoughts. Hot, muggy anger swamped her synapses and tinged every thought with a sickening mixture of frustration and, oddly, sadness.

A sudden movement in the corner of her eye caught Stella's attention. She stopped suddenly, hand flying to her hip holster. When her mind registered the young man – he looked to be barely out of high school – her tension eased.

Her mind fingered through the memorized files of the Seven Tribesmen. Thomas Shupe, nicknamed Newb until his official patch-in. Who knew what banal moniker he'd end up with? Young, at twenty, but joined the Seven Tribesmen out of high school. He was more of an errand boy than a member, but his father was a founder of the 7T. Juvie records weren't up for snooping, but he had one, as indicative by his late graduation.

Thomas weakly grinned and waved at her, indicating her to enter his glass box of a room.

Stella's feet hesitated. In the corner of the room, she caught sight of a kutte laid across a chair. The insignia of the Seven Tribesmen leered back at her, the tattooed skull grinning at her. Her stomach lurched. In the back of her mind, paranoia whispered about convoluted conspiracy and award-worthy acting skills.

In spite of her uncertainty, Stella edged toward the room. He seemed harmless enough and probably unable to act to save his ass. The automatic door slid open upon her arrival and a puff of sterile air, bandages, and stale blood hit Stella in her face. She choked down her uneasy nausea and stepped into the room.

The young man smiled at her, paler than Bishop. Dark circles hung under his eyes, and bandages peeked out from beneath his patient gown. Bruises lined his jaw and his arms. An IV fed medication or pain killers into his elbow. Around him, an army of machines beeped and quietly recorded his biometrics.

A stab of guilt slammed into her chest as realization cleaved through her mind. This was the Seven Tribesmen boy who climbed into the van. The one who had taken a bullet. Throwing a sidelong glance at the files hanging from the foot of his bed, it seemed that the young man suffered more than
a
bullet.

“Thank you,” the woman murmured, her throat thick. She realized nothing she said could express her immense gratitude, but she had to try. “For your help the other night.”

“No problem, miss. Just a couple broken ribs and a couple bullets.” The young man shrugged and smiled, but failed at hiding his wince of pain. Another stab of guilt slammed through Stella. Giving a one-shouldered shrug, the young man kept up his bravado, “I'm young; I'll heal up fine.”

Stella shook her head, a light chuckle on her lips. At least someone in the 7T had a sunny disposition. “People have died over less, kid.”

“Yeah, well, I took a pledge to the club.” Thomas's smile broadened. His eyes drifted to his hands, his gaze tracing all the wires and tubes hooked up to him. His voice took on a faraway tone. Stella suddenly felt out of her depth as Thomas continued, “We take care of each other, and the boss likes you a lot.”

Suddenly, cold shock slid up Stella's body. It stopped near her throat, making the woman feel as if she were suffocating. Her eyes wide, she was barely able to breathe out, “What?”

“Didn't you notice him the other night? Charging into the crowd like he had nothing to lose,” Thomas cocked his head to the side, his smile broadening. He shook his head, a lick of awe filtering into his voice, “Never seen him so impulsive, especially with the Seven Tribesmen around.”

“So, you don't think Bishop could have set that up?” Stella's mind struggled to cling to some understandable knowledge. Neither her head or her heart could cope with the possibility that Bishop felt more than fleeting desire for her. Her chest strained to contain the heat inside her.

“What would give you that idea?” Thomas jerked back, eyes wide, as if Stella had struck him. Stella could almost see his world shattering before he straightened out his belief. His eyebrows dipped down into a 'v' as he shook his head, “The boss wouldn't knowingly put any of us in danger and, well, I ended up here.”

Stella licked her lips. Her paranoia fought against the information. Thomas Shupe was a newbie; he hadn't been around long enough to gauge anything. “You're new, though, right?”

“Yeah, but I'm one-hundred percent certain, ma'am.” The young man caught her gaze, holding it in his unwavering leer. Sticking his chin out, Thomas Shupe became the epitome of certainty. His shoulders set, his jaw worked, and his eyebrows furrowed. The sheer determination to make his worldview a reality, if it wasn't already, bowled off him in strong waves.

“Well, thank you for this conversation.” Stella bowed her head, her heart calming at Newb's sureness. However, she didn't want her relief to be blatantly advertised. Her feet already headed for the door as she spoke over her shoulder to Thomas, “I should let you get some rest, Mr. Shupe.”

“Thank you, Agent Holmes,” the young man murmured. His tone was suddenly soft and exhausted. Stella paused in the doorway, glancing at the young man. Thomas Shupe pressed his head back against the pillow, his chest rising and falling with effort. Sympathy and regret wavered through Stella as she wordlessly watched him.

“Excuse me, miss–” The sentence stopped suddenly from the corridor. Stella snapped her gaze to the two men who shifted from foot to foot. Both wore the kuttes of the Seven Tribesmen. One held a box of chocolates in his palms. Two names lit up in Stella's mind: Patrick McFarley and Ross Franklin, two intermediate members of the 7T.

Both of their expressions darkened and became stiff. In unison, they muttered, “Agent Holmes.”

“Mr. McFarley. Mr. Franklin.” Stella swallowed and returned the nod. Quietly, she stepped out of their way. Tension laid heavily between the three people as the two men sidled inside the room. As soon as they entered, their expressions lightened. They grinned at the sleeping Thomas, setting down the gift chocolates. The other gingerly tugged the blanket over Thomas's torso, smoothing down the blanket. Together, the men sat down near Thomas, like a couple of dogs next to a sickly child.

Stella hurried off down the corridor. Her thoughts swung around what Thomas had said, Bishop's feelings, and the scenes she had witnesses today. Despite her paranoia and her sense of propriety, the woman began to wonder if the Seven Tribesmen truly were greedy or out to protect what they considered important to them.

CHAPTER SIX

When Stella made her way into the police department, her thoughts continued to swirl around the Seven Tribesmen. Her head resonated with Stan's suspicions. Her heart fluttered at the very thought Bishop thought so highly to put himself – and, by proxy, the whole of the 7T – at risk for her. The swooning romance heroine in her thought it was romantic. Stella's practical side felt it was short-sighted and absolutely horrid to put the Seven Tribesmen on the line.

She was still mulling over these thoughts when she realized her feet had landed her in front of Stan's office. Her hand hovered over the doorknob as sudden dichotomy took over her thoughts. Could she talk to her partner? Trust him? Or was Bishop weaseling his way into her head, her heart, and her trust? She nibbled on the inside of her cheek before her ears registered the voices inside Stan's office.

“-no one saw me.”

Was that Delilah Sampson? Stella's eyebrows furrowed, her senses picking up on movement on the other side of the door. She scurried away from the door, glancing around the corridor. A few feet away, a door loomed with “supply closet” along its front. Stella raced to the small room just as she heard the blinds clatter. She ducked into the closet, heart racing and gasping quietly. A sick premonition danced among her thoughts, and she moved toward the wall adjoining Stan's office.

“I didn't have any make-up on, and I played the part of a demure nurse.” Delilah's voice wafted from overhead. Stella's gaze shot upward, eyes meeting a vent. Her heart shuddered as she hauled herself onto a metal shelving unit. If she could hear them, maybe she could even see them. As Stella climbed atop the shelving unit, arms wrapped around a supporting bean, she craned her neck. Peering into the grate, she could make out the inside of Stan's office.

Delilah sat, legs crossed at the knees, on Stan's desk. She smiled coyly. Somewhere to Stella's right, out of her range of sight, Stan answered the redhead, “Are you sure?”

The redhead flashed Stan a broad smile. “Well, if they knew it was me, sweetie, I'd have to call your boys a whole lot sooner.”

Stella's eyebrows furrowed. She had a feeling Delilah wasn't talking about the officers in the department.

“That's true.” The man finally entered Stella's field of vision. He wandered closer to his desk, hands folded behind his back. He stood ramrod straight, chin high as his voice infused with a sense of purpose. “I promise you complete protection against the Grave Demons and the Seven Tribesmen, Ms. Sampson.”

“I hope so!” A flurry of giggles flew from Delilah's mouth. She pressed her knuckles to her pink painted lips, hiding her saucy smile. Stella would have groaned if she didn't fear being caught. Delilah shifted her legs and smoothed her dressed down over her thighs. “You do call yourselves the White Knights after all.”

“As I have told you,” Stella could hear a flirtatious grin curl at Stan's lips, and her stomach lurched, “I am merely an affiliate.”

“Oh, handsome, you are the biggest knight of them all. Keeping little ole me safe from the big baddies.” Delilah slid off the desk, her long lashes fluttering rapidly. She advanced on Stan and traced a nail down his jawline, over his Adam's apple, and down to his shirt. She fiddled with his buttons as she playfully breathed, “How ever will I repay you?”

“Ms. Sampson, please restrain yourself.” Stan reached for her wrist. His long fingers wrapped around Delilah's wrist, stilling its coy gestures. Delilah glanced up to his face, body language screaming uncertainty for a split second. Stan leaned close to Delilah's face and, in a low voice that Stella had to strain to hear, heard her partner purr, “Or else I'll have to use my handcuffs on you.”

Agent Holmes jerked back as Delilah squealed under her breath. Stella's stomach lurched and roiled roughly as she heard the lip-smacking sounds next door. She climbed down from the shelving unit.

Her throat suddenly felt raw, and her lungs drained of air, her heart solidifying. Betrayal made Stella's limbs heavy and her thoughts contested. Stan had planned Bishop's overdosing. Stan had gotten Delilah's assistance to murder the biker. Her stomach churned as her mind felt unable to gain a foothold. How could a federal agent fall so low?

Her brain replayed the conversation once more, realizing a gang name had come up. Stan had connections to the White Knights, a notorious white supremacist gang. Stella's stomach jerked harder, nausea building up in her throat. She was partners with a dirty cop. She had gone out with a white supremacist. She had entertained the thought of having sex with him!

As she fumbled out of the supply closet, her gaze gleaned over the assembled officers. A few threw her cursory glances, many eyes alight in curiosity. Betrayal seared through Stella's thoughts. Who could she trust? Who else worked for the White Knights? Who else worked for the drug ring? Who else wanted her dead?

Who could she trust?

One name rang clearly through her head: Arthur Bishop. All previous skepticism and paranoia migrated into her thoughts concerning Stanley Jackson. Stella's fingers shook, and her knees quaked at the realization. She had no trust in anyone but an outlaw biker and his motorcycle club.

With the world as she understood it disintegrating under her feet, Stella rushed down the corridor. Away from Stan's office. Away from her corrupt partner. Away from the sickening revelations.

However, a small part of Stella trembled with excitement, knowing who she was inevitably heading toward.