GATOR: Wolves MC (Riding With Wolves Book 2) (11 page)

September 15, 2015–Los Angeles, California

“Why are we stopping here?” J.T. asked as I pulled up a few blocks away from a boomin’ nightclub. She’d had both arms wrapped tightly around my waist—and I’d really enjoyed the feeling of it. But now, she was starting to let go, and it made me want to rev my engine and hit the road again, full speed ahead.

“We’re not really
stoppin’
,” I explained. “We’re just pullin’ over… I need to make a phone call or two. It may be too late for
some
business, but it’s never too late for
this
kind of business. I gotta touch base with some people, to let ‘em know we need ‘em—and that we’re comin.’”

J.T. let go of my torso completely and leaned back in the seat. She started to dismount my bike and step off onto the pavement—but then, I stopped her.

“Don’t leave,” I said, turning back to look at her. “Stay here… on the bike… with me.”

“But you said you have to make some phone calls,” she said, leaning forward again, just a bit. “Don’t you want your privacy?”

I leaned back, just as much as J.T. had leaned forward and turned my head as far to the side as I could. “From now on,” I said, “there’s no such thing as privacy between us… If you think I’m going to let you out of my sight for a minute, you’re crazy. We’re stuck together like glue from this point forward.”

I could feel J.T.’s body relax behind me, but I kept my posture firm and steady as I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out my cell phone. I dialed the first number that came to mind—the one person I knew I could call on at any time and could count on at a time like this.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Hammer said as soon as he answered the phone. “I heard you got let out of interrogation like two hours ago. Why the hell did ya wait so fuckin’ long to call me?”

“No time for that shit now, buddy,” I said in a voice that was civil, yet demanding. “We got an emergency here, and I need you.”

“What’s up, man?” Hammer replied immediately, picking up on my urgency. “What do you need?”

“Meet me at the rock,” I said, “as soon as you can.”

“Alright,” Hammer answered. “I’m leaving now. I’ll be there in twenty minutes or so.”

Hammer hung up the phone, and I scrolled down through my contacts list to find another number, which I dialed from time to time, but didn’t dial that often. I pressed “send” and held my breath, unsure of the forthcoming reaction.

“Hello,” the man answered in a calm voice.

“Sorry to bother you so late,” I said. “But it’s
really
important.”

“I know it must be,” he said, “or else you
wouldn’t
be bothering me so late.”

“Something terrible happened just now, and I need—” I began to explain before I was cut off.

“I’m aware of what happened earlier today,” he said, interrupting me in the most polite manner. “And I’d imagine a lot of terrible things could spring from it… I’m here to help you take care of those terrible things. Whatever you seek, my door is open.”

“Thank you,” I sighed.

“No need to,” he replied. “Just doing my job.”

I hung up my phone and shoved it in my pocket, then revved my bike. J.T. took the cues and wrapped her arms around me again—and for a split-second, I was lost in her touch. It was soft and tight, and just cozy enough to make me forget about all the ugliness I’d seen—and it was all the more incentive to make sure that nothing even uglier went down.

“Who was that?” J.T. asked, resting her head against the back of my neck. “Where are we going?” She spoke just loudly enough that I could hear her over my engine.

“We’re going to the rock,” I told her, kicking my boot against the ground. “To see my best friend and my boss… and they’re gonna help us.”

“The rock?” she asked as my bike slowly sputtered into motion. “What’s that?”

“You’ll see,” I answered, pulling off into the street. J.T.’s grasp on me grew tighter, and I could feel her body shaking behind me. I wondered if she’d ever been on a motorcycle before—and if she’d ever been on one like
mine
, with a guy like
me
. My Harley wasn’t standard police-issue; I lacked a uniform; and, I didn’t have anything but street credentials.

It was about a twenty-minute ride from where we were to where we were going, which may not seem like a lot of time—but I tell ya, it felt like forever. My mind was still racing with thoughts of everything J.T. had told me, and of all that we had been through over the last twelve years and two hours. My bike couldn’t keep up with it in the least bit, and my pulse, if anything, surpassed it.

I couldn’t believe J.T. thought her father had bribed me. I couldn’t believe she thought I’d given up on her so easily, for such a stupid fucking reason. I couldn’t believe she got divorced three years ago… And I couldn’t believe she’d just narrowly escaped being murdered.

Twenty minutes is an eternity with thoughts like that in your head, and it felt unbearable—yet at the same time, strangely blissful. At least I got to spend that eternity in the arms of a beautiful woman.

September 15, 2015–Los Angeles, California

When a long-haired dude on a Harley tells you that he’s taking you to a place called “the rock,” you either expect him to take you to: (1) a rock ‘n roll bar filled with people just like him; or (2) an actual rock, such as one on the beach or along a stretch of highway where people go to party or get laid.

I knew, given our current circumstances, that Gator wasn’t going to take me to either of these types of places, but still, it seemed a possibility. And it seemed far more likely than the place where Gator
actually
took me.

“
This
is the rock?” I asked Gator after he pulled into the long driveway of a modest, three-story stone house. The grounds looked well cared for and the structure appeared to be in great shape, but all told, it looked like the type of place where a family or elderly couple would live, not the meeting place for a bunch of bikers.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Gator said, parking his bike and turning off the engine. “It might not look like much, but trust me, it is. It’s kind of a secret safe house, where we go to take care of business in times of dire need. The Wolves have owned it for decades, since before the Wolves were the Wolves, and only a few people each generation are even told that it exists.”

“And you’re one of them?” I asked, blushing a little. I felt a strange sense of pride.

“Guess so,” Gator replied, blushing a bit as well. He took my hand and helped me off of his motorcycle, then walked me to the door. I waited for him to do some type of secret code for a knock, but instead, he simply rapped on the door three times.

A moment later, a very respectable, somewhat humble-looking man answered the door. He was of average frame, with a shaved head, and wore thick-rimmed glasses on his face. He looked like the type of guy who would live in a place like this, though he greeted us the way a butler would.

“Gator,” he said, nodding toward Gator.

“Detective,” he said, nodding toward me.

We both nodded back at him, then he smiled and opened the door invitingly.

“Right this way,” he instructed, leading us from the entryway into a large, open living room. The room, itself, was rather lavishly decorated. The high-end furniture and rusty-colored scenic artwork gave it a very classy feel, and it very much reminded me of the type of room that would be the setting for a cocktail party in a movie—except
this
particular room was mostly empty, but for me, Gator, and our escort.

The butler-like man walked us over to the lush couch, which was covered with a soft velveteen fabric.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked courteously. “Coffee? Tea? Mineral water?”

Gator shook his head from side to side to say “no.” But I thought for a moment, then answered. “Got anything a little harder than that?” I asked. “I’ve had a
very
long day.”

“Very well,” he replied with a smile. “I’ll see what I can find.”

He walked out of the room, and I turned to look at Gator. He was sitting on the far end of the couch, but I wished he’d been closer. I’d just spent so much time pressed against his back, and I missed the comfort that closeness gave me.

I was just about to say something when another man walked into the room from an offset hallway I hadn’t noticed. He was tall, muscular, and around my age, with long brown hair and the face of an angel. His casual clothing clung to his body in all the right places. He was obviously a biker—or a “bad boy” of some sort—and he kinda looked like the kind of guy you would see in a “biker of the month” calendar.

As the hot hunk entered the room, he said something briefly, then swiped his finger across his cellphone, obviously ending a phone call. He looked over at me and Gator, cocked his head to the side, and shook it.

“A dead cop?” he asked, raising his eyebrow.

“You heard already?” Gator asked, as he stood up and walked over to the man. The two of them embraced for a moment and patted each other on the shoulders.

“Just now,” the hunk answered. “Huck said L.A.P.D. just arrived on the scene. No info other than that… What the fuck happened?”

Gator shook his head. “Good question,” he said, walking back to the couch. He sat down—and thankfully, he was closer to me than before, though still not as close as I’d have liked.

I was still a wreck and hadn’t yet recovered from the trauma of finding Barnes, but the hunk’s statement caused me concern. If
he
had heard about it already that meant the chief probably had as well—which meant I had to get back on the ball and make a move quickly. Coop was going to want answers, and he was going to want to talk to
me
as soon as possible.

I reached down to the floor next to me and grabbed my bag. My cell phone was still in it, in pieces, and I wanted to reassemble it so that I’d be back on the grid.

I pulled the pieces out of my purse and started clicking them together. I was almost done, when the hunk approached me.

“I’m Hammer, by the way,” he said, gazing down at me from beside the couch.

“Detective J.T. Knowles,” I replied. I didn’t look up at him. I was task-oriented. I needed to fix my phone and didn’t want his good looks to distract me.

“I know,” the hunk answered, walking over to an adjacent chair and sitting down in it.

I’d managed to piece my phone back together, and I pressed the “power” button, but nothing happened. I pressed it again—and again, nothing.

“Shit,” I said, taking the thing apart again.

“What’s wrong?” Gator asked, inching over toward me slightly.

“My phone,” I answered. “I think it’s broken… And I’ve gotta call the chief.”

“There’ll be plenty of time for that later,” the butler-like man said as he walked into the room from somewhere behind us. “There are other things to tend to first—and we must do them one at a time.”

He was carrying a serving tray with a large bottle of wine, three wine glasses, and a bottle of water on it, and he set the tray on the coffee table in front of us. He proceeded to pick up the bottle, pour out one glass, and hand it to me. Then, he picked up the botte of mineral water and took it with him as he went to sit in another nearby chair.

“I’m sorry about your partner, Detective,” the butler-like man said, uncapping his bottle. “And I am sorry about all of the other complications that have already arisen from this case, as well as those that surely will… It seems as though someone has drawn
you
into their plot against
us
—and rest assured, we intend to do whatever possible to assist you with your investigation and protect you from any further harm.”

I took a sip of the red wine he’d handed me, then looked from him, to the other men, curiously.

“Who are
you
?” I asked.

The man locked eyes with me. “I’m Crete,” he said quite simply.

“
You’re
the Wolves’ boss?” I asked, almost doing a spit-take.

“Yes,” he replied, “in a manner of speaking.”

“Oh,” I answered, burying my nose in my wine glass. For a detective, I sure was doing a shitty job of detecting.

I took another sip of my wine, staring at Crete as I did. “I thought you were a butler or something,” I added. Like defeat, sometimes it’s best to admit fault.

September 15, 2015–Los Angeles, California

“Indeed, I am a lot of things,” Crete asserted with a smile, “but a butler is
not
one of them.”

“I’m sorry,” I replied. “You just don’t seem like a biker, let alone a biker boss. You don’t have that ‘bad guy’ vibe.”

“As well I don’t,” Crete responded. “I’m not a bad guy—and not all bikers
are
.”

I took another sip. I felt the urge to apologize again but didn’t want to. I couldn’t stand to lose any more ground.

“I’m glad that I have confounded you though,” Crete continued. “There are many assumptions that exist about bikers and biker gangs, or as I like to call them, ‘biker organizations.’ In some instances, with some organizations, those assumptions prove to be true—while with others, they do not.

“Just as I am not your typical biker boss, you’ll find that the Wolves are not your typical gang… And I believe that those differences—those things that set
us
apart—are the motivation behind this set of crimes.”

Hammer stood up, walked over to the coffee table, and poured a glass of wine, filling the glass to the brim. He handed it to Gator, then poured another, similar glass and sat back down.

“The Wolves,” Crete continued, uninterrupted, “like many other biker organizations, are outlaws by nature. But we are vigilante outlaws. For as long as our organization has existed, it has been our primary goal to serve our larger community by ridding it of troublesome people and things—and in doing so, we aim to prevent more damage than we create.

“Since I came into power within the Wolves, I have tailored this objective somewhat to meet a very pressing need. The drug epidemic in this country has expanded exponentially over the years, especially as far as heroin is concerned—and as you know, a great deal of its global trafficking happens right here, on L.A.’s streets.

“Tossing a pebble into a pond may not cause a wave, but at least it disrupts the water a bit. I made it our primary agenda to cut back heroin trafficking in L.A. as much as we feasibly could—and believe it or not, our efforts have worked.

“The drug epidemic is still festering and spreading, but over the past ten years or so, we’ve put a stop to some of the fetid ooze. We’ve helped get some major drug lords arrested behind the scenes, and we’ve coerced several lower level pins to getting out of the heroin trade. We’ve rehabilitated numerous junkies and converted former dealers to our side.

“We’ve tossed our pebbled into the pound, Detective—and it has disrupted things a bit. However, it’s also stirred things up. And now, what was at the bottom is trying to rise to the top.”

I took another drink and envied how fully Hammer had poured his and Gator’s glasses.
My
glass was almost empty since Crete had poured it in the conventional way.

“So what are you saying?” I asked. “This is all about drugs? Someone killed John Berry—someone killed
Barnes
—because of your objective?”

“Essentially,” Crete replied. He took a sip of water and sat back in his chair.

I’d hoped for more of an explanation than that—and all I had to do was ask the right question to get it.

“But what does any of this have to do with
me
?” I asked.

Crete crossed one leg over the other, bowed his head, and sighed.

“We’ve been trying to get heroin
off
of L.A.’s streets,” Crete explained. “And the people responsible for putting it
on
the streets haven’t been happy about it. Heroin means money, and they don’t want
us
interfering with their profits and sales.

“For as long as we have been fighting against them, they have been fighting back. They’ve attacked some of our members, set us up for certain falls, and tried to infiltrate our ranks. They’ve destroyed our property, debunked our investments, and damaged our bikes. They’ve done a lot of things to us—but those things never deterred us. We kept to our guns… And they didn’t like it.”

“Who are
they
?” I asked, leaning forward and refilling my glass in the conventional way.

“
They
are a variety or people and organizations,” Crete responded. “Obviously, there is no
one
source responsible for all of L.A.’s heroin, and there are many groups and individuals who have their hands dipped in that pot, which means that there are many groups and individuals we have angered over the years.

“Our primary opposition, however, has been our rival gang, the Street Seraphs. As far as heroin trafficking goes, they’re one of the more obvious sources, and one of the easiest, most accessible targets for our goals—which makes them one of the angriest groups in the lot.

“I have my suspicions that they are behind many retaliatory moves made against us. However, those suspicions have not yet been confirmed—and until they are, I will hold out on my own retaliatory moves, to make sure they are directed at the right spot.

“In any event, they—the groups and individuals invested in heroin sales—did a lot of things to try and stop us, but nothing worked… So recently, they tried something else.”

Crete removed his glasses and ran his fingers over the bridge of his nose.

“They say,” he said, putting his glasses back on and looking at me again, “the greatest way to hurt a person is to hurt someone they love… About a year ago, my wife of twelve years, Katy, disappeared without a trace. She was kidnapped and taken from me—and for a year, I’ve been trying to get her back.

“Naturally, as a member of law enforcement, you can understand why I didn’t take this matter to the police. As an outlaw, I have no standing with them, and it would put me in more risk than it would help—and any formal action I could have made would’ve only further stirred whoever took Katy in the first place.

“And as for
who
took Katy… Alas, I still do not know. Again, I have my suspicions—and I’m waiting for them to be confirmed. However, whoever did it, clearly did it for a reason, and given what I’ve just explained to you, I think that reason is clear.

“I believe that Katy was kidnapped as a way to make me acquiesce. But unfortunately, whoever took her didn’t know whom they were dealing with. We are fighting a war on drugs here, and I wasn’t about to put down my sword just because one soldier fell, no matter what that soldier meant to me personally.

“And believe me,” Crete said, removing his glasses, “that one soldier would have it no other way.”

I was finally starting to regain composure from my earlier trauma. However, my composure was being blown into the water again, and that water had been hit with more than a pebble. I was so shocked by everything I was learning—and so eager to learn more.

“I wasn’t willing to sacrifice our objective for Katy,” Crete went on, “but I wasn’t willing to leave her in the ditches either. I called together some of my resources and assembled a team within the Wolves, which dedicated itself to finding Katy and information on her abduction… And over the past several months, certain things have happened to members of that team, which are beyond coincidence.

“I believe that my team is being targeted, just as I was. Whoever they are, they are coming after my team. They’re coming after the strongest arms of my organizations, in the hopes that it’ll fall.

“And surely I don’t need to tell you, when it comes to strong arms, there are not many stronger than the ones attached to the man sitting next to you. This is their next move.
You
are their next move. They’re coming after you to get at Gator, in order to get at me.”

I set my wine glass down on the coffee table, sat up, and leaned over my legs. I was still assessing all of the new information.

“So we have to figure out who did this—A.S.A.P.,” I said, beginning to formulate a question.

“Yes,” Crete interrupted. “We need to figure out who did this—A.S.A.P.—because I don’t think they’re going to stop until the job is complete. It was
you
who was supposed to be dead in that motel room, not your partner. Things may be sloppier now that the body count has risen, but the stakes are just as high—and as far as
we
are concerned, they just got even higher."