Knight (74 page)

“You’re going to let him out of jail?” I would’ve lived life as a mute if it meant I never had to ask that question again. “
Why would you let him out of jail
?”

“Oh, it isn’t done yet.” Agent Greene offered me a smile. “His case needs to go before a judge. If, for any reason, we can find a reason to keep him
in
jail, he’ll stay behind bars.”

Agent Wright cut into another slice of his pancakes. He ate with his fork upside down. It was either European or just weird. I couldn’t watch him stuff his face. I had to get out of the diner.

“Someone’s
really
pushing for him to get out.” He shrugged. “And it’s not his lawyer. Seems like some of his old friends might have gotten a little lonely while he was incarcerated. If they talk to the right people, do the right favors, it wouldn’t be too hard to get him out on the streets. Jails are overcrowded these days. No one wants to babysit a sixty something old man with sagging ink. Much easier to let him out. To let him be with his family.”

My legs didn’t work, or I would have already run for the car, taken the money, and put as much distance between me the valley as possible. Agent Greene pushed her plate away.

“You don’t seem happy about this.”

I tried to think of a way out. My mind blanked. Silent. Horrified.

“My father and I didn’t have the best relationship.”

“That’s unfortunate. A girl should always have a father.” She leaned closer. “Unless, of course, she has good reason to want him in jail.”

I didn’t trust myself. I ground my jaw hard enough to ache my teeth. She pulled an envelope from her pocket and passed the contents to me. I didn’t need to look at the glossy picture. Though the edges were burned, I feared the memory would survive Exorcist’s destroyed warehouse.

That kind of vulgarity and cruelty couldn’t be purged by fire. Not when it already came from hell.

“Rose,” Agent Greene said. “Looks like we found a family heirloom at the warehouse.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s time to start cooperating. I don’t care what you were doing in the fire, what or who you’ve been doing in Anathema, or why you pissed off The Coup. But you can prevent a breach of justice.”

“I can’t.”

“If you can tell me what this picture is, I can promise that Blade Darnell will be kept in prison.”

My voice trembled and faded with tears. “Please.”

“Why didn’t you have a good relationship with your father?”

“I want to leave.”

“What did he do that scares you so much?”

“Thank you for breakfast, but I have to go.”

“Rose, wait.” Agent Greene dropped the edge in her voice. Her eyes warmed with genuine compassion. She shook her head and urged me to stay. “We can help you.”

“No, you can’t.” I stood and shouldered the backpack that delivered me to my death slowly, without the added haste of someone ratting on one of the most powerful, most influential, and most dangerous members of the original Anathema. “If you want to keep my father in prison, do your job. If you want to get me killed, by all means, keep asking questions. I won’t live long enough to answer them, and you know it.”

“What happened to you—”

“Is none of your concern. And it has nothing to do with Anathema.” I stared her down. “Thank you for the breakfast.”

I didn’t let them answer, and I prayed they wouldn’t follow. I wasn’t lucky as a child, but I needed to be lucky as an adult. Exorcist, Temple, ATF, and Anathema were all watching, waiting, and eager to catch me in a mistake. I tightened the straps on my bag and raced to my car.

I was out of options.

I was out of hope.

And I was far from anyone who might have rescued me.

But that didn’t matter. I had the money, I was getting the drugs, and I was going to save my brothers.

It was time someone protected the family. I wasn’t waiting to be saved anymore.

It was my turn to do the rescuing.

My car started. I braced for the
tick-tick-tick
of a bomb.

Nothing exploded.

I think I was disappointed.

I made it out of the diner. A solid first step. Now I only needed to exchange Ex’s money with Temple’s drugs and escape before ATF hauled me in for questioning, Anathema found me, or Thorne’s betrayal finally broke me down.

I never did allow myself to cry. About anything. And when I should have wept, when I should have screamed and shouted for help, I was given a guitar on my sixteenth birthday to keep quiet.

And it worked.

Keep and Brew were right. Everything in my life revolved around music. I lived only for the opportunity to pick up my guitar.

But what they thought was obsession was really my salvation.

They cleansed their sins in blood. The cut was their shroud, and their hymn the rumble of their engines. The awful things they did for Anathema found absolution within their brotherhood.

I didn’t have that.

I
never
had that.

I shared their name, I suffered their crimes, and I tended their addictions, but when I needed to talk, I was punished. Backhanded, for speaking about things pertaining to the club. Secrets I had no business harboring.

When I needed protection, I was isolated.

When I needed help, I was ignored.

When I needed my brothers, I was abandoned in favor of their true family. Keep and Brew weren’t my siblings. They were Anathema. And Blade Darnell wasn’t my father. Just a monster wrapped in a vest with a Vice-President patch.

And so I played my guitar. I learned to sing. I produced my music and offered my talent anywhere that cobbled together a microphone and an audience. And only Thorne and the Feds listened.

ATF would destroy my life to complete their objective. They didn’t care about me or my pain or why I carried around a backpack full of non-sequential bills.

If they had asked, I might have shared. Explained why I agreed to do Exorcist’s dirty work. Confessed that I feared my brothers. Laughed about ducking when I got into my car because I expected a gun to poke me from the backseat.

None of it mattered.

I had an idea on how to survive, but it didn’t matter if it was to rat on my father or to steal the money and speed for the border. Both plans only bought me time, but I didn’t know what I’d do with those precious moments.

Either my heart or my neck would break. At least one could save me from the other.

I pulled out of the parking lot and lapped the block twice before hitting the highway, sliding between a couple semis and exiting the very next ramp to return to town.

I hated that I learned how to lose a tail. I hated even more how paranoid I was that ATF might have been following me. But Brew raised me well. He didn’t teach me to drive, he taught me how to peel out outside the clubhouse, dodge lanes on the highway, shift gears on the fly, and weave in and out of traffic when he needed the getaway.

His lessons failed my driving test six times, but I kept him alive twice. Failing to parallel park was worth it if it meant my brother was safe.

I fumbled for my phone and hummed a nervous warm-up to chase the trembles from my voice. It didn’t matter if I muttered along to the radio or belted out an entire opera. The words spilled from my lips like I shivered in a blizzard.

Luke answered on the first ring. “You shouldn’t be calling this early.”

“Sorry.” I cleared my throat. It didn’t help. “I can’t do this.”

Luke’s connection scratched, like he smashed his hand over the receiver. I worried he hung up, but after a long minute and a few profanities, he returned.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“This is too dangerous. I just had ATF force me into the restaurant to eat with them.”

“You wouldn’t let me buy you a cup of coffee, but you snuggled up with the
Feds
?”

“It wasn’t by choice,” I said.

“What did you tell them?”

“Nothing.”

“What did you
fucking
tell them?”

“Nothing, Luke!”

He exhaled, but I imagined he had a lot more to say than he did. “You better not be lying to me.”

“Look, if ATF is stopping me, they’re probably following me too. It’s too risky.”

“Did they ask about The Coup?”

I hesitated. He heard it. Luke hissed my name.

But something didn’t add up.

Not The Coup trying to buy drugs from Temple, and certainly not my father suddenly making enough friends to spring him from jail years before his parole hearing.

My stomach twisted, and I was fortunate I hadn’t eaten any of the pancakes offered by ATF. They weren’t poisoned, but I’d choke just the same.

“No, it was about Anathema.” The lie wasn’t convincing. I babbled as best I could to prevent him from asking any questions. “I can’t do this deal right now. Not with them watching.”

“You have a hell of a lot more problems than ATF, Bud.”

“That’s not something anyone wearing a cut has ever said.”

“Sorry. You’re out of options.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Believe it or not, The Coup isn’t as organized as Anathema,” Luke said. “Not everyone is thrilled that we gave a clueless little girl our money. I don’t care if ATF is on you or if Thorne is fucking your ass. You’re doing this deal because I can’t guarantee you survive today if you don’t.”

“And when I’m arrested for drug trafficking?”

“You know to keep your mouth shut.” He grunted. “For Christ’s sake, Bud, you’ve stayed silent about worse things.”

I didn’t answer. He exhaled.

“Nothing is going to happen if you stick to the plan and keep a low profile. Got it?”

“I don’t see how that’s possible.”

“Call me when it’s done. I’ll pick up the merchandise.”

“Luke—”

The line went dead. I swore and tossed the phone into my purse. The radio murmured my favorite jazz song. Had Luke wanted a set list, a tuned guitar, and a Beatles cover, we’d be fine. Instead, he wanted to show off the eyes and nose I inherited from my father.

But I wasn’t a drug trafficker. Or a biker. Or even my father’s daughter anymore.

I was a musician. Struggling, but
la boheme
wasn’t known to be a glamorous life. Temple wouldn’t accept a jaunty tune for the drugs, and, apparently, ATF wasn’t a fan of contemporary acoustic music.

But some people were.

And then I knew exactly how I’d survive another few hours.

Plenty of places existed in the city where a girl like me, in her pink Aerosmith shirt strumming a guitar, blended in. Places where a sketchy, inked man wouldn’t dare show his face.

I could hide in plain sight, entertaining the masses with a folksy guitar and a smoky voice. It didn’t guarantee my safety for long, but at least Temple wouldn’t kill me out right and steal the money if I set up the deal in conjunction with an impromptu concert.

My brothers would never allow it.

Thorne would probably break the guitar.

But it wasn’t like I could go to any of them for help. Not when I needed to prove my brothers’ innocence before their president killed them both.

It was the most important performance of my life, and I didn’t have my music, looper pedal, a decent outfit to wear, or a freaking clue what I was doing.

But if nothing else, I’d sound good before Temple gunned me down in the street. Like the modern day John Lennon, except without the fame, glory, and international success.

I parked my car in a nearby lot, clutched the bag of money, and pulled the guitar from the trunk. As much as I hated to combine music with the MC, at least Thorne would be proud to see his father’s guitar put to such a use.

The thought burned me. No matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried, no matter how much I screamed and begged and demanded to be freed from this world, I strapped the guitar over my chest and strummed the first sweet note poisoned by the nightmare of what was to come.

So why did I sound better than I ever had before?

Temple didn’t pick the busiest corner for their deal. Just a little side street facing a bakery, hardware store, and a closed down metal shop. The area didn’t see much foot traffic. That didn’t ease my frantic heart, fluttering too fast for the beat of the song. A black sedan rolled to a stop at the red light across from my impromptu stage. The windows were tinted, and my insides turned into a stage-frightened mush.

I doubted the car slowed to enjoy my acoustic rendition of a Lady Gaga song. The words bittered in my mouth. I jerked away, the guitar strap digging in the tender skin on my chest strained hard by a breath of air that refused to dip into my lungs or belt out in crescendo. The song faded.

My fingers clutched the guitar, trembling, shaking, and begging to be sliced upon the taut strings. At least then I wouldn’t have to pretend. At least then when the blood pooled from me and dripped onto the sidewalk, somebody would see how much trouble I was in. That I wasn’t just singing and hoping somebody would toss a couple bucks into my open guitar case.

The next song erupted from my memory. Classic rock. Biker rock. The bluesy, mournful songs about life on a highway, anarchy, and lyrics riddled with violence.