This was probably because, if they were in separate rooms, the girls could not stay awake late, talking, giggling, sometimes bickering, and all the time driving their parents crazy.
He’d given in.
If they changed their minds, he’d find something and build the perfect bedrooms for them there, however they wanted.
He rode the elevator down to the garage, got in his Maserati, drove to the club, parking in the back. He let himself in, moving through the large space the cleaners were now cleaning, down the back hall to the stairs up to his office.
When he arrived, he saw only Rhash was there.
“Talk,” Knight ordered, going to the Nespresso maker on the low cabinet at the side of the room.
“Five of Valenzuela’s girls got dead last night,” Rhash reported.
Knight looked from selecting his pod to his lieutenant.
“I’m sorry?” he asked quietly.
“Same MO, multiple ways of dying. All found in motel rooms. One got her head bashed in. Three got stuck, two through the heart, one through the jugular. One got her neck broke. All had been robbed of money and any valuables they had on them.”
Knight stood immobile, staring at Rhash.
Knight’s mother had been a prostitute.
She’d also purposefully gotten pregnant by a john for the sole reason of having a savior.
A protector.
A knight to keep her safe.
It did not take a psychologist to understand why Knight now not only ran a successful nightclub, he provided vetting and protection for a stable of call girls.
Some called him a pimp.
Knight Sebring didn’t give a fuck what anyone called him or thought of him.
But anyone small-minded, unobservant or uninformed enough to call him a pimp, he really did not give a fuck about.
If the women had to do it—and some of them did, some of them liked doing it—and they came to him, he kept them safe.
The end.
Valenzuela’s girls were not his.
But it was coded in his DNA to keep an eye on any woman (or man) who took that path in life, if they had to, or they chose to.
And if he heard they were not treated right, he stepped in.
If he heard they really weren’t treated right, he was fine with his interference coming ugly.
“They’re worried there might be more,” Rhash went on. “And it’s all preliminary, but I made a few calls, and it appears only one of them serviced her client before she was killed.”
Rhash paused, likely to assess Knight’s reaction.
He gave it a moment.
Then he stated, “They think it’s Chew Lannigan.”
“Get me a meet with Tack,” Knight growled.
“On it. Called him. He already knew. He’s got a meet with Valenzuela on Monday, you’re now invited.”
“Monday is not soon enough.”
“The meet was today. Not surprisingly, Valenzuela was also on the phone with Tack this morning delaying the meet. He’s got different priorities right now.”
“Tack share Valenzuela’s vibe?” Knight asked.
“He’s pissed.”
Knight turned to the coffeemaker, ordering, “I want our men blanketing Denver, looking for that fuck.”
“On that too. If they’re not mobile already, they’re getting that way.”
Rhash.
Good lieutenant.
Good man.
“Coordinate that with Chaos,” Knight directed.
Rhash nodded.
“Call them in,” Knight said.
Rhash knew exactly what he was saying.
“Man, Sylvie just gave birth,” Rhash reminded him. “No way Creed is gonna come up here, and I can’t even tell them. He’d have my balls, because if Sylvie knew this shit was goin’ down, she’d be up here and all over it, even nursing every two hours.”
Fuck.
“Raid and Deacon,” Knight pushed and finished, “And Nick.”
Rhash nodded.
He shoved the pod in the machine and it started to do its magic.
He stared at it as it did and said softly, “Chew Lannigan redefines the word stupid. The man should have left town when he had his shot.”
“Yeah, he should’ve,” Rhash agreed.
Knight watched the rich, frothy dark fill his glass cup.
“We’ll find him, Knight.”
They would.
Or someone would.
Chew Lannigan’s days of freedom were over.
Lee
Seven thirty that morning . . .
Lee Nightingale stood in his office at his private investigations firm with his men Luke, Vance and Hector.
“We need to get in this,” he growled.
“Knight’s mobilized. Hawk’s already in it. Valenzuela. Chaos. The cops. We join in, we’re gonna be bumping into each other looking for Lannigan,” Hector noted.
“Eight women dead, Hector,” Lee reminded him.
“I don’t like it either, Lee,” Hector bit out. “But any uncoordinated operation is clumsy, it could be dangerous and last, it could work in that fuckwad’s favor. More important, this motherfucker targets women. And I’ll be the first to say I don’t want my wife in his sights.”
Lee felt his jaw go tight.
He didn’t want his wife in Lannigan’s sights either.
Not to mention Luke’s, Hector’s or Vance’s.
They’d already had their fill of that.
Lee looked to Luke. “Call Knight. Call Hawk. Call fucking Valenzuela. Hank. Mitch. And last, call Tack. Tell them, we got anything to offer that doesn’t include boots on the street, we’re on it.”
Luke nodded and stepped away, pulling out his phone.
Before Luke made his first call, Lee gave his last order.
“Rock Chick shut down. Any of them know this is happening, they’ll apply pressure and we’re all fucked.”
On that, without a word, just three looks, he knew he had total agreement.
Iustitia, Tribus, Honoris, Observantia, Fidelitas
Rush
That morning, a quarter after eight . . .
Rush’s eyes opened and all he saw was Rebel’s hair.
He was just awake.
But he was still wiped.
Not a lot of sleep the night before, interrupted sleep last night. He was running on empty.
But they had a lunatic to find and he had two protective men in his house, so he couldn’t wake his girl, fuck her, and pass out again.
He had to get his ass up.
He did it, but he did it carefully, so he didn’t wake her.
He made sure the sheet was over her before he hit the bathroom, took care of business, washed his hands, brushed his teeth and went back in to wet his hands, pulling his fingers through his hair three times.
That’d keep the front back.
For about five minutes.
He needed a haircut about four months ago.
But Rebel didn’t want him to cut his hair.
And she’d gone for Joker, “the bearded one,” first when she was giving him shit about which brother would be next.
So his hair was gonna stay that way and the beard he’d unintentionally started growing when he didn’t shave on Sunday (or Monday, or since) was gonna come in.
He walked out, tugged on the jeans he’d worn yesterday, a fresh tee, then on bare feet, glancing at a sleeping Rebel, her hair all over his pillows, his lips turned up and he left the room.
He moved down the stairs, along the hall and stopped dead when the doorway to the kitchen was in his sights.
Diesel was sitting on a stool, turned to the side, wearing a loose tee and cutoff sweats, his feet to the rungs, long, sturdy legs spread wide so Maddox, in worn-out pajama pants and his own tee, could stand between them.
Maddox had a fist full of Diesel’s hair, using it to tug his head back, and he was going at his man’s mouth.
Rush really could not call it with these two. What he’d heard last night and the goliath Diesel was, even if Maddox was far from a slouch, he’d have said Diesel was top.
The dominant hold and position Maddox right then had, not to mention his overall manner, he was top.
Maybe they swung both ways in all ways.
Whatever.
They stayed long, just from the noises, he’d have no choice but to find out.
Rush was about to back away when Maddox sensed him, broke the connection, took his hand from Diesel’s hair and looked right at Rush.
Diesel looked over his shoulder, and Rush almost laughed because the man had his eyes open, but he still looked asleep.
Rebel’s brother caught sight of him, though, he immediately looked away.
So Rush walked right in, saying, “Yo,” caught a glance at the mugs on the counter in front of them and went on, “Cool. You made coffee.”
He rounded the counter and went right to the pot.
“Hope you don’t mind we made ourselves at home,” Maddox said while Rush pulled down a mug from the cabinet over the pot. “D doesn’t kickstart until after his second cup.”
“Don’t mind. Glad you did.” Rush went after the pot, asking, “You guys want breakfast?”
“Food’d be good,” Maddox answered.
“Bet it will,” Rush muttered, smiling at the joe he was pouring into the cup.
“Should apologize,” Maddox remarked.
Rush looked to him. “Why?”
“We thought you were asleep, brother,” Maddox told him.
“I was. Rebel was. You woke us up.”
“That wasn’t cool,” Maddox replied. “And it was unintentional. Things just got . . . outta hand.”
Rush shook his head, putting the pot back and reaching for the sugar. “I don’t give a shit, man.” He shot them a smile. “Now, Rebel. Skeeved her out.”
Maddox’s mouth was quirking. “Sounded like she got over it.”
“Thanks for the payback blowjob,” Rush muttered.
Diesel made a before-hurling noise.
Maddox chuckled.