But now she was free. She might fight their attraction, but the chemistry was still there. He had felt her tremble against him, heard her sigh when he kissed her … So why had she pushed him away? If anyone had a right to be wary, it was him. After all, he had gone back for her. Just like he promised.
He would find out tonight. If she wasn’t home, he would find her. Although he had decided to go by his real name in the MC—executive board members were given the choice of using their road name or first name—he had come by his road name, Tracker, for his uncanny ability to find anyone, anywhere. Evie wouldn’t stay off his radar for long.
“Zane? You coming?” Benson ran a hand through his dark hair, and Zane followed the deputy’s lanky body, clothed in regulation police blue, into the chiller.
The large sterile room, a mix of white cabinets and steel counters, examination tables and fluorescent lights, smelled strongly of disinfectant, but even the sharp scent could not mask the sickly sweet stench of death.
The pathologist, a thin, nervous dude with a receding hairline, who had been on the Sinner payroll for years, wasted no time. He pulled open one of the steel drawers that lined the east wall. “You know him?”
Zane startled at the body, covered in a thin white sheet. Unrecognizable didn’t even begin to describe the swollen, battered face, but the arms and hands were remarkably unscathed, save for the long, thin scar on his right hand between two fingers. Familiar. “Turn him over.”
Jagger glanced up from the other side of the body. “You see something?”
The pathologist rolled the body to the side and Zane pointed to the scarring on the man’s left shoulder. “Isn’t that where we burned off Axle’s tat? And isn’t that scar on his hand from the night you put your knife through his fingers?”
“Fuck.” Jagger leaned closer to take a look. “You’re right. It is Axle. And lookit the “J” carved into his chest. He must have pissed Viper off. Damn. He owed us for what he did to Arianne and the club. I promised her I’d be the one to pull the trigger.”
“Hello.” Benson waved from the corner. “Law enforcement officer here. Let’s not have any threats or admissions in front of a witness that I might be forced to report.”
“You open your mouth and it will be you in this ice box,” Zane said evenly. “And you won’t look so pretty. How’s that for a threat?”
“As far as threats go, it has a certain deterrent factor that I can’t ignore,” Benson said dryly. “What do you want me to do with the body?”
“He was a Sinner and he died a Jack. He’s dead to us. Do whatever the fuck you want.” Jagger grabbed the pathologist’s clipboard and scrawled a name on it. “That’s his real name. Don’t know if he’s got any family, but if so, you can tell them he still owes us a debt.”
“That’s hardly fair—”
Jagger cut Benson off with a scowl. “When we choose this life, we choose it for our families, too. If he wasn’t prepared to take that risk, he never should have joined the club.”
Zane handed an envelope to the pathologist on their way out. Small payments to the local businesses smoothed the way for the Sinners to get things done quickly and quietly. Benson would get his envelope at the end of the month since he was now on a permanent Sinner retainer.
Shooter and Gunner were waiting curbside beside the bikes. Zane insisted on a security detail for Jagger whenever he left the clubhouse, but pride meant Jagger would accept their presence only on the pretense they were there to watch the bikes. Zane briefed them about Axle while Jagger called Arianne. Axle had threatened her life on more than one occasion and Jagger had promised her justice. Now, he owed her an apology.
Zane caught the reflection of sun in a mirror as he waited for Jagger to finish his call. The skin on the back of his neck prickled. What the hell? It was probably just a reflection from the vehicle behind the Jeep parked across the street, but the angle was wrong, and with the war on, they couldn’t be too careful. Especially not with the Sinner president out in the open and only three brothers to guard him. He’d tried to dissuade Jagger from coming out to the morgue, but Jagger wasn’t the type of man to sit still when there were things to be done.
“Gun. Shooter. Stay with Jagger. I’m just gonna check something out.”
“Get back, sir!” Shooter whipped his weapon from beneath his cut and slammed Jagger in the chest with his arm in an attempt to push him back from what he clearly assumed was an unseen threat to the president’s life.
“Christ, Shooter. I’m on the fucking phone.” Jagger shoved his arm away.
Damn overzealous prospect was in for one hell of a beating when they got back to the clubhouse. No one touched the president, and especially not a prospect who hadn’t even earned the right to wear a Sinner patch.