She stares at me a moment longer and then slowly climbs off the motorcycle. “All right. Let’s do that then. Let’s figure this out, and then let’s get moving. The longer my father’s trapped over there with Ramirez, the worse it’s going to be for him.”
I had so much doubt in my mind when Soph said she wanted to become a Widow Maker. I had no idea if she was going to be strong or fierce enough to handle all the shit we put ourselves though. Ever since she became a prospect, she’s been proving herself braver and more ferocious than many of the oldest club members, though. She’s determined at all times to get her own way, to be involved, to change things somehow.
We go back inside and Sophia sits down heavily at the table with Cade, as if her bones are made of solid steel. Cade gives me a knowing look as I go to fetch us all coffee. Neither of them see me fetch the Zolpidem from the drawer underneath the bar—the same sleeping pills Cade used to knock Sophia out on the journey from Julio’s place to New Mexico. Neither of them notice me crushing up three pills and tipping the ground up powder into one of the mugs I’ve filled with dark black liquid. I’m careful to make sure Sophia gets the doctored coffee when I set them down on the table.
“So what do we do? Tell me there’s a way to fix this,” she says, lifting the mug to her mouth and drinking. Cade sends me a look that tells me he knows exactly what I’ve done, and exactly how much trouble I’m going to be in because of it. I scowl at him. Over the next fifteen minutes we talk about ways in which we might be able to rescue Alan, and Sophia starts to go a little cross-eyed. The Zolpidem is potent to say the least.
Eventually Soph begins to realize something’s up. She looks at me, eyes glazed, and I see the moment when she understands what’s happening to her. She glances dopily down at the coffee I gave to her, and the betrayal in her eyes is impossible to miss. “You…motherrr…fuckkker,” she slurs.
Cade manages to catch her just as her eyes roll back into her head. I’m gonna be in so much shit when she wakes up.
CHAPTER FIVE
REBEL
Cade swings the Humvee around a sharp bend, hugging the turn so that I need to brace myself against the dash. I’m used to his hectic driving. Two tours together in Afghanistan and I’m really fucking grateful he drives like a Nascar boss. He’s saved our asses more than once by putting his foot down when we were drawing heat. The drive into town is only twenty minutes today, less with Cade at the wheel, but I have enough time to send Danny, the Widow Maker’s resident hacker, a text:
Me: Find me a number for Ramirez? Or one of Ramirez’s men. ASAP?
I get a response twelve minutes later:
Danny: 5O5-328-9887. Hope there’s a shot of Jack headed my way for that, man.
There’ll be more than a shot of Jack in it for him if this number puts me in touch with Hector. I copy and paste the number into contacts and hit the green call icon, and then I wait. Cade watches me with one eye as I hold the phone to my ear and I wait. Buildings begin to appear, dotted out in the desert on either side of the road. As the phone continues to ring and ring, more houses and a gas station spring up in front of us, signaling that we’re approaching the town limits.
“No one picking up?” Cade asks.
“No,” I tell him, canceling the call. “Fucking frustrating. Danny never normally gives out bad information.”
“Danny never gives out bad information. Period. Maybe try again?”
“Yeah.” I about to hit redial when the phone lights up in my hand, flashing UNKNOWN NUMBER on the screen in time with the shrill tone that fills the car. I look at Cade. “Coincidence?”
He looks doubtful. “No such thing, right?”
“Mmm.” I answer the call, not saying anything, holding the sleek black metal up against my ear as I wait for the person on the other end of the line to say something. At first, it’s so quiet I think maybe the connection didn’t take, but then a loud cracking distorts the line, followed by a series of smaller cracks and crunches, and I know someone is there. Someone who just so happens to be eating something by the sound of things.
“I was wondering how long…” a voice says quietly. It’s Hector, of course. Hector, with his thick accent, eating his godforsaken sugared almonds, sounding as cool and collected as ever. I fucking despise the man.
I play along. “How long what?”