“I mean, if we muck about and do your dirty work, providing Samantha with protection at night”—she wasn’t sure she cared for being labeled anyone’s dirty work—“who will follow her around all day while she’s at work or…or…” Christian shot her a dagger-eyed look. “Whatever else she gets up to, including but not limited to accusing innocent men of murder?”
“I said I was sorry about that.” She frowned at him.
“Indeed?” He raised one dark eyebrow. “I must have missed it.”
That took her aback. She glanced at Ozzie, then at Carver, and lastly at Chief Washington. “I apologized, didn’t I?” She was sure that she had.
“Not that I recall,” Washington said.
Carver’s answer was a succinct “Nope.”
Ozzie remained silent.
Despite her dark hair and dark eyes, her complexion was rather fair, which meant there was no way to hide the color that stole into her cheeks. Damn. “I’m sorry.” She forced out the words.
“What’s that?” Christian cupped his hand around his ear. “You were mumbling, so…”
“I’m sorry!” She glared at him, her fingers inching toward the side pocket of her purse and the pepper spray inside. They started inching faster when his face split into a smug grin.
“I forgive you,” he said magnanimously.
Her hand was suddenly around the canister of pepper spray. It would be so satisfying.
Unaware of the violence bubbling in her heart, Washington said, “You can call me in the morning when you’re ready to leave the shop, Miss Tate. I’ll arrange for a police escort to follow you while you’re out and about.”
“No need,” Ozzie said. “With everyone gone from the shop, we’ve pretty much stopped production on new bikes. So I’m free to do a little work as a bullet catcher.”
Chapter 6
Basilisk Clubhouse
The name on his birth certificate read John George Peabody III. But nobody dared call him that. Sometimes he wondered if his parents had saddled him with the highfalutin-sounding name in the hopes he’d do what John George Peabody Sr. and John George Peabody Jr. had not. Namely, rise above the poverty and the violence that was life for so many on Chicago’s South Side. Of course, if that was their aim, they had failed utterly.
When it comes to rising above the violence, he conceded. As for rising above poverty? Not to toot his own horn or anything, but he’d kicked that in the pants pretty early on. The platinum Rolex glinting on his tattooed wrist proved it.
He only allowed himself two overt luxuries in life, the watch and his motorcycle. Any more than that, and he might draw the attention of law-enforcement types. Now, as he glanced at the first of those luxuries and noted the time, his lips curved into a severe frown. “How fucking long does it take to bag up a hundred-and-twenty-pound woman?”
When silence stretched, he realized his question had been construed as rhetorical. He made it clear it was not when he lifted his eyes to Crutch, his vice president.
“It’s raining cats and dogs out there,” Crutch said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over the patches on the front of his cut. The overhead light caught the scar running across Crutch’s temple and the occasional sandy-colored strand of hair that salted his bushy brown beard. “It might’ve put a crimp in Bulldog’s plan if she ran in somewhere to wait out the storm. But don’t you worry, Venom, he’ll get it done.”
Venom. That was his name—the only one he’d gone by since way back in basic training, back around the time he met Crutch and found the man to be a kindred spirit. At first, Venom had been his nom de guerre. Now it was his road name. And it suited him just fine. Because in war and on the road, Venom was the same. Toxic to his enemies. Lethal to anyone he decided to sink his teeth into.
“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “It’s possible that fat fuck finally stroked out.”
Bulldog was the club’s enforcer because he was tough as nails, enjoyed knocking heads together, and was ruthless and single-minded when you set him on a task. But if he kept ballooning in size, he would no longer be able to do his job. That would become an issue. Venom would have to delve into the ranks of the club for a replacement. Trouble was, though most of the Basilisks were tough and unafraid of getting a little bloody, none of them had Bulldog’s special brand of unyielding tenacity.
Shit. I gotta get that asshole to lose some weight.
He glanced down at the big table, then let his eyes travel around the empty clubhouse and marveled at how quiet it could be. When Devon Price, the leader of the Black Apostles, told him that one of Devon’s new homeboys, some skinny fuck named Marcel Monroe, seemed mighty interested in the who and the what and the how of the weapons the Black Apostles were using, Venom had called an emergency session of Church, and the clubhouse had been packed. In the front room, club members had lounged around with their old ladies or their current hardbelly of the month. But in the back room, Venom had gathered his executives.
“We might have ourselves a bit of a problem, boys,” he’d told them as the sound of crashing pool balls and blaring classic rock slid under the locked door. Cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air, as did the smells of warm beer and pussy.
After he’d outlined the problem, it hadn’t taken long for the committee to agree that Marcel Monroe needed some watching. And perhaps some killing if the reason the gang member was asking questions about the guns turned out to be more than just personal curiosity. The plan had been set. Bulldog had been ordered to stick like glue to the gangbanger’s heels and see what was what.
For a while, Bulldog had turned up a whole lot of jack shit. Then, this morning, the Basilisk’s enforcer had called to say he was sitting in a parking lot across from a coffee shop where Marcel Monroe was meeting with Samantha Tate.
Initially, Venom had drawn a blank. Then when Bulldog said, “You know, she’s that hotshot reporter who blew the lid off the City Hall scandal last year,” it’d all come back Venom. The story in the Tribune. The quarter-page photo of the pretty little journalist with that sweet gap-toothed smile.
Venom had held on to that paper for a week, jacking off to that photo as he imagined the reporter on her knees in front of him, those sexy teeth of hers raking not-so-gently against his hard cock as she hoovered him dry.
His decision had been instantaneous and his instructions to Bulldog succinct. “Kill the banger. Bring me the woman.”
His first duty was always to his club. But nothing said he couldn’t have a little fun along the way. And silencing a sexy bitch who dared stick her nose into his business was beyond fun.
“What’s the plan once she’s here?” Crutch asked now, reaching inside his jacket pocket and snagging a pack of Marlboro Reds. He shook out a smoke. With a flip and a snick from his Zippo lighter, the end of the cancer stick glowed bright orange.