“Ding, ding, ding!” Emily acted like she was ringing a bell. “Wrong! Freddy, tell him what he didn’t win. And what the hell are cockles anyway?”
Beside Samantha, Ozzie sighed and shook his head. “It’s been like this since the moment they met.” Then he raised his voice. “You two need to leave the drama with your mommas. Seriously, what’s the matter with you?”
“She bloody started it!” Christian pointed an accusatory finger at Emily.
“And I’ll finish it too,” Emily declared, flush with the thrill of the fight. If Samantha didn’t know better, she’d say Emily was thoroughly enjoying herself.
“You see?” Christian threw his hands in the air, then turned to stomp up the stairs.
“Running away again?” Emily called after him.
“Jolly well trying to keep from committing murder!” Christian called back.
Ozzie chuckled. Apparently he was unable to resist joining in the fun, because he yelled, “Is that a little yellow I see staining your belly, C-Man?”
Having reached the second-floor landing, Christian turned back and glowered. “You, sir, are a sack of ass.” And with that parting shot, he disappeared into the conference area.
It occurred to Samantha how wrong she’d been about the men and women of Black Knights Inc. For so many years, and then again last night, she’d thought of them as dark, villainous characters. But in reality, they were simply a group of people who’d come together to build a business. And in so doing, they’d grown into a big, noisy, argumentative family.
She was struck by a keen sense of longing. It’d been a long time since she’d felt like part of a family…
Chapter 13
Basilisk Clubhouse
“Savoy says they’re finished questioning Bulldog,” Crutch announced, thumbing off his cell phone.
Venom watched his second-in-command light a cigarette and suck until the cherry burned orange. Seated around the big table was the Basilisks’ executive committee. They had convened a secret, emergency session of Church when they got the call that Bulldog had been arrested. So besides Venom and Crutch, present were Termite, the club’s treasurer, and Hawkeye, their secretary.
“Savoy also said they have him dead to rights on the kidnapping charge,” Crutch went on. Edward Savoy was the best criminal defense attorney in the great city of Chicago. The Basilisks kept him on retainer. “A whole shitload of eyewitnesses saw Bulldog snatch Samantha off the street downtown. Including two cops.”
“Stupid fuckin’ bastard,” Termite spat out, twirling his red mustache like a cartoon villain. Termite was an Irish Catholic boy, born and raised on Chicago’s South Side. Which meant he used the word fuck with impunity.
“Bulldog was just following orders.” Venom was quick to defend his sergeant at arms. Although he was pissed that Bulldog hadn’t been a hell of a lot subtler in his abduction of the reporter, he didn’t allow the bad-mouthing of club members. Ever. Bad-mouthing led to infighting. Infighting led to violence. And violence led to the loss of control and the loss in profits. As far as Venom was concerned, the latter was to be avoided at all costs.
“Dude’s like a bull in a china shop,” Hawkeye grumbled. He had lived in Chicago for ten years, but he hadn’t lost his SoCal dialect. “Which is usually fine. But this job required a little finesse, yo.”
“Savoy told me the pigs questioned Bulldog about Marcel Monroe,” Crutch added, “but, of course, he played dumb.”
“Fuck yeah.” Termite chuckled. “Not much of a stretch for that fat fuck.” The wrench he liked to keep in his boot was on the table. As was his habit, he spun the tool in circles.
“Enough, Termite!” Venom slammed his hand on the wooden surface. The four bottles of beer atop it jumped and rattled. “I don’t wanna hear another word against Bulldog. He’s gonna do time for this job. We damned well better give him our gratitude and support.”
Termite swallowed and nodded. “Fuck. You’re right. Sorry.”
“Hey.” Hawkeye turned to Crutch. “So what the heck happened to the gun Bulldog used to off the banger?”
“Same as always,” Crutch assured him. “We took it apart and scattered the pieces around Lake Michigan. The cops will never find it. So as long as Bulldog keeps his trap shut—”
“Which he will,” Venom insisted.
“Which he will,” Crutch agreed. “There will be nothing to link Bulldog to Monroe’s murder. Savoy says as long as we watch ourselves and don’t answer any of the cops’ questions, we should be good.”
A thought burned in the back of Venom’s brain. “What did Savoy come up with for a motive?”
Crutch laughed. “You’re going to love this. Savoy says Bulldog will claim he kidnapped her to force her to write an article about a real MC. Apparently”—Crutch’s voice was heavy with sarcasm—“Bulldog was sick of the way TV and movies portray us and wanted to set the record straight.”
Hawkeye snorted. “Radical, dude.”
Venom shrugged. “It’s a good motive. It’ll be impossible for the prosecution in his case to disprove it.”
“Okay. So then, what are we supposed to do?” Termite asked. His red hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and a black bandana covered his forehead. “We have no fuckin’ sergeant at arms.”
“True,” Venom allowed. “But more important than finding a replacement for Bulldog while he finishes his stint inside is finding out why that fat fuck of a detective brought up Iraq this morning.” He drummed his fingers on the table.
“Speaking of Iraq…” Crutch said. “Bulldog said Samantha railed at him, asked him all kinds of questions when she was in the back of that van, including the who, what, and how of us getting the weapons out of the Sandbox.”
“Yo! What…the…hell?” Hawkeye ran a hand through his scraggly blond hair. “How could she know any of that? Shit!”
“Cool your jets.” Venom lifted a hand. “It might not be as bad as it sounds.”
“Well, that’s good, bro.” Hawkeye’s voice was laced with sarcasm. “’Cause it sounds pretty damn bad.”
“Before we jump to conclusions”—Venom knew it was important to project calm even though his stomach had balled into a fist—“we needa get our hands on the reporter and find out exactly what she knows.”
“Given Bulldog’s botched kidnapping,” Crutch said, watching a smoke ring drift toward the ceiling fan overhead, “if we snatch her, the first place the pigs will come looking for her is here.” He turned and surveyed the room with its wood-paneled walls, neon beer signs, and general man-cave air. “Well, not here exactly.” The Basilisk’s clubhouse was in the basement of a flower shop owned by Termite’s second cousin. Its location was only known to those loyal to the club. “But they’ll come looking for us.”
Venom waved his hand unconcernedly. “They won’t find a thing. Same as always.”