Who the fuck are you, motherfucker? I reel through the reasons an undercover cop would be after me, but the list is too fucking long. They’re dumb as shit if they think they’re stealthy. I clock the plate and recite it in my head so I can get Ink to check with his connections down at the station. Pulling over, I offer the driver a finger as they moves past me. Wearing a hoody and baseball cap, I can’t tell if it’s a male or female.
When I get to the club, I jot down the number and search out where everyone is. It’s noon, and not a single cunt is up.
“Fuckers, it’s lunchtime,” I shout down into the basement where we set up a storm shelter.
PB, cradling his plastered hand, frowns as he passes me, followed by Idiot, who ducks away from me like I’m about to fucking pounce on him. If I wanted to attack the cunt, he would be already unconscious without realizing it fucking happened.
Animal is last up. Crease marks indent his forehead. He clearly had no qualms sleeping through the fucking mayhem.
“Any damage?” he asks me, stretching.
“Cameras are down, but there were power outages all over town, so it’s an easy fix.”
“You seen Drew?” He frowns, looking around.
“No one was above ground when I arrived, but I didn’t check all the rooms. Jameson not down there?”
“Nah, he didn’t come to the club last night. Did you check the shop?”
Hellmade Helmets is Animals pride and joy, and rightfully so. It brings in enough money for that fucker to go legit if he wanted and has a waitlist years out. “Security alarm went off when the power cut happened. The shutters are all intact, so we’re good.”
“Get Mason or Ink to do welfare checks on everyone who doesn’t check-in.”
“On it.”
Jackie is in the kitchen when I enter to grab a mug of coffee. She’s frying up bacon, sniffling with tears in her eyes. I’m pretty sure I see a snot drip land in the bacon fat. Mental note: don’t eat the fucking bacon.
“You good?” I fucking hate seeing women cry. This bitch has been around since the dawn of time. She was Viking’s side piece before he kicked the bucket and Animal took over as club president. I always got the impression he didn’t like Jackie but kept her around because, like Crazy Joe, she’s part of the furniture around here.
“I’m fine.” She wipes her eyes.
“You heard from Gracie?” I ask, feeling like a prick for being a coward and not checking in on her myself.
“No, actually.” She frowns, moving the pan from the stove and pulling out her cellphone. “I’ll text her.”
“Good. Let me know she’s good, yeah?”
“Okay. I’ll bring some sandwiches out in just a minute.”
No thanks.
“Rage,” Animal barks, looking flustered as fuck.
“What is it?”
“Drew—I can’t fucking find her. Do a sweep of this place, top to bottom.”
“On it.”
It takes me all of three minutes to realize Drew isn’t anywhere in the club.
Most of the brothers’ bedrooms are locked, and everywhere else is fucking tumbleweeds aside from the bar where the brothers who crashed here last night are eating bacon snot sandwiches.
“I’ve searched every room, Prez. She’s not anywhere.” I grimace, my insides churning. “Could she have run again?” I ask, hating the fucking question.
His pulse thunders in the vein running up his neck. Brushing his hands through his hair and pacing, he jerks his head.
“Maybe she went for groceries?” Glen chimes in. I hadn’t even noticed he was here.
“She isn’t answering her cell,” Animal growls. “You can shop and answer your phone at the same time.” Glen holds up his hands. She wouldn’t just go for a stroll to the grocery store without telling her man. She knows he’d be out of his mind with worry waking up to her being gone.
“She got a call earlier.” PB raises his broken finger, as if asking permission to speak.
“Elaborate,” I growl like this isn’t something he should have already mentioned.
“Someone called. She ran up the stairs to take it.” He shrugs.
Crashing through the front door, Jameson walks in, followed by the little doctor woman who lives next door to him.
“We have a problem,” he seethes. Add it to the fucking list.
“Doc.” I wink, and she waves a hand awkwardly at me, her cheeks blushing. Cute. It’s then I notice Jameson dumping a duffle bag on the bar.
“What’s in the bag?”
“A fucking kill kit,” he fumes, and I raise a brow.
Animal unzips the bag as Jameson explains himself. “The storm knocked a tree through Monroe’s house. She called me thinking someone had broken in, and I brought her to stay with me.”
“Wait, what?” Animal shakes his head.
“We’re neighbors,” the doc offers.
“Coincidental.” Jameson looks embarrassed, and I want to laugh my ass off.
“Anyway, when we were cleaning shit up, we found this—and blood.”