“She figured you’d try and talk her out of leaving and she was afraid she’d let you.”
“So, you knew she was leaving?”
Sundance nodded. “I’m partly responsible for her doin’ it.”
Every muscle in my body stiffened as I fought the urge to fly across the table and choke my president to death. “What do you mean, you’re responsible?”
“There are a lot of things I can’t tell you. And although I haven’t read her letter, I can tell you, it’s gonna leave you with questions. Questions neither she, nor I, are at liberty to answer.”
“Why the fuck are you talking to me like a lawyer, Sundance? What the hell is going on and where the fuck is Sierra?” I tore the envelope open and scanned the letter for answers. “This is all flowery, vague, bullshit.”
“All I can tell you is that she’s safe, working on something important, and that her leaving has nothing to do with you.”
“I beg to fuckin’ differ,” I growled. “This absolutely has something to do with me.”
“You’re gonna have to trust me and Sierra on this one.”
“Why the fuck should I do that when neither of you trust me enough to tell me what’s going on?”
“It’s not a matter of trust on our parts, Wrath. I promise you that.”
“Who the hell else is responsible for her leaving?”
“I can’t tell you that either.”
“You’re gonna pull some club ranking bullshit when it comes to information about my old lady?”
“First of all, this isn’t about club hierarchy, and secondly, you and Sierra aren’t married. She’s free to come and go as she pleases, brother. If you want to be pissed at me, go right on ahead, but I’m gonna do what’s best for this club, its members, and for Sierra.”
“What about me, huh? I’m a member of this club.”
“Iamdoing what’s best for you, Wrath. Even if you don’t know it yet.”
“This is total horseshit, and you know it, Sundance. I’ll fall in line like a good little soldier for now, but this is far from fuckin’ over.” I stood up and walked out, slamming the door behind me.
* * *
Sierra
“Let’s pick up the pace!” Taxi yelled as we rounded the track for our final lap. “Last one across the finish line buys the first round tonight.”
Taxi was a decorated FBI agent who’d made a name for himself doing deep undercover work as a member of the Gresham Spiders, a notoriously brutal MC out of Oregon. He was a brilliant tactician and leader, and I trusted him with my life. He was also a sadistic maniac who seemed to derive pleasure from putting us through a grueling morning workout six days a week.
I pushed with every ounce of strength I had, running as fast as my legs could carry me, but I was nomatch for my teammates, and watched in dismay as each of them overtook me, one by one. Even Trouble, the only other female on the team, and who was at least two or three inches shorter than me, overtook me on the last turn. Taxi clicked his stopwatch as Graves crossed the finish line first, per usual, cheering the rest of us on as we completed our morning torture session.
“Drinks on Jette tonight, Cabbies!” Tackle bellowed as I dragged ass over the finish line. I’d always hated running. When I was in high school, I used every excuse in the book to avoid track days in gym class. Mr. Callahan, our gym teacher, was too busy perving out on us girls while we exercised to notice that I seemed to ‘have my period’ three times a month.
‘The Taxi Service,’ as we’d come to be known, had been training together for months now, and were beginning to work as a ‘well-oiled machine,’ as Taxi put it. Our rag-tag task force of bikers, sharp shooters, agents, and hackers had been assembled to infiltrate the ‘bad guys’ through their existing associations with various motorcycle clubs. They weren’t after the clubs, but rather the cartels, traffickers, and other large criminal enterprises they do business with. When Taxi had recruited Rabbit, who rode with the Dogs of Fire MC out of Savannah, he’d only agreed to join (and back me joining in the process) if the team assisted in gathering intel and rooting out a growing crime syndicate who called themselves the Beast.
So, Rabbit and I had been recruited to serve indata acquisitions. In other words, the FBI was using us for our hacking skills in exchange for federal immunity. For the time being, both the FBI and bikers across the country had a common enemy, and it meant working together to capture and kill this Beast. After that, we’d work from our places in our clubs to bring down various traffickers, cartels, etcetera as the need arose.
“Well drinks and beers only,” Taxi said. “No top shelf. I know what Uncle Sam pays you all, and Jette can’t afford your expensive taste. Boots, I’m looking in your direction.”
“Life’s too short to drink shitty tequila, boss,” Boots replied.
“Yeah, well it’s gonna be shorter if I hear you’ve racked up an eight-hundred-dollar bar tab on Jette’s card.”
Rabbit threw his arm over my shoulders. “I’ll split the bill with you, sissy, don’t you worry about it.”