The next few hours flew by and around eleven o’clock, I got up and went to the bathroom to get ready. I threw on a set of clothes that I wouldn’t mind losing and pulled a hat down low on my head, leaving my wallet on the bathroom counter as I left.
Identification was only good for the cops, and they had my fingerprints on file anyway.
“Leo,” Uncle Nix called out as I reached the front door. “I’m setting the alarm.”
My eyes widened in surprise.
“Setting the alarm in about two minutes. When you get back, come through my bedroom window. It’ll be open. That alarm’s not gonna show anyone going through the front door until seven tomorrow morning.”
I nodded and left, thankful that even though I was hours away from my club brothers, I still had family watching my back.
The hotel was a lot more crowded that night, but there wasn’t anyone outside beyond a couple hookers that were smoking as they left a John’s room. They didn’t notice me as I walked up the stairs across the breezeway from them, and I used their chatter to hide the sound of my footsteps as I made my way to the window in Sokolov’s room that I’d left cracked open earlier in the day.
Slowly, so fucking slowly, I pushed it open, listening to the TV he had going. The curtains were thick, and I didn’t have a problem as I made an opening large enough to fit through. Pulling my pistol from the holster under my hoodie, I stepped one foot inside and quickly brushed the curtains back. I was inside in one fluid movement, the curtains and window closed behind me before anyone could see my shadow from outside.
Sokolov was lying on the bed with his back to the door, like a fucking idiot, and he didn’t move even as the window made a small snick as it latched behind me. I figured that was probably a good thing, since he hadn’t started yelling the place down yet, but I got really fucking confused when he still hadn’t moved as I stepped through the room.
It wasn’t until I’d seen his face that I cursed.
Dude was already dead.
I couldn’t see any wounds. He didn’t have a single scratch on his bare torso or arms, but the man was definitely dead. His eyes were wide and unseeing, and his mouth was slack.
I huffed in disbelief.
Someone hadn’t gotten there before me, the dude had just fucking died.
I shook my head and looked around the room, but everything was the same as the last time I’d left it. His open suitcase was on the chipped old table, and there were two pairs of shoes sitting by the door instead of the one pair that had been there earlier. It looked like he’d gotten back, stripped off his clothes and folded them neatly into his bag, and got into bed.
I checked out the window, making sure the parking lot was still deserted, put my pistol away, and walked out the door like I had every right to be in that room.
Jesus.
I laughed as I got to the truck a few minutes later. If I didn’t know better, I’d think my Gramps had come up and done the job before I could get to the guy—but I knew that wasn’t his style. Gramps worked with knives. If Sokolov had died from anything but natural causes, it would have been poison, and that shit was a woman’s weapon.
I climbed in my uncle’s window a few minutes later, and froze just inside.
“You took less time than I thought,” he said nonchalantly, setting his gun back on his nightstand.
“You don’t even want to know,” I huffed, laughing a little.
“Nope, I don’t,” he replied. “Want me to help you load up the bike in the morning?”
“Nah, I got it.” I strode to his bedroom door and paused in the opening. “Thanks, Uncle Nix.”
“No problem, kid,” he said with a nod. “Hit the light, would ya?”
I reached out and flipped the switch and closed the door behind me, realizing as I left that his eyes hadn’t even searched my clothes for evidence or my face for some kind of guilt. He’d treated me like I’d been out partying and he’d covered for me, nothing more, nothing less.
* * *
“I’m back,” I yelled to Grease after I’d backed the truck up to one of the garage bays.
“Church!” he ordered, lifting his chin at me. “Ray, come get this bike off the truck, yeah?”
The guys followed me inside the clubhouse, and we all quickly piled into the small room and sat at our places at the table. No one spoke until my dad came in behind us and sat at the head, slamming the gavel down once.
“How’d it go?” he asked, looking me over.
“Fucker was dead,” I said, shaking my head.