Saved by the Outlaw: Motorcycle Club / Hitman Romance (10 page)

A
gent Doyle paces back
and forth in the interrogation room in the shadows cast by the fluorescent light that’s hanging over me as I sit handcuffed at the table. His steps are slow. Painfully slow.

The agent and I go way back. He’s been keeping tabs on the Union Club since we first got started. I’ve had my suspicions that he had a hand in busting the union up in the first place, or at least that he saw some of the money that got spread around after the bust. Maybe it was planned from the start, or maybe some cash was pushed his way to make sure the bosses had the government’s support in the fallout, but whatever the case may be, Agent Charles Doyle seems to take special pleasure in putting the twist on all of us.

“You can keep quiet as long as you like, Mr. Volkov, that’s well within your rights, but that’s only going to make it look worse for you when I present our evidence in court, you know.”

I just stare him down, my face unmoving. I know he’s just trying to goad me into saying something stupid and incriminating. He’s got a file on me six inches thick back up in Washington, and he knows how to press my buttons.

More importantly, I know for a fact he’s got nothing on me. We didn’t leave a trace of our presence at the scene—Eva made sure of that. And there’s not a scrap of DNA they’ll be able to pick up on at the scene.

“Now, I don’t know what you’re doing to ‘inspire’ those supposedly loyal lackeys of yours running around on overpriced scooters, but that big bearded guy you call your Sergeant at Arms? We’ve already placed him at the scene, and when we showed him what we’ve got on him, he started spilling his guts for a deal. We can offer you the same, you know.”

A lie. Even as Doyle takes a seat on the table with one leg, peering at me with those still, eerie eyes of his, I can see the lie in them as plain as day. But Doyle isn’t the kind of guy to lie out of his ass, so I humor him a little.

“He’s not much of a talker on a good day.”

“No, but he didn’t need to. The mud caked on his bike pedals did most of the talking for him.”

I keep a stony face, pretending to be disconcerted, but it’s at best a circumstantial piece of evidence. Bayonne’s a muddy place.

“Big guy like Gennedy comes in handy moving people around quickly, I’d bet,” Doyle says, flipping through a few files in his hands with a smile. “Did he come in handy when you paid Mr. Mickey Lamar a visit and shot one of his immigrant workers, too?”

Doyle very badly wants me to defend myself by pointing out that it was Mickey’s gun that was fired; that would make it easy as cake to implicate me as having knowledge that one of the immigrants was going to get shot that day. But I’m not going to let him have that satisfaction.

Doyle looks at me for a long time, as if trying to pry into my mind and take the words from my mouth.

“Stare at me as long as you want, Chuckie, but I don’t think all that time behind a cushy desk in Washington is doing much for your psychic powers. Or are you trying to have an intimate moment with me?” I grin, but Doyle’s face is immobile. He just stares for another moment before standing up and walking away from me, flipping through those folders again.

“Mr. Enrique Medina was his name. He’s on his way to a full recovery, since your first aid made sure it didn’t end with a witness to a murder—very nice thinking, by the way. But I wonder, when you went to go terrorize Mickey Lamar at his place of business, before Miss Cherry LaBeau happened to stumble in on the scene as an accomplice, did you mean to kill off the immigrant workers to free up the job for locals—white locals, I should add—or were you not willing to kill two birds with one stone just yet?”

There’s not a chance in hell I’m going to say a word in response to that loaded question. Doyle’s a shrewd man with an arsenal of verbal traps. There’s no winning when answering his questions. I made sure the whole crew was drilled on that the moment I heard he was in town.

“Did I hit a nerve, Mr. Volkov? Or is that just something in your eye?”

I hadn’t even realized it, but my fists had clenched at the mention of Cherry’s name. I quietly pray he doesn’t notice that the thought of her getting dragged into this is what set me off.

“In any case, if you’re insisting on being so reticent, I won’t mind bringing the ACLU into the investigation as well? They like to keep abreast of reports of white supremacist biker gangs, you know.”

It takes every ounce of strength in me not to respond to that by kicking the table into that pencil-necked paper pusher as hard as I can.

“The ACLU and our
club
has a history of cooperation,” I say in a guarded tone, “and we’ve supported justice in Bayonne for years.”

“Really?” Doyle retorts without missing a beat, “because the seventeen dead Mexicans in the ground and the one in the hospital seem to tell a different story.”

I don’t breathe a word of the fact that the worker at the liquor store knows why we really came to the store that day. If they knew that poor worker could testify in our favor, there’d be no way he’d survive his treatment. But the threat of white supremacist accusations could be lethal to all of us, and Doyle knows it. It’s a low blow. Not only would it turn the black and Mexican clubs from neighboring areas against us, but the publicity Doyle would see to would turn the public against us. I’m not giving him any ammunition for that, so I hold my tongue.

After a few long, drawn-out moments, Doyle clicks his tongue and sighs. “You’re digging your own grave with your silence, Mr. Volkov. And as long as she’s supporting you in all this, Miss LaBeau is digging her career’s grave, too.”

I can’t help but clench my jaw, and I glare daggers at Doyle. He seems bemused. He’s lucky I’m restrained.

“What, you didn’t think I’d look into her, too? Upstart journalist living in the city, Bayonne native, comes down to help out some old friends cover their tracks during what’s quickly becoming a large-scale murder investigation? That doesn’t sound suspicious in the least to you? I’m sure it will to a jury, that’s for sure.”

“She’s an outsider. She isn’t involved with any of this.”

“Oh? And could you clarify what ‘this’ is, precisely? It’s looking more and more like a hate crime by the minute.”

I’ve said too much already, and Doyle’s snide smile tells me he knows it. He’s gotten under my skin, but he still doesn’t have anything hard. He’s just trying to bait me. That’s what I have to tell myself to keep the fire in my heart in check.

“In any case, being a suspected accomplice to a bunch of white supremacists is a nail in the coffin of any journalist trying to make it in New York City, of all places,” he says with an insufferable laugh. “But you know, if she goes down, it’s just another tragic casualty to keep your
gang
of, ah, motorcycle enthusiasts. All for the crew, right? I mean, like you said, she’s an outsider.” He grins, and I just narrow my eyes at him. “But it’s not as though that’s the only thing that woman could run into to put her career in the grave in a town like this.

“Those lines are starting to sound a lot like threats, Charlifer.”

“Goaded so easily, Mr. Volkov? I’m sorry, I didn’t realize she was that close to you.”

“Let’s quit beating around the bush, Doyle, you and I know each other a little too well to act like this is a first date. I got word that you were in town a few days before anyone reported anything about either the victims at that plot of land or whatever disturbances Mr. Lamar says went down at the liquor store. What’s a Washington hotshot like you doing in our little dried-up dock town? Can’t imagine you were here investigating reports that hadn’t happened yet. Unless I was wrong about that ‘psychic’ thing.” I raise my eyebrows and tilt my head in as though that’s a very real possibility.

“Keeping tabs on me, are you?” Doyle retorts with a smile, sitting down in the chair across from me and folding his hands on the table. “Now
that’s
very interesting. I’ll answer that if you tell me if you were watching out for law enforcement before or after you started burying dead immigrants in an unoccupied lot?”

He’s gotten sharper since the last time we met.

“Funny thing is,” I go on, leaning back, “some of the bosses around town got
real
bold when word spread that you were around. In fact, word spread pretty quick. I always thought the FBI liked to keep quiet when they were stretching out the long arm of the law.”

Doyle chews on his cheek, giving me a thoughtful look. “When someone announces themselves, Mr. Volkov, I’d guess it’s usually to send a message. I think that much is clear, don’t you?”

“Crystal,” I say, unfazed. “But after all these years, Chungles, I guess I’m just bitter I still don’t know why, when you’ve got your nice and fancy office in Washington and tons of bigger fish than us to fry, you’re still so goddamn insistent on trying to strangle our little slice of New Jersey ‘till you feel its last breath of life fogging up those new glasses of yours?”

The agent’s eyes are unreadable for a moment. “I’m not here to ruin your little vanity project of a town, Mr. Volkov,” he says in a low tone. “If you weren’t busy riding bikes around all day, you might notice that it’s already ruined.” He leans in with an expression as placid as the docks at night.

“I’m just here to put a bullet in its head so the rest of us can move on with our business.”

I
have spent more
time in this police station over the past couple of days than I ever expected to, collectively, for one whole lifetime. After the big scene at the grave site, I tailed the black sedans to the precinct and watched helplessly from the parking lot as the FBI suits dragged Leon and the rest of the Club into the building. I decided then and there to wait this out. I was determined to stick around until they were inevitably released again.

Of course, that was over twenty-four hours ago now.

I’m still sitting in the waiting room of the police building, waiting for Leon to come out of the interrogation room where they’ve been holding him for so long. I’m pretty sure, from the true crime shows I’ve watched, that they can’t keep him more than twenty-four hours just for questioning. If they want to hold him for longer, they’ve got to find some kind of evidence to pin on him, something substantial to make him a real suspect.

I have no doubt that these sleazy, shady FBI guys are more than willing to drum up some false information, any kind of fabricated evidence, just to make sure Leon doesn’t wiggle out of their grasp. But I’ve been camped out here waiting all this time anyway. I’m too anxious to go home — and besides, where is home now, anyway? The hotel room I’ve only visited once to shower, rest, and change into the outfit I’m still wearing now? I might as well cancel that room and pick up all my belongings and live out of my rental car if I’m going to keep up like this.

As for my dad’s old house? Well, it’s not exactly a home if nobody’s living there anymore, is it? His memory, his presence, still lingers like a shroud over the house. But that’s not enough to make it a home again. So where would I go? If I’m being honest, I never even really felt at home back in the big city either. My little studio apartment was nice, filled with personal touches that made it feel a little less like renting a cardboard box. But it was lacking in memories. It was mostly just a crash pad and a writing space. Nothing particularly “homey” about that.

In fact, the closest thing to a home I’ve known in a long, long time is the comfort I found that night wrapped in Leon’s arms. I felt protected there, pressed against his warm, hard body. I know it’s gotta be one of the craziest things I’ve ever done, but something tells me I can’t just walk away from this now, just because the water’s gotten a little rough.

Leon saved me from drowning once, and I owe him. Besides, if he’s the one who makes me feel like I’m finally home, then what kind of person would I be to walk away from that? If he’s going to be stuck here in this musty old police station, then by God, I am gonna just camp out here, too.

And so I have.

The secretary gives me dirty, confused looks every now and again. I know she thinks I’m straight-up insane for sticking around this long with no word from the cops about when Leon might be released. They won’t give me any information at all. For all I know, they’ve already pinned all seventeen murders on him and they’re taking their sweet time building an airtight — albeit false — case against him, and I’m waiting here for no reason.

But I can’t take the chance that he’ll be released and I won’t be here.

I feel responsible, like I’m the one who dragged him into this. After all, it was
my
father’s journal which led us to that field in the first place. I could have just left Leon out of it, investigated the case on my own. Or at least, I could have tried. But I know, deep down, he would have found his way into it, anyway. There’s no chance he would have been able to keep out of it. He knew my father. He knows more about this whole mysterious, shady situation than I could ever know. I need his help. I need
him
.

So I wait, dutifully. Luckily I’m dressed in pretty comfortable clothes: a flowy gray blouse, dark jeans, and my most comfortable shoes, which are still kitten heels. That’s definitely going to have to change pretty soon. I need to update my wardrobe to reflect the lifestyle I’ve fallen into back here in Bayonne. I’m not strutting Park Avenue anymore. I’m sneaking around warehouses, tromping through a field of unmarked graves, and riding on the back of a dangerous man’s motorcycle.

It’s probably high time for me to invest in a good pair of sneakers.

Good thing I’m always over-prepared. It’s a trait of mine that my New York friends used to tease me for — the fact that my purse was always packed with anything I could possibly need in a pinch. Band-aids, breath mints, small pair of scissors, tape, mini sewing kit, always an extra toothbrush and travel-size toothpaste, face wipes, over-the-counter pain medication, an extra phone charger, and more. It’s something I picked up during my long commutes back when I lived on Staten Island when I first moved out and couldn’t afford to live in the city yet. When it takes you literally hours to get back home during an emergency, you start to realize how important it is to be mobile, to be prepared no matter how far you are from home.

So as I’m sitting in the police station, I’ve got my phone hooked up and charging so I can entertain myself and do some lowkey research. It’s been an oddly productive activity, and I can’t wait to share what I’ve learned with Leon. An hour ago I made a trek to the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face before returning to my little stakeout in the lobby. I’m prepared to live in this police station until they finally release Leon and the others. Secretarial shifts have changed multiple times, and each one of them has given me the same incredulous, somewhat-annoyed look. But now the girl who was working the desk when I first got here has returned again and she outright laughs when she walks in and sees me still here.

“We’re gonna have to start charging you rent,” she jokes as she swishes by to take her spot at the front desk. She’s young and pretty, a brunette with round granny glasses and a pencil skirt. She looks more like a librarian than a cop jockey.

“Got more amenities than most of the apartments I could afford back in New York,” I reply, shrugging. The secretary smiles.

“Are you hungry?” she asks. “Have you eaten anything since you first showed up?”

“Well, it depends on whether you consider vending machine snacks ‘food’ or not,” I answer with a laugh, sitting up straight and setting my phone down to stretch my legs out.

She grimaces, wrinkling her nose. “Oh, ew. No, that won’t do. I’ll order us some sandwiches or something. At this point, you’ve been here more than I have in the past day or so, and at least I’m getting paid for it.”

It’s nice to see that my quiet persistence has won her over. Because even though I’ve been here forever, I haven’t made a scene or caused any trouble — which is more than can be said for most of the people who probably come in here. So the secretary, who introduces herself as Janet, orders us both turkey subs from across the street. I scarf mine down in record time, realizing just how starved I am. We sit and joke back and forth with each other, passing the time until finally, at long last, an officer emerges with Leon in tow.

My heart leaps for joy in my chest and I can feel my whole body light up at the sight of him. When he sees me, his eyebrows shoot up in surprise and that adorable half-smile appears on his face. He looks so exhausted and burned out from hours and hours of interrogation, but I figure if they’re bringing him out now, they must not have gotten what they were looking for. They are letting him go! He’s free! For now, at least.

But something in his eyes tells me this isn’t over yet, not by a long shot. Leon looks like he’s seen and heard some terrible things in the past twenty-four hours or so. I want nothing more than to rush over to him and throw my arms around him. I want to kiss the sadness out of his face and take him back out into the sunshine. Except, I realize with a glance at the clock on the wall, the sun is already going down by now. Both of us have spent all our daylight hours cooped up in this station, though I expect his stay was considerably less comfy than mine.

“Leon!” I exclaim, despite the glumness of the moment. I need to make myself calm down — it’s not like we’re
together
or anything. It’s not like that. But I can’t seem to rid the thought from my head.

“Mr. Volkov is being released,” the officer says gruffly. “Are you picking him up?”

“Oh — uh, yes!” I answer awkwardly, nodding. Leon gives me a grateful wink.

“At last the wait is over,” Janet says, smiling at me. “It was nice to meet you.”

“Thanks for putting up with me. And for the sandwich,” I add.

“Now fill this out and go home and sleep, both of you,” Janet replies, handing me a clipboard through the cut-out in the glass. I sign my name to check Leon out and then the officer takes off his cuffs and trudges away without a word. Leon turns to me and before he can say anything I wrap my arms around him and squeeze him tight.

His hand hesitantly comes down to pat my back and he rests his chin on my head for a long, still moment. “Don’t tell me you waited this whole time,” he murmurs.

I nod against his warm chest. “Yeah. It wasn’t so bad. And I — I didn’t want to leave you.”

“I should have known they’d hold me as long as they legally could,” he replies, shaking his head with restrained fury. “As if I would actually tell them anything.”

“Come on,” I say, taking him by the hand. I scoop all my stuff back into my bag and lead Leon out into the fresh air. We both take deep breaths, looking up at the late sunset.

“How was it?” I ask, a little reluctantly. I’ve never been interrogated, so I don’t have any idea how they work. But if it’s anything like it is on crime TV shows, it’s definitely not a good time for anyone. Leon sighs heavily and puts an arm around me.

“Tiring. Boring, mostly. They asked me the same questions over and over with slightly different phrasing, as if that was going to trip me up. I knew exactly what they were doing the whole time. I’ve interrogated people before, myself. I know how it works. And they’re just so… pompous. All of them. They don’t even realize or care that I’m not the real bad guy here. They just want someone easy to pin shit on, and the Club is full of bright red targets,” he says quietly, anger hardening his tone.

“This is bigger than any of the local police, isn’t it?”

Leon nods and looks down at me. “Oh yeah. The FBI spooks just threw the local cops in there with me to keep all of us out of the way. They don’t care about me or anyone from the Bayonne precinct at all. They just need to keep us occupied while they run their illicit operations all over town, so we can’t do anything to stop them.”

“But… I found out something,” I say, biting my lip. “I looked into Agent Doyle’s background. I mean, yeah, fashion blogging paid my bills but I’ve always been one hell of an investigator. Or just exceptionally, professionally nosy.”

Leon laughs, the sound so welcoming and light. “And what did your research turn up?”

“He’s way out of his league. Or at least his jurisdiction. He’s not a homicide guy — he looks into stuff like tax evasion, corporate corruption, and other boring pencil-pusher things like that. There’s no good reason for him to be here, taking over the investigation. He’s not cut out for this stuff. He said this is FBI jurisdiction now — but if it’s a mass homicide, why the hell would the feds send someone like
him
to clean it up?” I ramble all at once, tired of having to hold in this information for so long. I expect Leon to hug me, swing me around, and light up at this discovery. After all, what if this is the kick we need to take the case back from the feds and keep it a local issue?

But instead, Leon just squeezes my shoulder half-heartedly. “That’s good work, Cherry. But unfortunately, these guys don’t fold just because they’ve been caught counting cards. There’s not a soul here we could report that to who would actually do anything about it. Even that Detective Hanson is useless against these guys. They’re used to dealing dirty, and they aren’t guided by a normal moral compass like we are. Hell, they don’t even follow the law unless it serves their purposes. They’re discriminatory enforcers, working in the shadows where nobody can follow, and for small-timers like us — they’re damn near untouchable.”

I feel my heart sinking and my cheeks burn with embarrassment. Here I thought I’d found something really good, something that would finally help us out, and it turns out I didn’t find anything useful at all. What a letdown. I look down at the ground sadly.

“Oh. Damn.”

“Yeah, it’s hard. I know. But you can’t give up just because the enemy is too big, alright? The Club has tangled with the feds before, and we came out of it relatively unscathed. Except for… you know, Henry. But that’s the reason we can’t give up. We fight for the ones who can’t anymore, to remind those guys that we still remember what they did, and we refuse to let them off the hook for it. Any time we let them cow us with their scare tactics and threats, they get a little stronger. Even if they take us down, even when they win, we can’t afford to retreat,” Leon explains softly, kissing the top of my head.

“Why are they getting involved, anyway? The feds have never given a crap about Bayonne before,” I mumble bitterly.

“Those incompetent local cops let something slip during the interrogation,” Leon begins. “Turns out the reason the feds are here is because they’re chummy with the crotchety old slimeball who owns the docks, Marty Chandler.”

“So what the hell are we gonna do next?” I ask, feeling discouraged.

Leon shoots me a twinkling glance. “Well, first of all, we’re gonna collect my bike from the impound lot. Then we’re going somewhere.”

“Where?” He takes my hand and starts pulling me along behind him.

“Somewhere. I have an idea.”