On a Knife's Edge

by Lynda Bailey

  “Virgil and Cam were at Rolo’s house. Plus before he died Rolo told me they did this to him.”

  “And why would they do that?”

  “To get his daughters. We figured Blackwell wanted Ma too. That’s why Hez got tortured.”

  Grunge sat taller. “Who’s we?”

  “What?”

  “You said we figured…so who’s we?”

  Lynch shifted in his seat. “Me and Jarvis.”

  The treasurer cocked his head. “Your lady lawyer? What she got to do with this?”

  “A lot, actually.” Lynch held the other man’s stare. “She’s an FBI agent.”

  Shock registered on Grunge’s face. An instant later, the shock dissolved from his expression. “You saying you’re working with the goddamn FBI?”

  “I’m saying the FBI came to me in prison and asked for my help.”

  “Yeah, right,” Grunge scoffed. “Help in ratting out your brothers.” He slid his hand to the right.

  Lynch snaked out his arm and grasped Grunge’s wrist. “Left hand, brother. Nice and easy.”

  Curling his lips, Grunge lowered his left hand under the table and slowly lifted his Glock using just his thumb and index finger. Lynch took the weapon, placing it next to him then released Grunge.

  “Now what?” Grunge mocked.

  “Now you’re gonna listen to me.” Lynch pulled more documents from the envelope.

  “Never figured you for a fucking rat.”

  Lynch ground his teeth together, refusing to be baited.

  “Just tell me why,” Grunge sneered. “Was it to get outta prison? Is that why you ratted on your crew? Your brothers?”

  “No.” Lynch placed another photo on the table. “It was because of him.”

  Grunge barely glanced at the picture. “And who the fuck is that?”

  “Flyer.”

  For the span of several heartbeats, all emotion drained from Grunge’s face. Then scorn twisted his expression. “Bullshit.”

  “No bullshit. It’s Flyer. His body was found in Pyramid Lake a couple months ago. The DNA tests prove it’s Flyer.”

  “DNA tests,” Grunge scoffed. “Riiight. Performed by the feds. I don’t believe you.”

  Lynch leaned across the table. “You’d rather believe Flyer left my mom for some skank in a skirt? You knew the man better than that.”

  Anger and dread warred on Grunge’s face. Finally realization and resignation took hold. He dropped his gaze to the photo and fingered the edge. “Christ…” His voice hitched. “Flyer…” The treasurer bowed his head, his shoulders quaking.

  Lynch tightened his jaw, waiting for Grunge to compose himself.

  The other man blew his nose with a loud sniffle. “Why would anyone do that to Flyer?”

  “Not anyone. Blackwell. And he did it because Flyer was working with the FBI too.”

  The treasurer’s mouth fell open. “The hell you say.”

  Lynch placed another picture on the table. “With Special Agent Jerry Olsen to be exact.”

  “Tre?”

  “Yeah.”

  Grunge rubbed both hands down his face then looked at Lynch. “You still ain’t said why.”

  “Because of these.” Lynch laid out the missing person reports. “You see, brother, all those shipments the Streeters escorted over the past five years weren’t of black market pharms, but young girls.”

  Rifling his gaze to Lynch, Grunge narrowed his eyes. “What the shit you saying now?”

  “That those vans were used to transport kidnapped girls south of the border where they were sold to a Columbian named Fuentes.”

  Grunge shook his head with a dour smile. “Quite the story.”

  “Did you ever look in one of those vans?” Lynch countered, and Grunge glanced away. “So you don’t have fucking clue what was inside. All you did know was that you got a good payday out of it. And that, unfortunately, was the plan.”

  Lynch went on to recount Rolo’s story about the girl in the warehouse—and older man’s complexion whitened even further—as well as the attempts on Lynch’s life and the discovered surveillance equipment in the various locations.

  Finished, Lynch sat back, took a healthy swallow of his cold, whiskey-laced coffee and pushed the Glock across the table. Grunge made no move for the gun…he just stared at it.

  Empathy nipped Lynch. He knew how his brother felt…shocked, repulsed, ashamed…but sugarcoating wouldn’t change the facts of what the Streeters had done. And ignorance was hardly an excuse.

  Finally, Grunge met his gaze. “So what do we do now?”

  “We do what’s necessary to take out that motherfucking Blackwell.”

  “Fine.” Grunge narrowed his eyes. “But once all this shit’s done with, the table’s gonna decide your fate for having worked with the feds.”

  Lynch nodded and shoved to his feet. He knew better than to argue. He also knew no reason would be good enough for betraying the club. Because that’s what it was. A betrayal.

  But as long as he got Blackwell, Lynch didn’t give a fuck about anything else.

  *

  After scouring Grunge’s house top to bottom for hidden cameras and microphones, and not finding any, Lynch and the treasurer decided they’d confide only in those Streeters who’d been in the club prior to Lynch’s prison stint. That meant Mick, Picket, Ennis and Tiny showed up an hour later, their families in tow.

  One of the good things about MC old ladies—they knew not to ask questions. They cloistered the kids in the bedrooms to watch TV or play video games then stayed in the living room drinking coffee while the men congregated out back.

  Though Lynch worried how his fellow Streeters would respond to his collaboration with the feds, knowing Grunge had his back—at least for the time being—eased some of his trepidation. He quickly summarized the horrible deaths of Flyer, Rolo, Hez and his mom…no point belaboring events that couldn’t be changed. Yet the overwhelming reaction of other men’s grief and sorrow as they looked at the graphic photos of the murders and their murmured words of condolences jumped tears to his eyes.

  Then Lynch admitted his FBI connection with Agent Jarvis.

  As expected, angry insults and hostile threats flew, but Grunge quickly pointed everyone toward achieving vengeance for their fallen brethren rather than crucifying Lynch.

  “So how do we get this fucker?” Mick asked.

  “Yeah,” Picket concurred. “I’d like to attach a car battery to his withered nuts.” He eyed Lynch. “Among others…”

  Lynch focused on Mick rather than Picket. “We get him by finding those girls. According to Jarvis a passenger van was stolen from the Portland airport over the weekend.”

  Mick shrugged. “Don’t those have lojacks?”

  “Yeah, but this one’s been disabled.”

  Tiny sat forward. “Portland?” He glanced at the other men. “Didn’t Junkyard say he had a sister in Portland?”

  “He sure did,” Grunge said. “A half-sister. What the fuck was her name…Anita? Amanda?”

  Tiny snapped his fingers. “Amelia! Amelia Kruger.”

  “How the fuck you remember her last name was Kruger?” Picket asked.

  The big man rolled his shoulder. “It’s my ma’s maiden name.”

  Lynch nodded while jotting a note on a slip of paper. “Good…I’ll tell Jarvis.”

  Mick rapped his knuckles on the table. “And I’ll ask again, goddamn it, how do we get Blackwell? The feds have been after him for how long…without success. So suddenly we’re gonna be able to take him down? How?” He wagged his head. “If the girls are found, he’s gonna figure it was us who helped the FBI. What’s to keep him from coming after us and our families?”

  “What do you suggest?” Grunge demanded. “That we sit on our asses and not do anything to save those girls?”

  Mick blew out a breath. “We just gotta weigh the risks.”

  Lynch leaned back in his chair. Shit. Mick had a valid point. Helping the FBI would not only
put the Streeters in danger, but everyone they loved too. Unless…

  He folded his hands on the table. “Mick’s right. The danger to your families will be huge. That’s why you’ll all take them and go into lockdown at the club until this shit is done.”

  Grunge squinted. “And you’ll be where?”

  “With Jarvis, making sure whoever’s responsible ends up in custody or dead. Preferably dead.”

  Picket scoffed. “You expect us to hide like little bitches?”

  Lynch glared. “I expect you to take care of your families. Heard your old lady’s pregnant so maybe you should think about her instead of getting all butt-hurt.”

  Red stained Picket’s face as he dropped his gaze.

  Lynch stared each of the other men square in the eye. “What’s left of my family is sitting at this table. And I’ll do whatever it takes to protect them.”

  “You could end up dead,” Grunge commented in a low voice.

  “Yeah, I could.” Lynch didn’t blink. “Your point?”

  The treasurer rolled his shoulder. “Making an observation is all. What you need from us?”

  Lynch pushed a pen and small pad of paper to the treasurer. “The names and numbers of the guys in Junkyard’s crew.”

  Grunge picked up the pen. “The rest of you get everyone over to the clubhouse. There’s enough supplies to last two weeks.” He eyed Lynch. “Think this shit’ll be over by then?”

  “Hopefully it’ll all be over in two days.”

  Grunge nodded then started writing. As the men dispersed, Lynch stood and pulled out his cell. It showed a half a dozen missed calls from Jarvis. He punched in the agent’s number.

  She answered before the first ring ended. “Where the hell have you been?”

  Her testy tone raised his own ire. “Easy, counselor. I’ve been meeting with the club and I’ve got new information. Junkyard had a sister, Amelia Kruger, who lives in Portland. She might know something.”

  “I’ll have Sam follow up with the Portland office. Right now, I need you to come in.”

  Lynch walked to the far corner of the yard. “I can’t. The MC’s going into lockdown at the club which means I’m the only one left to go after Blackwell.”

  “You don’t understand…we’ve got a serious problem.”

  He gave a derisive laugh. “Only one?”

  “Where you were last night, Callan?”

  “At my trailer, like I said I’d be.”

  “Anyone with you?”

  His pulse quickened. “Why you want to know?”

  “Just answer the damn question.”

  “I was alone,” he lied. “What’s going on?”

  Jarvis sighed into the phone. “A jogger discovered three bodies this morning by the Stead airport, bound and shot execution style. Still waiting on two of the IDs, but one came back as a Jack Martin. You knew him as Bowyer.”

  For a moment, Lynch couldn’t breathe. Whether from elation or dread, he didn’t know.

  “ME put time of death at around one a.m.,” Jarvis continued. “Are you sure you were alone last night?”

  “Am I a suspect?”

  “Calls made to and from the burner phone found on Bowyer’s body traced back to your mom’s house. Plus, Rolo Pruett named Bowyer as one of the men who came to his house.” She paused. “If no one can verify your whereabouts, it’s like I said…we’ve got a serious problem.”

  “Who’s not answering the question now, counselor? Do you think I’m involved?”

  Silence filled his ear.

  Jarvis blew out another breath. “Honestly? No. But I have to ask, did you have anything to do with what happened to Bowyer and the other two?”

  “No.”

  “Guess that leaves one of the other Streeters.”

  Lynch shot a quick glance over his shoulder. “No one knew anything about Bowyer or any of this shit until this morning.”

  “Well I’m all out of suspects then.”

  He stood taller. “Maybe not. Have you located Murphy yet?”

  “No. Why?”

  “If he’s really Blackwell, he could’ve killed Bowyer.”

  “And why would he do that?”

  “Maybe he’s cutting his losses.”

  “It’s possible, but I still need you to come in. Albright’s been read into the entire case file, including Bowyer’s possible role in torturing your friends. With him now dead, the good sheriff wants to put out an APB. On you.”

  Dipping his head, Lynch rubbed his neck. Shit.

  “It’ll be a lot easier if you come in versus them bringing you in,” Jarvis added.

  “All right. I’ll make sure everyone’s set over here then I’ll come in.”

  “Make it quick. I don’t know how much longer I can stall Albright.”

  “Understood.”

  *

  Shasta pulled her car into her driveway, turned off the ignition and grabbed the takeout bag in the passenger seat along with her purse. She got out, her heart thrumming in her chest.

  She hadn’t felt this…happy…since before her father died. But that’s exactly how she felt. Happy, and very grateful. Grateful for last night. Grateful because she’d experienced one final time with Lynch.

  He’d given her so much…had forfeited so much for her…the absolute least she could do was grant his wish that she focus on her husband and son—and be happy.

  And the first step in her future happiness would be to carve out more alone time for her and Graham. Starting today. She’d hoped to surprise Graham by meeting him at the airport that morning, but couldn’t get away from work. So she bought his favorite lunch instead. While not a spectacular start, at least it was a start.

  She bounded up the front porch stairs and opened the front door. Soft jazz music greeted her. “Graham…honey…” She dropped her purse on the entryway table. “I’m home.”

  The music stopped, replaced by the quiet mechanical hum of her husband’s wheelchair. He appeared in the archway to his office, slash, bedroom. Concern lined his face. “Hey…what are you doing home? Everything all right at work?”

  She closed the front door with her foot. “Everything’s fine.” She leaned down and planted a quick kiss on his mouth before heading for the kitchen. “And lunch brings me home.”

  “Lunch?” He followed behind her. “But I thought it was an early release for Wyatt and he and I were going to the cabin to get the tackle boxes ready for Saturday.”

  “It is and you are. I just asked Melissa to pick him up for a play date with Aiden so we could spend some time together.” She placed the bag on the table and turned. “That okay?”

  “Of course. This is just…” He shrugged. “A surprise.”

  “A nice surprise, I hope.”

  He grinned. “A great surprise.”

  She smiled back. “Good. I told Melissa we’d be over around three to pick him up. You two will have plenty of time to sort through all those fishing reels and lures.” She removed Styrofoam containers from the bag.

  “Very true.” Graham wheeled closer. “So…is lunch what my nose thinks it is?”

  “It is indeed. Chicken fried steak and garlic potato salad from Mert’s.”

  “Forget great surprise. This is awesome. But what did I do to deserve Mert’s famous chicken fried steak and garlic potato salad?”

  Shasta retrieved two plates from the cupboard. “Can’t a wife bring her husband lunch?”

  “She most certainly can. What can I do?”

  “Grab the iced tea from the fridge?”

  “Coming right up.”

  While her husband got the pitcher and poured two tall glasses, Shasta plated their lunches. She waited until Graham had positioned his chair at the table before situating his lunch, along with silverware and a napkin, on his place setting. She sat herself and raised her glass. He arched his eyebrows, but mimicked her action.

  “To more surprises,” she said, clinking her glass with his.

  His moustache twitched. “I�
��ll drink to that.” After taking a swallow of tea, he cut into his steak and forked the portion into his mouth. His eyes closed as a groan rumbled in his throat.

  “Is it hot enough?” she asked. “Or do I need to warm it up in the microwave?”

  He cut off another slice. “It’s perfect.” He jabbed his knife at her plate. “But find out for yourself.”

  She complied and the next few minutes were occupied with eating. She refilled both their glasses. “Listen, I’ve been doing a lot thinking lately…” Her voice drifted off as an unexpected case of nerves hit her.

  “And?” He scooped a mound of potato salad onto his fork.

  She inhaled a breath. “And I think we should move to Vegas.”

  Graham’s eyes widened, his fork hovering in mid-air. Shasta shifted in her seat, but held his gaze.

  Clearing his throat, he put the utensil on his plate and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “You’ve always been against moving to Vegas. Why the change of heart?”

  She toyed with her knife and hitched her shoulder. “It’s like I said, I’ve been doing some thinking. Your business is in Vegas and it’s stupid for you to travel so much when we could just as easily live where you work.”

  “But what about wanting Wyatt to grow up in a small town?”

  “Maybe I was wrong about that. And how could I judge anyway? I’ve only ever lived in a small town. How would I know if that’s better or worse than living in a bigger city?”

  Graham peered at her. “What about your brother?”

  “What about him?”

  “You two have never lived more than a two minute drive from each other.”

  “I know. And maybe it’s time that changed too.” She gave her shoulder another roll. “I mean it’s Vegas, right? Not the other side of the universe. It’s not like I’ll never see Dell again.” She reached over and covered Graham’s hand with hers. “I’m not saying I don’t have doubts about moving, because I do. But we could try it for…say…the summer to see how it goes.”

  Her husband pulled his hand away then folded his arms on the table and leaned forward, his gaze penetrating hers. “What’s going on, Shasta? Really?”

  “I’ve been doing some—”

  “Thinking. You’ve said that.” He sat back, his mouth pulled into a frown. “Does this have something to do with Lynch Callan?”