by Raven Dark
“It can’t wait. I’ve been looking into that Abel Adamson, like you asked, trying to find anything on him.”
Abel Adamson. The fuck that Gunner’s prospect claimed was up in the Outlaw’s business, asking questions about us. The fuck who told Gunner he couldn’t trust us, resulting in my having to kill Gunner and set us on a path toward a war that, with my having killed Wolf’s brother, is now inevitable.
I turn to Rat, impatience riding me hard. “What did you find?”
“Well, it’s not much. Whoever he is, he keeps himself pretty far under the radar. But I did eventually track down a deed to a house he owns a few miles outside of Coyote Springs. On the surface, it looks like it’s owned by a real estate agency, but the agency doesn’t exist. He’s done a hell of a job covering up his connection to the house, but it’s there.”
“Who is he?”
“Honestly, I have no idea. I’ve been looking into this guy all week, Spider. Everything I find on him goes nowhere. I couldn’t find a trail on him. I couldn’t even find out what he looks like, but here’s the thing. You remember Stu, the computer guy who helps me out sometimes?”
“Yeah,” I say in the dangerous voice I use when someone is pushing my patience.
“He’s the one who takes care of the tech shit that’s above even what my magical geek powers can handle. He—”
“Rat.”
“Yeah, okay, okay.” He holds up his hands. “Anyway, he told me he suped up a computer for that house a few days ago. He said there were files on it with a lot of Outlaw shit. Club member names. Names of family members to the club. Businesses we own.”
That gets my attention. “And?”
“He’s got a lot of names. Including Dragon’s, and including yours. Spider, it looks bad.”
He doesn’t need to tell me that. If this guy’s collecting the names of Outlaws and those close to us, and if he has me on his radar…
I run my palm down my face. The urge to ride out, find this guy and end him fast flares up, but I know better than to go off half-cocked without getting all the intel I can first.
“And why would this Stu tell you this if he knows he’s betraying Adamson? He’s risking losing a client.”
“Stu’s brother is a prospect in our Daytona Chapter. He knows what would happen to him if he got wind of someone trying to fuck with us and didn’t give him a heads up. Spider, I trust him. If Stu says—”
“All right, I get it. Meet me outside in ten. Get Striker.” I take out my phone and dial Dragon’s number. If Adamson’s got the prez’s name, Dragon has to know.
Fuck. Need to deal with Stephanie, find out why she went against my rules and why she called that rooming house, but Rat’s right. It’s my job to protect the club and its members. Whomever this Adamson is, if he’s looking to take us down, I have to take care of it. It’s club business, and club business always comes first.
My fists ball up, anger with Adamson surging through me. No one puts a target on my back, or on anyone in the club. I need to find this asshole and put him in the ground before he carries out his plan, whatever it is.
Dealing with Stephanie will have to wait.
I find one of the security guards and have him watch Stephanie, making sure she doesn’t leave his sight, then stalk outside to the bikes, where Rat and Striker are already mounting up and waiting for me.
No matter how well she’s planned her escape, that treacherous little thief is never getting away from me. As soon as I deal with this Adamson asswipe, I’ll teach her a lesson she’ll never forget. I’ll make sure she never forgets who owns her.
An hour later, we’re riding down a long dirt road toward Adamson’s house, ready for a showdown. Striker Arson, Reaper, Pip and a few others ride at my six, Striker right behind me, the prospect at the back of the line.
Coming out here, I’d expected the usual humble abode most people in these parts call home. A two-story house with a couple of bedrooms, or even a bungalow. Far from it. We’ve stopped on a hill half a mile from the house, and I can see it clearly from here. It’s a mansion, the kind of three-story digs Dragon talks about owning someday. It’s a rare find, and in the middle of nowhere, with a half a mile drive that leads to it’s wrought iron gate. Pillars hold up the second and third floor, and double doors form an elaborate front entrance.
Whoever this fuck is, he’s loaded. The kind of loaded that means he’s elite, and that means connections. Power. The kind that only either very old money or an extreme amount of it can buy.
It’s unfortunate for him that the Devil’s Outlaws has the same kind of power in these parts. We gained it a different way, through fear and intimidation, but still. Whatever pies the man has his fingers in to get these kinds of digs, we have our fingers in just as many. More, maybe.
Striker stops his bike beside mine and cuts his engine. The others do the same. He eyes the house and lets out a long, low whistle. “I think we’re in the wrong line of work.”
“Fuck that,” I say. “Too much wasted space. No sense in having a house with more rooms than you can count.”
“So, you want a house with only one room?”
I punch him on the arm hard enough that he rubs his shoulder and grins.
“Who wants to ring the doorbell?” Arson teases from my other side.
I glance at the gate. From here, I can’t see it, but a place like that would have a buzzer, and probably a doorman. Security guards. Something tells me if we buzzed, Adamson wouldn’t let us in no matter who we were.
This isn’t one of those golf course mansions where the kids are born with silver spoons in their mouths. Anyone who lives here isn’t a politician or corporate executive. Shady people live out here, in well-fortified compounds and mansions with armed guards. Plus, Adamson was dealing with Gunner. Whomever he is, he’s bad news.
“What do you think?” Striker asks me, looking over the house grounds.
“I shake my head. “Mob, maybe. I dunno.”
“If he is, he’s covered his tracks well,” Rat says from behind me. “I can usually figure out what aliases the kingpins are using once I have the name and I dig deep enough.”
I assess the house for a minute longer, glad we’ve stopped as far off as we have. Anyone in there wouldn’t see us from here. The house has no trees around it, and no place to use as cover nearby, except for a rise near the side. When we bust in on them, we’ll need the element of surprise. It’ll be tricky with a place this open.
“Well, we’re not getting inside through that gate. We’ll have to go around on foot and find another way onto the property.” I glance at the others. “All right. We’ll scope the place out first and see what’s what. Striker and I will go in first. That place probably has security guards. The rest of you stay close and follow the minute there’s trouble. Pip, hide the bikes and stay with them.”
Leaving the others behind, Striker and I find our way to a wall that runs along the side of the house and to the rear.
Damn it. It’s a huge property, acres of flat, dry land, devoid of cover. The wall is high enough that one of us will have to stand on the other’s shoulders to see over it. There are probably cameras all over the property, too. Rat would have had a hayday securing and providing surveillance for this place.
Scanning the wall, I don’t see any cameras. I lean against the wall and bend my knees, cupping my hands in front of me. “Up you get,” I tell Striker.
Striker grumbles under his breath. “Why me? You do it.”
I can imagine what he’s thinking. He’d be the first one to get caught.
“I outrank you. Go on.”
“Asshole.” He rubs his palms together, takes a run, and steps into my hands, then up onto my shoulders. He digs his feet in, and I’m sure he’s doing it on purpose.
“Fuck, you want me to drop your ass? Stop moving so much.”
“Fuck you.” He grunts as he hoists himself up onto the ledge at the top of the wall.
“What do you see?”
/>
He doesn’t say anything.
“Striker! Hurry the fuck up.”
A few seconds later, he jumps down beside me. “Great,” he mutters.
“What is it?”
He straightens. “It looks like they’re getting the hell out of dodge.”
“What?”
“There’s a van with furniture and stuff in the back. There’s men moving boxes and shit, and they’re armed with assault rifles. And if we go in there, we’ll have to watch ourselves. It looks like he has a dog. There’s a kennel in the van.”
We’ve caught him in the process of bolting? Did he somehow realize we were onto him?
I nod. “Give me a boost.”
He does the same thing I did for him, knees bent, hands cupped in front of him. I step up onto his shoulders and pull myself onto the ledge, scanning the yard.
There’s a double garage off to the side of a wide stone driveway. A big black van with no markings sits idling in front of the open garage. Two men are shouting orders at each other, both of hurrying boxes to the back of the van. A third guy is carting what looks like an armful of laptops and other computer equipment. All three of them have rifles on their backs. Through the open back door of the van, I make out the end of a sofa, a standing lamp, and piles upon piles of boxes.
I can also make out the kennel Striker was talking about, one of those you’d use for a Rotti or another large dog breed.
“Hurry it up, you three,” a big guy in a security guard’s uniform shouts at the others as he comes down the front steps of the house. “If anyone shows up while we’re still here, I’ll shoot you all myself.”
The guy must be in private security. Either that or he’s a rent-a-cop whose in Adamson’s pocket. Who the fuck is this asshole?
I jump down. “Whoever he is, you’re right, those asswipes are bugging out in a hurry. We don’t have much time.”
We make our way back to the others, all of them waiting over the rise near the property.
As soon as we update the others, all of us crowd in behind the wall, the others waiting for Striker and I to give a signal that we need backup. Then Striker and I scale the wall and find the only entrance that doesn’t have a camera or a guard stationed there—an upper floor terrace with sliding glass doors.
We make our way to the wall of the house below the terrace and flatten ourselves there, glancing around the property to make sure no one is nearby.
Striker goes up first, climbing up the metal latticework that covers the wall. He climbs over the terrace ledge. For a few seconds, he disappears, probably checking the entrance to make sure no one is nearby. Then he pokes his head over the wall and signals for me to come up.
Starting up the lattice, I pick my way carefully toward the terrace ledge. It would be my luck if the struts on this thing were old and gave out with me twenty feet off the ground.
“Hurry it up, old man,” he hisses. He gestures at me, glancing over his shoulder. “I should have figured you were too old to go around climbing walls anymore, Spiderman.”
“Kiss my well-toned ass.” I climb over the ledge and follow him to the doors. “I’m forty, not eighty.”
Striker takes a handkerchief out of his cut pocket and quietly smashes in the glass on the door, then reaches around and unlocks it.
We step into a spacious two-floor study that’s all decked out in expensive polished wood and lush carpet. Paintings hang on the walls, oil ones. I don’t know shit about art, but they look expensive, with heavy, gilded frames. They look like the kind of paintings people forge and hawk on the black market for thousands.
After we take a quick look around the room to make sure there are no guards near, Striker glances at me. “Holy fuck. This guy’s got to be into some heavy shit. This places reeks of money. Maybe he’s an art dealer or something.”
“Maybe, but if he was buying Bastard weapons, no way is what he’s peddling legal.”
Guns cupped in our hands and making our way to the double doors of the study, I listen for footsteps.
Men’s voices sound down a hall, growing louder. I push Striker against the wall beside the door and flatten myself against it beside him. Holstering my gun, I wait in silence until two men walk in.
I give myself half a second to register the fancy black suits and slick dark hair before I throw my elbow right into the first one’s nose.
He goes sprawling across the floor and doesn’t move. Striker grabs the other one from behind, his arm around his throat. He presses on the back of his head, squeezing.
“Make a sound, and you stop breathing,” I tell the second guy as I check to make sure the first one is out cold. The one I knocked out is spurting blood from his nose.
The guy Striker is holding visibly takes in my cut and patches. He deflates. Striker sets him down on the floor, careful to be quiet and not alert whoever else is in the house. The suit tries to get up, his mouth opening for a yell.
“Uh-uh.” I put my heel to his throat hard enough that he gags and flails his arms. “Where is Adamson?”
“Fuck you,” he huffs when I ease off enough to let him answer.
I apply pressure and he chokes and claws at my boot.
One second passes, then two. His face is turning purple.
“Not gonna ask a third time.” Again, I ease off. “Where is Abel Adamson?”
“He’s…” The asshole coughs. “He’s not here,” he rasps. “He never comes here in person.”
“Of course he doesn’t. How many are here?”
He says nothing.
My heel presses down until he thrashes.
“Eight,” he huffs. “Four are trained guards. You won’t get out of here alive.”
I remove my foot. “Watch me.” I bend down, grab his head, one hand at the back, one at the front, and give a sharp twist. There’s a crack and he goes limp.
Ten minutes later, the rest of the men are dead. Two guards are slumped over a table in the kitchen, another dead in the front hall. The other three men, the one who were moving the shit into the van, have all given up the ghosts as well, one of them in the driver’s side of the van, two in a basement storage area where Striker, me, and the other guys are now all gathered.
The suit lied. There were only three more men. Obviously, instead of hoping to trick me into letting my guard down early, he’d tried to scare me off by making it sound like the place was too well guarded for us to stand a chance. It’s like the kid who pretends his parents are home when someone calls asking if Mommy is in.
He was most likely telling the truth about Adamson, though. All of the men have identification on them, and none of them has that name.
Except for a pile of boxes stacked by a back wall, the room is empty, but imprints in the carpet mark where heavy furniture once sat. A sofa, chairs, a coffee table, and probably a desk. A broken lamp lies on the floor, still plugged in. It had probably been sitting on the desk, and someone was in such a hurry to get the desk out of here that the lamp fell over.
“You two got lucky,” Reaper says, looking over the nearly empty room. “Considering the size of this place, there was probably a lot more men, but they were likely sent off earlier.”
“Look at this place,” Pip says, running his hand over the gold filigree on the dark green walls. “Mr. Moneybags lived here.”
“Drool later, prospect,” I tell him, opening a box sitting on the top of the stack. It’s full of papers. “Go stand watch. You see anyone, yell.”
Pip leaves.
I dig out a folder and open it, leafing through the papers. There are dozens of sheets but all of them have nothing but long strings of numbers. I throw back my head. “Rat!”
Footsteps thunder on the stairs outside the room. “You bellowed, boss?”
I show him the papers. “What is this?”
He rifles through the papers, running his fingers down the rows of numbers. “They look like credit card numbers.” He lifts his head. “Credit card fraud?” I can see it on his nar
row face; he knows that doesn’t make sense.
I shake my head. “Whatever is going on here is bigger than that.”
Someone who’s making a living off of credit card fraud wouldn’t need to load up on guns. If he’s using this place as a base of operations for a credit card scam, it’s something he’s got going on the side. It’s not his main outfit.
“Let me see those.”
I hand Rat a stack of folders. While he leafs through them, I go through others, and have Striker go through still more while the other guys go upstairs and have a look through the van.
“Spider, look.” Rat shows me one of the folders. It’s full of papers that all have black and white photocopies of ID cards. Some look like different types of US visas, work Visas and such. Others are student IDs. There are dozens of men and women, a few teenagers, according to the ages on the cards.
There’s a handful of photocopied pics, individuals who look like theirs were taken with a high end camera, all with names, genders, and ages written beside them.
“It looks like this guy has files on dozens of people, but who are they?” I ask, more to myself than anyone else. All the alarms in my head are going off.
“Check this out.” Striker hands me a page out of his folder.
I look it over. There are rows of phone numbers on it. “Looks like some kind of contact list.”
“More pictures,” Striker says, holding them up.
“I’ll bet if we checked, these credit cards belong to the people in these photos,” Rat says. “He’s got a hell of a racket going on here.”
“Yeah, but there’s more to it.” I leaf through more phone numbers, not recognizing any of them.
“Then what is it?” Striker asks. “Spider, what the hell is going on here?”
I run my finger down another list of numbers, all of which are labeled as motels or B&B’s and a few rooming houses, most of them in Nevada.
My brain stalls when I see the number on one of the lists. “Striker.” I hold up the page, pointing at the number. “Rosie’s Room and Board. That’s the number Stephanie called.”
“Spider, there’s hundreds of places listed here. There’s…oh shit.” He freezes, staring at one of the pages in his hand. “Oh, Spider...” He says my name in a low sing-song voice. “Someone’s got some ‘spaining to do.”
