by Nic Starr
“Calm down, Mitch.” Sutherland waved his hand, indicating the chair. “Take a seat, and I’ll explain.”
The chair creaked as Mitch sat. He took a sip of his coffee and looked at his boss over the rim. The man was in his midfifties but wore his age well. He didn’t have the appearance of a man about to do any damage, and Mitch thought he could read people fairly well. Sutherland looked more concerned than anything.
“It’s come to our attention that Peter Crowley has recently taken up a new association. He’s been seen with Rocky Cummings.”
Mitch blanched. Fuck! The Soldiers of Fury. His hand shook as he put down the cup.
“Jesus Christ!” Ross looked at him in shock.
Mitch looked back to Sutherland. “When did you get the intel? How did you link him back to me?”
“A couple of days ago. He was spotted with Rocky in a car. They were driving to the airport to pick up Rocky’s brother.”
“And?”
“Yesterday the photos were being reviewed by the team when Roger Powell recognized Peter.” It started to make sense. Roger was a colleague who’d worked with Mitch and Ross for years. He’d had the pleasure—if it could be called that—of meeting Peter during the last stages of their relationship. Roger was one of the people to recommend that Mitch dump Pete’s sorry arse. Mitch assumed he’d seen enough junkies in his career on the drug squad to recognize when someone couldn’t be saved, something Mitch wasn’t able to see until Peter had broken his heart one too many times.
“How long has he been part of the club?” Ross interrupted. “I assume he’s affiliated in some way?”
Sutherland nodded. “That’s a logical conclusion given how tight he looked with Rocky.”
“But wouldn’t he have to prove himself first? He can’t just appear from nowhere and be part of Rocky’s inner circle. The Soldiers aren’t that trusting, and club protocol wouldn’t allow it.”
“The working theory at the moment is that Crowley is looking to become a prospect, so he’s seeking a sponsor in the club, and he knows Rocky’s younger brother, so it gave him an in.”
“The brother who lives in Melbourne?”
“Not anymore. But yes, that’s the assumption.”
“So how are they linked?” The whole thing still didn’t make any sense to Mitch.
“Flight records show Peter was in Melbourne last month. We can’t find any record of hotel accommodation.”
“It’s a long stretch to link them just because they spent time in the same city.”
“Perhaps. Phone records do show calls from Peter to Rocky’s brother. We’re looking for more tangible proof, but in the meantime, we’re working with what we’ve got. The fact Crowley traveled with Rocky to the airport when he picked up his brother, plus the phone calls, is enough for now. It reeks of a personal connection, not a business dealing.”
Ross leaned on the table. “So why’s the kid back now, especially after all this time?”
“We’re not sure of that either.”
“What the fuck are you sure of?” Mitch thumped the conference table.
“Listen, Mitch,” Sutherland said calmly. “I know this is out of the blue, but work with me here. Do you need a minute to get your shit together?”
Mitch slumped back in his seat. “No. Continue.”
Sutherland raised a brow but started talking. “The kid—Finn Cummings—has finished studying. We don’t know what his brother’s plan is for him, but it appears whatever it is, it will take place in Sydney. The lease on his Melbourne flat wasn’t renewed, and all his belongings have been shipped back to Sydney.”
“He’s living with Rocky?” Rocky Cummings, president of the Soldiers of Fury MC, lived in a house overlooking the river—flash enough to draw attention and special enough to impress those he wanted to show off to. Biker gang president done good.
“It doesn’t appear so. He’s living in the old house where they grew up.”
“Carl Cummings’s place? I don’t think anyone’s lived there for years. It must be a dump.”
“From the outside it looks like a rundown dump, but the kid only arrived yesterday. Maybe he’s just staying there temporarily.”
“Well, thank God he has the sense not to stay anywhere near his brother.” Mitch drank the last of his coffee, the liquid now tepid and unappealing. He grimaced. “And what about Peter?”
“Crowley appears to be staying at Rocky’s.”
The coffee roiled in Mitch’s gut, or maybe it was the idea of Peter so close to the head of the Soldiers of Fury Motorcycle Club. Jesus, the Peter he knew might have had a drug habit and started hanging with the wrong people, but the Soldiers?
Mitch could see the concern on Ross’s face. He knew Ross would be worried about his reaction and running different scenarios through his head. Will Mitch have a nervous breakdown? Will I be picking up the pieces again when Mitch falls apart? Sutherland, on the other hand, looked all business. Mitch took a deep breath.
“So what do you want me to do?”
FINN THREW open the last of the windows in an attempt to rid the old house of the musty odor that seemed to permeate every corner. He had managed to sleep in his old bedroom the night before but woke with the headache from hell due to blocked sinuses. Between the mold speckling the corners of the ceiling and the stale bedding, he was lucky the headache was the worst thing he was suffering from, although the throbbing pain in his face was the final push he needed to spring clean the house from top to bottom.
He found a few ibuprofen tablets in the bathroom cabinet and washed them down with water straight from the tap, never minding they were probably a couple of years out of date and left there from one of his earlier trips. When he stood, the reflection in the mirror shocked him. Although why he was surprised was a mystery. It had been a shitty few weeks, and he’d hardly slept for days, as the purplish smears under each eye attested to. Even his usual tan couldn’t camouflage the pallor. Finn dragged a hand across his chin, feeling the two days’ worth of fair stubble that graced his jaw, but didn’t have the energy to do anything about it.
He wore his short blond hair in a messy style. The sides were trimmed close to his skull, the inch-long lengths on top usually ruffled to stick up at all angles, a slick of product keeping the artful arrangement in place all day. Today, in lieu of hairbrush, comb, or hair gel, he ducked his head under the running water and flicked his hands through it. It didn’t matter what he looked like, anyway, not for what he had planned for the day.
The kitchen was no better than the bathroom. A layer of dust covered everything from the cupboards to the laminate benches. The dark carcasses of dead flies littered the windowsills. Why the hell Rocky hadn’t done anything to maintain the house was beyond him. It was as if his big brother shut the door on the place the day their dad died and never came back.
The floor was tacky beneath his feet as he crossed the scarred linoleum to the fridge. The appliance was old and thankfully empty, but the stink from being turned off and closed up for a couple of years was appalling and Finn gagged at the odor. He sucked in a breath and held it as he slammed the door. The bile rose in his throat as he wrenched open the back door and stepped onto the small veranda. He drew in lungfuls of the fresh air as he tried to bring the heaving under control. Fuck!
The need to puke summed up his entire situation—his whole life was a fucked-up mess.
Goddamn Rocky!
Finn’s insides were twisted just thinking about him. And being in this house, the place where they’d grown up together, wasn’t helping. But there was no way in hell he was living with Rocky and whoever else was staying with him in that mausoleum he was so proud of.
When the nausea passed, Finn straightened and focused on getting his breathing back into a regular rhythm. It was pleasant outside, unlike in the house. The backyard, although untended and overgrown, stretched for a long way until it finally blended into the bushland beyond. There wasn’t a fence separating the large acre block fr
om the neighboring national park, so the sense of space was wonderful. Long grass brushed his jeans as he pushed through the area that should have been mown lawn, but even when he was a kid, it was never kept very short. Finn glanced to the large garage where the lawn mower used to be stored. Every now and then, his dad would demand he cut the grass, but usually his father had other things to worry about.
The timber door was warm under Finn’s fingers, the sun already heating the pale gray boards. It was going to be a beautiful day. The door creaked but swung open, exposing the dark interior. A piece of the roof was missing, a whole section of corrugated iron fallen away, letting in a wide beam of light. Tools and gardening equipment still lined the walls. Boxes were stacked in the corner—God knew what they contained and whether the contents would be any good anyway, given the state of the building and the fact they were standing on hard, compact dirt. Between the elements, the bugs, and the rats, the whole property was falling apart.
Dust motes danced in the air, and the smell of dirt and motor oil filled Finn’s nostrils, bringing with it a rush of memories. The smell reminded him of good times. The smell reminded him of bad times.
Suddenly he couldn’t stand the direction his thoughts were headed. Just stepping out of the garage was a relief. The light breeze helped clear his head, the familiar buzz of cicadas filled the air, and a magpie called in the distance. Finn took one last look at the bush and suppressed the desire to walk into its depths and just keep on walking. Instead he faced the rundown old timber house. Finn hoped putting some elbow grease into cleaning the place up would give him something to focus on. And when that is finished? Well, then maybe he would do some renovations, restore the place to how it had been when his mum was around.
One thing was certain: he preferred to plan his own future, have something of his own to concentrate on, because the alternative was unthinkable. The heaviness in his chest returned at the thought of working with Rocky, but what choice did he have?
Chapter THREE
“WHERE THE hell are you?”
Finn flinched at the sound of the front door slamming into the wall, followed by his brother’s call.
Jesus, not today. Surely he can give me one fucking day!
Finn stood from where he’d been digging around under the kitchen sink and rested his hands on the draining board. He took a deep breath and lifted his head. “In the kitchen.”
Heavy footsteps echoed across the floorboards before Rocky appeared at the doorway. He almost filled the space with his bulk, shoulders nearly touching the architrave on each side. At six foot four, he towered over Finn, but it wasn’t just his size that made Finn nervous. Finn knew enough about his brother to be wary.
Rocky scowled. It was his natural look. In fact, Finn couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Rocky smile. Except maybe at the news their brother had gone missing. Nope, not going there.
“What do you want, Rocky?”
Rocky folded his arms across his broad chest, the leather of his jacket creaking. “What the fuck do you think I want? I want you to get your arse to work, that’s what I want.”
Finn refused to kowtow to his brother. He sucked in air through his nostrils and made an effort to stay calm. Show no fear. Don’t be pushed around. That was his mantra.
“I’ve just got back to Sydney. Surely I can have a day or two to settle in.” Finn spread his arms and gestured around. “Look at this place. I can’t live in a pigsty, so I need some time to get basic cleaning done and stock up on things. The fridge, for example, is a piece of unhygienic shit.” He kicked it for emphasis. “And the television isn’t even digital, so I can’t pick up a thing out here.”
Rocky lowered his arms and stepped into the room. “You don’t have to live here. I want you at the house anyway.”
Oh Jesus, no. This wasn’t the direction he wanted the conversation to go. Finn gave himself a mental kick for being an idiot and giving his brother the ammunition he needed to make his case. He took another deep breath.
“I’d prefer to be out here. At least for a little while.” Finn stepped forward and patted Rocky on the arm. “But hey, I’m glad you’re here, ’cause I was getting bored with playing maid. How about you and I go get a coffee, and you can fill me in on what the plans are?”
Rocky shrugged him off. “Fuck knows why you want to stay out here in the middle of bloody nowhere but….” The “but” didn’t come immediately. Hope flared in Finn’s chest. “But just because you’re living out here doesn’t mean you aren’t expected to show your face at the shop every day. I’ve put up with your shit long enough, and it’s time you started earning your keep.”
Finn swallowed against the tightness in his throat. He plastered on a smile and nodded. “Yeah, sure.”
Rocky turned to the doorway, then looked over his shoulder. “Come on. Get what you need. We’re heading out.”
“Out?”
Rocky faced him, brows furrowed. “I’m not drinking your fucking coffee, but we can go and get a beer.”
Finn followed him, grabbing his phone and house keys on the way. A quick glance at the time told him it was 10:30 a.m., and in his book, most definitely not beer o’clock, but he wasn’t going to have that fight with Rocky. He’d pick his battles and take one small win at a time.
MITCH AND Ross sat in the unmarked car parked on the street across the road from the small hotel. With its brick-and-tile facade, the Fury looked like any other ordinary suburban pub. Its public bar, poolroom, lounge bar, and small garden bistro meant it was popular with the locals—quieter during the day but filling up from early afternoon with the after-work crowd. It was even popular with families on the weekends. Unfortunately it was also popular with the members of the Soldiers of Fury Motorcycle Club, accounting for the pub’s nickname.
“Why haven’t they been able to shut this place down?”
“The licensee isn’t club affiliated.”
Ross snorted. “Yeah, right. And Santa Claus is real.”
“Maybe I should say ‘not proven’ to be,” Mitch said. “Yet.”
“These guys must think they’re made of Teflon, tough and indestructible—”
“Isn’t that Tupperware?”
Ross rolled his eyes. “They think they can get away with murder, and it’ll just slide off their backs.”
This time it was Mitch’s turn to snort. “I’m sure they have.” Although the thought wasn’t funny, they often used black humor to deal with the crap they saw day in, day out.
Ross slapped his knee in obvious frustration. “Even the friggin’ name of the pub. The Fury? It’s like they’re trying to rub our noses in it. What happened to the good old days of criminals trying to stay under the radar?”
“Hiding in plain sight, maybe.”
“Fuck, there they are!”
Mitch automatically slouched in the seat of the sedan, even though there wasn’t a hope in hell anyone would see him through the tinted windows of the car and on the busy street. There was something about seeing Pete walking along the footpath with Rocky Cummings that made his skin crawl. Rocky must have been twice the size of Pete, something that only highlighted the power imbalance between the two. What the fuck was Pete doing with a creep like Rocky? How did he get involved with one of the most notorious gangs in the area? Why the hell didn’t he stay in Melbourne where he was out of sight and out of mind? Mitch sure didn’t need his thoughts filled up with his ex-boyfriend.
Mitch straightened and tried to ignore the strange feelings surging through him. He was a professional and had a job to do.
“That must be the brother.”
Mitch looked away from Pete—jeez, he was getting sloppy, focusing on Rocky and Peter and not taking in the whole scene—and took in the bloke following the two men. From a distance the kid looked nothing like his brother, apart from the shock of fair hair. Rocky kept his buzz-cut, but Mitch knew enough to know his natural coloring was also that glorious shimmering blond that formed a halo around his brother
’s head. It didn’t seem fair that the men in a family of criminals should be graced with hair that belonged on an angel.
Rocky and Pete stopped at the stairs that led to the entrance of the pub. The young guy caught up to the two men who’d been walking a couple of meters in front, and he and Pete started talking. Rocky said something, then turned to enter the hotel, leaving the two of them there. The guy put his hand on Pete’s shoulder, and something stirred low in Mitch’s belly. The touch and the way Pete dropped his head as he listened to what the other man had to say reminded him so much of himself and Pete. How many times did we stand like that?
Mitch swallowed hard and tore his gaze away from the men. “What do we know about the kid?”
Ross checked his notes. “Finley Robert Cummings, better known as Finn to his family and friends. Age twenty-three. He’s spent the last four years living in Melbourne. He went to La Trobe University and attained his bachelor degree in financial management and accounting.”
“What the fuck did he come back here for, then? Sounds like he could be making something of himself instead of getting drawn into Rocky’s world.”
“Maybe he never left.”
Mitch’s attention snapped to Ross. “He’s got ties to Melbourne gangs?”
“Not that we know of. And he has been checked out.”
“Doing work for his brother from Melbourne?”
“The intel doesn’t show that either. From what’s been found out so far, he’s hardly been in contact with his brother or anyone else in the club since he moved down south. Phone records, internal searches show nothing. He hasn’t even been back to Sydney to visit since his other brother’s death.”
“That was 2014, right?”
Ross consulted his notes. “Yep. June. He was found dead of a drug overdose. Carl Junior was two years older than Rocky. When Carl Senior wrapped his bike around a tree, Carl was voted in as club president and stepped into his boots.”
“It’s convenient for Rocky that the two men both died in a short space of time, paving the way for him to take a shot at the leadership position.”
