Ignite (Savage Disciples MC Book 4)

by Drew Elyse

  Bad news was, someone was trying to pin a drug violation on us. We’d controlled our property and kept it clean of that shit for a long time. Still, that didn’t mean we didn’t have a hand in that industry. From time to time, we had transport deals. We’d help move product over short distances and walk away with a hell of a payout. We didn’t do it often, and we had a strict policy not to take that shit across state lines, but sometimes the money was worth it.

  Anyone we dealt with had more to lose than we did, so chances we had a concern there were low. It was also well known that we only moved that product. We never partook, and we never accepted any of the goods as payment.

  So, that question remained, what evidence was the warrant issued on?

  They were almost done in the main room when Daz suddenly called out, “There’s that fuckin’ thing!”

  We all looked at him, as did the officers. He was focused on a bit of pink plastic that’d been dislodged from one of the couches. Daz went over to it, pointing it out to one of the officers.

  “Am I good to pocket that? A little girl’s been looking for that fuckin’ toy for weeks. Not wanting it to get lost again,” Daz explained.

  The guy looked to his boss, who gave a begrudging nod. I wasn’t sure whether that attitude was about Daz’s impertinence or because the biker he wanted to label a criminal cared about a little girl’s toy and he didn’t have a way to reconcile that information. I also didn’t give a shit. The search might have been going better than I’d braced for, but it didn’t change the fact that the guy was a dick and the whole fucking situation was grinding away at my patience.

  It took them hours to search the whole fucking clubhouse. Every room was covered, even the ones that hadn’t been touched in months and had the layer of dust to prove it. We’d all tailed whichever officer gave us the pat down as they divided up the property and systematically tore each room apart.

  We were going to be putting the place back together until fucking Christmas.

  That was the problem with drug searches. Nothing was off limits when you could stash a dime bag just about anywhere.

  When they were done, the only one showing their frustration was the old asshole. I didn’t know whether he was in the know about what got us on radar or he’d just been hoping for a worthwhile bust to bolster his numbers. I didn’t give a fuck. I just wanted him and his sick disappointment off Disciple property.

  There wasn’t much said as the officers took their leave. Andrews offered a nod on his way out behind the others, one Stone returned as a thank you for giving him the heads up. His real thanks would be slipped through the mail slot on his front door in a couple days—another task I’d been responsible for as a prospect, a task we needed to get fresh blood in here to handle.

  Stone kept it together until the cars were long gone. Only then did he grab a discarded beer bottle off the ground and lob it across the room where it shattered against the cement wall.

  “Call everyone in. Now,” he demanded. “I want to know why the fuck they’re searching our club. This shit needs cleaning up, but that doesn’t fucking factor until we know where this shit is originating.”

  Without another word, he stormed to his office, slamming the door behind him.

  All feeling the same fire, we got to work, calling the brothers in. It was time to bring that shit to an end.

  Brothers arrived one by one, not one walking in without blowing up at the sight that greeted them. The clubhouse was our property, our fucking home, and it had been violated.

  What was worse was the cops weren’t even the real problem. We may not have always been on the right side of the law, but we didn’t have a habit of begrudging the men who were.

  No, what had everyone tetchy as hell was understanding that there was someone behind this. Someone was out there orchestrating it. They wanted us to feel exactly as we were right then, and they were manipulating the law to do it.

  The question was, who?

  Who the fuck was after the club? Who the fuck managed to convince the state police and a fucking judge a search of our clubhouse was necessary? And, on that subject, how the fuck did they manage to do it?

  There were too many questions and not a single answer to be had.

  We all started in on the clean-up while waiting for everyone to arrive. Luck was with us that the men who’d done the deed hadn’t had some personal vendetta they were living out to the fullest during the search. As much of a mess as we had on our hands, it could have been a hundred times worse if they’d been out to be destructive as well as thorough.

  I was righting one of the couches when I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket, but I ignored it. When it went again a minute later, I pulled it out to check.

  It was Quinn.

  My wife was calling, and based on the time, she’d just gotten off work. I should have answered. I should have always answered when she called. I didn’t. I was too pissed—too fucking on edge. We were still getting our shit back together. Adding in the volatile mood I was barely keeping a grip on wasn’t going to help.

  It was only when she called a third time, right on the heels of the second, I finally answered.

  “Yeah?”

  “Um. Hi,” she answered.

  She was cute. Too fucking cute most of the time. Right then, it barely registered.

  “Babe, shits me to say it, but I can’t talk.”

  “But…I—” she stuttered down the line.

  “This an emergency?” I asked, point-blank.

  “Um…no. Not really.”

  “Okay. Gotta go then,” I explained. “I’ll call when I can.”

  Before I could get caught up in the draw of her, I hung up. I didn’t like being short with her, I liked even less missing a chance to talk to her when I hadn’t since the night before, but I’d meant what I’d said. As soon as the shit around me was even somewhat sorted, I’d call her back.

  Nearly two hours had passed from when the cops took off and the main room was close to back to normal when Stone came out of his office.

  “We got everyone yet?” he demanded.

  “Still waiting on Jager,” I told him.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose, then snapped, “Get him on the phone and get his ass here yesterday.”

  I dialed Jager and got nothing. I called a second time, also to no avail. When his voicemail clicked on the second time, I had to grip my hand until my knuckles cracked to keep from pitching my phone across the room like Stone had that bottle.

  Then, I made a final call to Ember.

  “Hey. How’s it going?” she greeted.

  “Not real great. You happen to be with your man?”

  “No. I’m still at the gym. He took off as soon as he heard about the warrant,” she explained.

  “Fuck,” I muttered.

  “He’s not there?”

  “Haven’t seen him.”

  “Then he’s at his computer at home,” she guessed.

  We needed him on that computer. It might have been the only way we were going to find out what the fuck had led to today. Still, Stone was going to lose it if the asshole didn’t get there soon.

  “Tried calling him, but he isn’t picking up.”

  “I’ll try,” Ember offered right away. “If he doesn’t answer, I’ll head out and go get him.”

  “We need him here. Needed him here an hour ago,” I stressed.

  “I’ll get him there,” she promised, then hung up.

  It was another half hour before he showed. It was a good fucking thing he did too. I was thinking Stone was going to lose it.

  We didn’t bother with church. We didn’t waste time secluding into a room just as shit trashed as the rest of the fucking clubhouse. It wasn’t worth locking us all in such tight confines when every man was on edge.

  “Where the fuck have you been?” Prez demanded of Jager once we were all gathered around.

  “Getting to the bottom of this shit,” Jager answered. “Could have come here sooner,
but I wouldn’t have shit and you’d just tell me to get my ass on my computer. Skipped that step.”

  “Want to share with the class?” Gauge asked.

  “Followed the trail through the department. Attorney who filed the warrant has a string of emails regarding an informant. What I got from it was they’ve got an informant. Guy’s going down for a long list of charges, most of them drug charges. Distribution and trafficking primarily. Case against him is pretty cut and dry. Or it was, until about two weeks ago.”

  “Meaning?” Slick questioned.

  “Meaning, suddenly they weren’t seeking a court date. They weren’t moving forward with the trial. There’s not a lot I could find after that. Best I can tell, the guy was singing. He was turning on anyone he could to lighten what was going to add up to a life sentence.”

  “So, what? This fucker tried to sell us out to save his ass?”

  Jager just shrugged.

  “Who the fuck is this guy?” Stone asked.

  “Called Andrews on the way over. He’s getting us a name,” Jager answered. “Should be soon. Going to make sure those assholes didn’t fuck with my system. When I get a name, I’ll pull what I can.” He left on that, heading back to his room.

  “Asshole,” Stone muttered. “Guess we’re at a fucking standstill ‘til Andrews gets us that.” Then, he left too.

  “Let’s get back to cleaning this shit up,” Roadrunner suggested.

  It was as good a plan as any before we all fucking snapped.

  Slick and I went back to the kitchen where we’d been, trying to figure out where the shit that’d been moved around was supposed to go. I picked up a mesh strainer from the counter and held it up.

  “You have any fucking clue where this came from?”

  He looked at it, then shook his head. “Never even seen that here before. Know we’ve got one at the house, but fuck if I know where that was hiding.” He replaced a couple cups into one cabinet, then said, “Deni’s gonna go apeshit when she gets back in here and everything’s in the wrong place. I still remember when she made me sit around with her for two fuckin’ days while she organized it all.”

  He had a point. Deni was the first wife around since Tank and Cami lost his old lady. On occasion—frequent occasion—she liked to remind everyone she was responsible for any sense of order around the clubhouse.

  “At least it wasn’t wrecked by a party this time.”

  “True enough,” he replied.

  We’d gotten the room as close to normal as we were capable when Gauge stuck his head in.

  “Jager’s got a name,” he announced.

  We followed him out into the lounge and waited for everyone to gather. The moment Doc ambled in, Jager announced, “Asshole’s name is Seth Dixon. Picture,” he indicated, taking a sheet of paper and passing it to Stone first, who then sent it around. “As far as I can tell, he has no fucking association with us. Can’t connect him to anyone we work with.”

  “So, what, he’s fabricating this shit for the police? Why come after us then?” Daz asked.

  “Was gonna ask if you recognized him. He did a brief stint inside with you, but it was only six weeks,” Jager shot back.

  Everyone looked at the photo, but no one claimed any recognition. When it made it around to Daz, he shook his head. “Never seen this guy.”

  “Not surprising. Different cell block the whole time, but it’s the only connection I found,” Jager explained.

  The picture came to me and I stared down at the unfamiliar face. Jager had some basic information on the sheet as well—full name, age, birth date. It was the current address that stood out, though. He was from Eugene. Lots of folks were, but it seemed too big of a coincidence.

  “Where’s he work?” Stone asked.

  “Legally? Nowhere,” Jager answered. “All his income is from the shit he’s selling, which means it’s all tied up in the investigation.”

  It was the question Doc asked next that hit me like a truck.

  “What fuckin’ public defender did he find who could get him a sweet deal to be a rat?”

  Fuck.

  He was from Eugene.

  Jager didn’t answer Doc’s question. No one would have. But I was already halfway to an answer I hoped to fuck wasn’t true.

  “Who’s his attorney?”

  Jager looked to me. “What?”

  “Who’s representing him?”

  “What’s up, Ace?” Stone asked. “You recognize this guy?”

  I kept my focus on Jager, and he understood. With a curse, he left the room, and I moved with him. I had no fucking clue what he did at that computer of his, but he was focused and I didn’t care enough to ask. He stared at that screen for a while, then sat back and bit off a curse.

  He didn’t have to say it. I knew, but he laid it out anyway.

  “Bastard’s being represented pro-bono by Blackhorne, Druitz, and West.”

  Except my asshole father’s firm never did pro-bono work—not for criminal law, at least. If you wanted one of their sharks to get you off for a crime you almost definitely committed, you had to fork over a ton of cash for them to do it.

  Unless there was something else you could offer.

  “Is Damien his attorney?”

  “Yes.”

  Fuck.

  “What the fuck’s going on?” Stone demanded from Jager’s door.

  “I know who set us up.”

  Damien, that sorry motherfucker. Somehow, he’d gotten Dixon to lie. Probably promised the guy he’d taste freedom again one day if he made shit up about the club.

  But why now? Two fucking years had passed, had it really taken him that long to make that shit happen? Two years just to get a bullshit lie believable enough for a judge to issue a search warrant that’d yield nothing?

  The answer swept over me all at once. It wasn’t a long play. It wasn’t something that had taken forever to put together. No, it was something he threw together in no time at all. It was something that only took a couple weeks.

  It was about Quinn.

  I was pacing, looking back and forth from the clock to the front door like Damien was just going to walk right through it. Seeing as it was locked and he’d have to ring up to even get in the building, that was ridiculous. Still, I kept up my circular motion, only interrupting the pattern to occasionally check my phone as if it might go off in my hand without me noticing.

  Of course, a minute later, when it actually did go off, I came close to dropping it in my surprise.

  It was Max, finally.

  “Thank God,” I answered. “I’m freaking out.”

  She sounded frazzled herself when she responded. “I can’t believe it.”

  I thought back to the text I’d sent her. I didn’t tell her anything about Damien, dinner, or Ace’s abrupt phone call. “Believe what?”

  “The search,” she said like I was dense.

  Whatever she was referencing, we were on completely different pages. I wasn’t even sure we were in the same book. “Okay. Hang on. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Shit,” she muttered. “The cops showed up with a search warrant for the clubhouse.”

  That made the pacing stop.

  “What?” I demanded.

  “Yeah. That happened. Things have been super tense all day. I was with the girls when they all started getting calls about it. There are not an abundance of happy bikers around here.”

  I could only imagine. Ace and I still had a lot of talking to do about the club itself, but I got the distinct impression having the police search your property was always a stressful thing.

  It was in that moment I realized the extent to which I didn’t know about the club. I had no idea if a search of the clubhouse would land anyone in trouble. I did know Daz was on parole, but I didn’t even know what he’d been in prison for.

  Search warrants had to have grounds though, so there had to be some reason the police would have been there. Maybe that meant there was something f
or the police to find.

  “Is everything…okay?”

  “Yeah. Ham sent me a text and said it’s fine. He didn’t say more than that and neither did the girls, but no one got taken in or anything. They’re still there cleaning up.”

  “Wow. That’s crazy,” I said, at a loss for anything else. Then, a question occurred to me. “What time was this?”

  “Ummm, around three?” she guessed.

  That would explain why Ace wasn’t able to talk earlier, though he could have said as much instead of being short with me.

  “Wait, if that wasn’t what your nine-one-one was about, what’s going on?” Max asked.

  Just having her ask the question had my anxiety rising again. My eyes shot to the clock. It was 6:52.

  “Damien showed up at the library today,” I rushed out.

  “What?” she shrieked.

  I ran through the whole story, barely pausing to breathe between sentences, before ending with, “And he’ll be here any minute. I don’t know what to do!”

  “Why is this happening when I’m four hours away?” was her inane response.

  “Max!”

  “Okay, okay. I’m sorry,” she conceded. “You can’t go out with him. Obviously.”

  Obviously. At least I could rest assured my inner Max voice was still on point.

  “Like, I feel for Damien,” she went on, and I had to bite back a laugh, “but no. You’re married to his brother, who’s having a pretty craptacular day. With all the shit between them, you absolutely do not want to be inserting yourself in the middle right now.”

  “What do I say, though? I already told him yes because he totally blindsided me. Now he’s going to be here any minute.”

  “Sorry, I’m just not that into you?” Max suggested.

  The buzzer sounded. Unless the universe decided to be very kind to me, that was Damien.

  “Crap. He’s here,” I said into the phone as I scurried across the room to the speaker. Pulling my phone away, I hit the button to call down. “Hello?”