Dark Guardian (Black Hoods MC Book 3)

by Avelyn Paige

  “Thank you for sending this over to me, Aaron. Listen, I’m really sorry about what happened at the restaurant.”

  “Sorry, Grace, but I have to go.” He hangs up without so much as an acknowledgment of my apology. I knew I had hurt him, but this seems so final. Am I truly losing my best friend over a case?

  I allow myself a few minutes to compose myself before clicking on his email. The summation of the report from the officer who took it is sparse. Details are clearly not his forte. Kevin and Natalie’s name, along with a Randall McDade, are listed as the missing persons by one Mr. Henry Wayne Tucker. His contact information lies at the bottom of the report, now under review by the detective staff. Grabbing my phone, I dial the number.

  “What?” a gruff voice barks into the receiver. “If you’re selling something, I ain’t interested.”

  “Are you Henry Wayne Tucker?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  “My name is Grace Halfpenny, and I’m with the Texas Department of Child Protective Services. I was alerted to your recent missing persons report and wanted to inquire about it. Do you have a few minutes to talk to me?”

  His tone immediately changes, all business now. “Yes, ma’am. My kids and my ex-brother-in-law, Randall.”

  “When was the last time you saw them, Mr. Tucker?”

  “It’s been years since I saw the kids. Their mother left one night with them, and I haven’t seen them since. It’s only recently that I found out they’ve been living with her brother. I went by his house, but it’s gone. Burned to the ground. That’s why I filed the report.”

  “I see,” I murmur, trying to calm my racing heart.

  “I lost everything when she left. My wife. My kids. My business.”

  The case records I have would dispute his claims, but his wife had been a drug addict, and unfortunately, with addiction, there’s always a sob story. It’s completely possible that she lied to us. It’s not like it hasn’t happened before, but it begs the question: why reach out now, after all these years? When the kids were placed into foster care, it was clearly marked that attempts to find another legal guardian were made and failed. There was no reason at the time to doubt their father wasn’t in the picture. Until now.

  “Your business?” I inquire.

  “Family business with Randall. With my wife gone, he cut me out completely.” The way he says “family business” strikes an odd chord with me. How could his wife leaving him affect a business partnership he had with her brother? Legally, he’d have every right to the business if he’d been listed on the legal documents.

  “What was the nature of your business, Mr. Tucker, if I may ask?”

  “It was... a moving company,” he replies, stumbling over his words. “But that’s not why I filed the report. I want to know what happened to my kids.” The change in direction of the conversation, diverting away from the business is odd. Very odd.

  “Can you tell me the ages of your children?”

  “What does that matter? They’re my kids.” His agitation is obvious, but a father should know the ages of his children, even if they aren’t in his life. The feeling hits me again, an uneasiness stirring deep in my gut. I know exactly where his children are, but something’s warning me not to tell him.

  “I understand that, sir. However, I must caution you that if the children are located, they will have to go into foster care until a DNA test confirms that you are, in fact, their father.”

  “They’re my kids, my flesh and blood. I want them back. They belong to me. I have fucking rights to them.”

  “Then a paternity test will prove you’re their father, and you’ll be able to petition the court for custody.”

  He mumbles something inaudible, and then tells me, “Just find my kids, lady.”

  “I will let you know if we’re able to locate them,” I lie.

  Judge

  “Happy birthday, dear Natalie. Happy birthday to you.”

  The round of singing is enough to make me cringe, but the look on Nat’s face is totally worth it. I watch her cheeks blush a deep pink as she leans over the picnic table in front of her and blows out the thirteen candles on her cake.

  Applause and cheers erupt all around us, and I turn to look at everyone. The yard at the side of the clubhouse is packed. Every single member is here tonight. If they got kids, they brought them. There are friends of the club, and friends of friends of the club, and all of them are here to celebrate this gorgeous kid’s birthday. I can tell by the look on her face that she’s never had this kind of a fuss made over her in her life.

  “Present time!” Lindsey squeals, pushing her way to the table with a stack of brightly wrapped boxes in her arms. She moves to set them on the table, and that’s when all hell breaks loose.

  Sirens wail from behind us, and I turn to see a SWAT van, followed by five police cruisers, and a car I recognize as Grace Halfpenny’s, roar into the parking lot, their lights flashing.

  Men and women in full-on SWAT gear pile out of the vehicles as if they’re heading into battle, guns drawn and at the ready.

  “Get on the ground!” they shout, their words echoing off the surrounding buildings.

  It’s utter chaos. Women scream. Natalie’s eyes lock with mine. There’s so much fear in them, it kills any chance I might have had in keeping my cool in this situation.

  “What’s going on here?” I bellow as two armed men approach me with their guns pointed at my head.

  “Get on the ground,” the closest man orders, getting nearer by the second.

  I glance back at Natalie, Kevin, and Lindsey, who stand with their backs pressed against the picnic table, the younger two clutched in Lindsey’s arms.

  Fuck.

  Slowly, I drop to my knees next to Karma. The others are on the ground all around me, having dropped where they stood.

  “Ain’t a party till the cops show up,” Karma says, likely trying to lighten the mood. But considering this was a party for a thirteen-year-old girl, the joke falls flat.

  When I glance behind me, I see Lindsey on the ground, but the kids are nowhere to be found. My niece, God bless her, meets my eyes and nods with reassurance. She sent the kids to slip away, unseen.

  One man wanders from one side of the crowd to the other, his pistol in hand. Besides his Kevlar vest, he’s dressed in jeans, a dress shirt, and cowboy boots. “What the fuck is this all about?” I growl when he gets closer.

  “There’s the man of the hour,” he says, squatting low so he can get a better look at me. “Bet you’re wishing you’d given those kids over to DFPS now, aren’t you?”

  I narrow my eyes, but before I have time to say a word in response, Grace Halfpenny’s plain black, high-heeled shoes appear in front of me.

  “That’s enough, Aaron,” she snaps. “This is way more than I asked for. Why do you have them on the ground? We’re here to get a couple of kids, not bust a bunch of bikers for drugs.”

  The cop, whose name appears to be Aaron, sighs. “Grace, I’ve told you already. These men are dangerous.”

  He’s about to find out just how fucking dangerous I am.

  “Enough!” she snaps again, this time dismissing him completely. “Mr. Grant, I’m here to relocate the children to a foster home in town until we can complete a formal inquisition into the best place for them. I never intended for it to be quite this big of a deal, and for that, I apologize.”

  “You’re not taking those kids anywhere,” I say, slowly getting to my feet. One officer moves to stop me, but Grace lifts a hand, indicating for him to leave me alone.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Grant, but I have a warrant. Those children are coming with me.”

  Every spark of attraction I’ve ever felt for this woman disappears in an instant. Everything disappears. “You fucking bitch. You miserable fucking bitch.”

  For a split second, she looks as if I’ve slapped her directly across the face, but she recovers quickly and turns to walk away, heading for the door of the clubhouse, an
d straight for my kids.

  “No!” I explode.

  Everything becomes a blur. A blur of anger, of rage. A blur of fists and blood, and the sound of flesh pounding flesh. Twice I have to redirect one of my own, as Ms. Halfpenny nearly gets caught in the crossfire.

  Did she cause this fight? Yes. Am I going to let anyone hurt her? Not a fucking chance.

  Stone Face and Twat Knot are guarding the door, more than happy to get their blows in while they do it, but when an officer pushes Karma, he slams against Grace, and I catch her just before she hits the wall.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, turning her to face me. And then I feel the cold steel pressed against the back of my head and freeze. Raising my hands, my eyes zero in on Grace, who looks terrified for me.

  Grace

  “It’s her fucking birthday, asshole,” he yells as Aaron shoves him into the squad car while he pleads with me. He squirms in the backseat, still fighting against the cuffs wrapped around his large wrists. The way he looks back at me through the windows of the squad car may haunt me for the rest of my life, his sadness and rage all too clear.

  “Coming here was a mistake,” I tell Aaron. “We should’ve done this quietly and at his home. Not here.”

  “They sent us to execute the removal order. Why does the location matter? We neutralized the biggest threat. Now we can get the kids and be done with this.” His tone implies his true intent. I’ll be done with this. That’s all he cares about. Not the kids. Not the additional trauma we’ve just unnecessarily inflicted on the both of them. I narrow my eyes at him.

  “Don’t look at me like that. I told you these guys were dangerous. You should be glad I came along.” Yeah, glad. That’s the word I’d use to describe his involvement. Powder keg would be more like it. I knew Mr. Grant would fight us, I just didn’t think he’d fight this hard. He cares about these kids, and that makes him even more dangerous to the father’s case. If he’s their father. “This is just another case, Grace.”

  “Why are you even here? You’re a detective.” A patrol officer is normally the only one who accompanies me. The fact the warrant fell into his lap when it came across from the judge means he’s meddling more in my cases than he’s letting on. Every ounce of guilt that I felt for leaving him at that restaurant evaporates. He’s letting his attraction for me dip into his professional career. And mine.

  “To that little girl, it matters.” A tear slips down my cheek, and Aaron zeroes in on it. He’s never experienced trauma like this, but I have. His childhood was sunshine and rainbows compared to hers. To mine. If he had seen the terror on her face like I had, he might be more compassionate. Natalie will never forget this, and neither will I. “I try to make removals as painless as I can, and you turned it into a bull in a china shop. Or, in this case, a biker’s clubhouse.”

  The smirk on his lips as we watch the squad car drive off together irks me. He’s proud of himself for sending Mr. Grant off to jail. He’s practically beaming. I turn to head toward the crowd when his hand reaches out, grasping my elbow.

  “She’ll be fine. The sooner she and her brother are away from these people, the better off she’ll be. The boy too.”

  “If that helps you sleep at night, sure, but we both know the escalation of violence is on your head, not mine.”

  “Grace, that’s not what I did.”

  Turning back, I get in his face. “That’s exactly what you did. Instead of letting me do my fucking job, you took over. You did this,” I hiss. He recoils at my rage, something he’s never seen before. If dinner the other night didn’t put a knife in our friendship, this did. If he wants to interfere with my job, puppet mastering his way into my cases, it’s over. Done.

  “Why are you still here? You did what you came to do.”

  “To protect you,” he argues, his frustration getting the better of him. “His people are still here.”

  “And yet not one of them has incited violence against me, have they? Your job is done. Let me do mine without any more of your special kind of help.”

  Storming off, I head toward the officer posted at the door of the building, peering over my shoulder once to see Aaron sliding into his car.

  “My team swept the place. The kids aren’t inside,” the officer advises me when I approach. “One of the ladies ushered them inside while the fight broke out.”

  “What do you mean, they aren’t inside?” A weight settles in my chest.

  “I swept the house myself, went room to room. There’s no one in there.”

  “Where’s the woman you saw take them inside? Find her, now!”

  He does as he’s told. Every second that he’s gone, my panic spreads. A short while later, a woman with a mop of brightly colored hair appears with him.

  “Where are they? Where are the kids?”

  She arches her brow at the question, but I don’t miss the flash of panic in her own eyes that mirrors my own as she glances behind me.

  “I’m not going to ask you again. Where are the kids?”

  “They’re in my uncle’s room down the hall,” she sneers, pointing to a hallway near the bar. She starts for the direction she’s indicated, and I’m hot on her heels. She disappears inside before I can catch up, and I hear her yelling for both of them by name, switching between the two conjoined rooms.

  “Natalie! Kevin! You need to come out now!”

  No one answers back. Once I’m inside, she’s on her hands and knees, peering under the large king-size bed that takes up most of the room. Pushing up off the floor, her body goes stiff when we both notice the open window.

  “The window,” she cries, rushing toward it. Leaning out of the opening, she jerks back inside a few seconds later.

  “This is all your fault!” she screams at me. “They were happy until you came here, and now they’re gone. You did this. You did this!”

  “Issue an APB for them. They couldn’t have gotten far,” I order the officer before rushing out of the room.

  My stomach drops to the floor. I’ve lost them. I let my argument with Aaron get in the way of my job and I lost them. She’s right. This is all my fault.

  Judge

  “Fucking dick,” I snarl as Grace’s little cop lover slams the bars closed between us.

  “Cool it, Grant, or the charges will just keep piling up.”

  “Fuck you.”

  He smirks and walks away, his cowboy boots echoing off the ceramic tile floor.

  Son of a bitch.

  I move toward the bed, and that’s when I notice a man lying on the top bunk. We make eye contact for a brief second, but neither one of us says a word. Laying down on the bottom cot, I stare at the bunk above me.

  Why the fuck had they come in with guns drawn like that? That’s not typical police procedure. And why did that asshole seem to be so close to Grace? Why the fuck do I even care?

  “What I wouldn’t give for a beer, right?” the guy above me states.

  The last thing I want to do is get into a round of small talk with some asshole in lockup, so I don’t respond.

  “These fuckers would get a lot more cooperation from me if they offered that on their menu.”

  Draping my arm across my eyes, I try to calm myself down.

  “Oh, I get it. We’re playing the ‘I’m a tough guy, and I’m going to ignore this asshole’ game. Okay. Got it.”

  “Jesus, man. Can you not take a fucking hint?”

  Chuckling, he swings his legs over the side of the bed and jumps down.

  “Look, I’ve been in here three times in the last two weeks. I’m bored out of my fucking mind, and I would rather think about anything else besides what I have going on in my life right now. So yeah, I can take a hint. But I don’t fucking want to.”

  There’s nothing menacing in the way he’s holding himself, but lying down while he looms over me makes me uncomfortable. Yet one thing he said has kind of got me wondering.

  Sitting up on the edge of the bed, I scowl over at him. He’s tall. Almost a
s tall as Karma, who measures well over six and a half feet. His eyes are dark and bloodshot, and his hair is a straggly mess.

  “What the fuck could you have done to get your ass in this cell three times in two weeks?” This is just a holding cell. It’s not like this is county lockup. Whatever he’s done isn’t big enough to warrant a stint in there, but has surely pissed someone off enough to have him rotting away in here for a few days.

  “Contempt of court, and harassing a couple of public officials will do that to ya.” He reaches out his hand, the word SOUL tattooed across his knuckles. “Ty. Ty Jackson.”

  I grip his hand in mine. “Judge.”

  Ty nods and glances at the patch on my cut as I stand. “Prez of the MC, huh? Pretty sweet gig.”

  I snort as I wander over to the door. I can see the officers talking on the other side of a glass wall, but there’s no sign of Officer Dickhead, or of my lawyer.

  “Yeah. If you call babysitting a bunch of toddlers with tattoos and biceps a sweet gig, then I guess it is.”

  We spend the next twenty minutes shooting the shit. I’m not one to share my entire life’s story, and I’m thankful he isn’t, either. We talk about motorcycles and women, and our favorite BBQ joints to grab a decent steak.

  And that’s when Officer Fuckface opens the door to our cozy little getaway. “Come on, Grant. We have some questions for you.”

  I glower at him as he cuffs me. Fucking pussy.

  He leads me down a long hall and through a couple of different bullet-proof doors before finally turning into a room with one-way glass and a table in the middle. Grace is already seated at the table with her briefcase at her side.

  She stands as I enter, and I can’t help but notice the stray strands of hair that have escaped that tightly wound bun on top of her head. It looks wild and unkempt. It looks sexy as hell.

  Fuckface shoves me down into a hard metal chair across from her and leans his ass against the table.

  “What do you know about Randall McDade?” This fucker is clueless. Aren’t they trained at some school for tight-asses to form a false friendship with their suspects? Since when do they cut right to the chase?