Wild Fire: A Chaos Novella Page 6
So she rented it to stream.
She remembered him from when she’d seen it before. She remembered him being like his brother, good-looking (in a biker guy way).
But she hadn’t met him the first time she saw Blood, Guts and Brotherhood.
And now she’d met him.
She also didn’t remember him being in it that much. The film was mostly about the history of the Club, juxtaposed with footage of them now. At their business. Working on their builds in their garage. In their hangout lair. Their homes. With their wives. Kids. Bikes.
Each other.
The brothers Chaos.
But the majority of it was Ken Burns Civil War style.
Narrative, and some spoken-word interviews, over pictures of days of yore.
Though there was a small amount of old VHS and phone video footage.
And the first time she watched it, her heart stopped, knowing Carolyn’s boyfriend had lost his father in the way explained by the film.
This time, she made everything stop the first time a picture of Graham Black came on her TV screen.
He was crouched down, elbows to knees, and you could see the muscles through his jeans tightened over them in his position. Head turned to almost, but not quite full profile. Dark hair longish, a mop of messy curls and waves. Skin tanned. Lines fanning out from his deep-set, hooded eyes. Huge, white smile.
And there was no mistaking it physically.
Dutch Black had his father stamped all over him.
Graham Black had been an exceptionally handsome man.
His son was no different.
She was about to hit play, but then she didn’t.
And Murtagh gave a concerned “Mwrr?” when the noise came from her throat.
But she’d taken out her contacts and now had her glasses on because her eyes were dry and scratchy from wearing the contacts on the plane.
It might be a trick of vision.
But she had to check.
So she took Murtagh up super-close to the screen, shoved her glasses up on her head, all so she could see.
“Yes,” she whispered staring at a specific spot on the screen. “Oh my God,” she kept whispering. “Yes.”
She cuddled Murtagh closer and walked back to the couch.
As they settled in, Murtagh started purring and kneading.
Georgiana didn’t hit play.
She stared at the patch on the leather jacket Graham Black was wearing in that picture.
Through the threads on the border around the patch that said Chaos that was positioned over the heart, there was some unraveling, and on the leather, there was a scratch on either side of the minimal damage to the stitching on the patch.
The same as on the jacket Dutch wore that day.
It was his dad’s jacket.
It was his dad’s patch.
“Muwrrrr,” Murtagh said.
“Yeah,” she whispered, “I really, really, reallyreallyreally messed up today, baby.”
“Murrr,” Murtagh told her.
“No, it isn’t okay,” she replied.
“Mwrr?”
“I don’t think so. I think it’s who he is, to his bones, his blood, his DNA, so he’ll never forgive me.”
“Muwrrr,” Murtagh decreed.
“I love you too, honey.”
Murtagh’s job was done (or so Murtagh thought), so Murtagh shut up.
Georgiana hit play.
As she watched, she paused a number of other times.
All when he was on screen.
Even when it was pictures of him as a little kid, or a baby.
Held in his father’s arms.
She noted there was something stamped all over Graham Black too.
Unmistakable.
He loved his wife.
And his sons.
Georgiana couldn’t hold it in and got another “Mwrr?” from Murtagh when she made a sad noise at a photo of Graham Black wearing a proud papa smile as he was caught on film in the middle of pulling his oldest son off his back.
The dark-haired toddler was arms and legs akimbo, like he thought he was flying through the air, even though his dad’s arms were raised high, his son held tight on either side in both hands.
The toddler’s eyes were aimed down at his father, face filled with glee.
It took some deep breaths to get through that one.
Thankfully, only once did she rewind a creeper, stalkery ten times. And this was when the camera had caught Dutch Black in the present (or a few years ago).
Laughing.
When the film was over, she didn’t think about what she intended to do.
She just started on the road to doing it.
Thus, she took Murtagh direct to her backpack, dug through it, got her notebook and pen, brought it back to the sofa, had a think, and while she did, she made her usual list.
And after finishing off the wine, the list and a couple of Zzzquil gummies, she and Murtagh went to bed.
First thing in the morning, after she made coffee, she grabbed her notebook and reviewed the list.
It read:
1. Jackson. DPD.
Carlyle Case. Status. Future. Details.
+++NEIGHBOR!!!!
Who else saw who came and went from her house?
Names?
No DNA in bed, on skin or under nails with a rape?
Market (sperm, syrup, pharma)
Players????
2. Banga -n- Kraken. Street.
Market (players, locations, warehouses?)
Where to buy?
Who?
If not them…who to ask?
3. King’s Shelter?
ED? Juliette --- (last name?)
Rock Chick books –-- read.
4. Charge taser/check expiration on Mace.
Cover:
Sperm the ruse.
Single.
Independent.
Too much $$ for insemination (How much does that cost? Find out.)???
Lame…build on this.↑↑↑↑
Once she reviewed it, Georgiana grabbed her phone and started at the top.
She called Jackson, one of her sources in the Denver Police Department.
When he said he was all in for a mid-morning coffee break (and she knew what he meant was he was all in to stare at her breasts while they sipped coffee, he asked her for a date, she politely declined while telling him how much she valued their friendship, all this happening through her delicately pumping him for information or maneuvering him to get it for her), she slapped on some makeup, did something with her hair, tugged on some clothes that showed absolutely no cleavage, promised Murtagh she’d be back…
And she headed out.
Chapter Four
Cute
Dutch
“Get twenty feet from this truck, you’re on camera. Most of the entire perimeter,” Vance said.
It was late at night.
They were in his truck, outside a warehouse, at the back, both their eyes to that warehouse that wasn’t big, but it wasn’t small, it wasn’t well-lit, but it also wasn’t dark.
And even from their distance, which was the same as the rest—not far, but not close—you could see the cameras.
“Except there,” Vance continued. “The back north corner. There are no doors or windows there to breach or see in, so they left it unprotected. But you only got about ten feet of leeway, then you’re fucked because you’re on camera.”
Dutch turned his head to look at Vance Crowe, Juliet’s husband, and one of the Nightingale men.
Vance was also looking at him.
“They send a man out. Random. To do a check. They’ll clock you in a vehicle. We’re takin’ a chance right now, bein’ here, and them seein’ us. That happens, they probably won’t approach. Guys like this, they don’t want mess, distractions or problems. But the minute you go, they’ll pack up everything in that warehouse, it’ll be gone within an hour and we’ll be back to square one.”
Dutch
nodded. “So park elsewhere, get to that back corner, hunker down around the side, and watch from there?”
Vance nodded. “You wanna see if the guy the kid was meeting at Shady’s goes in or out of that building, then follow him, that’s your only shot. Good news, they don’t use the front door so if he comes around, that’s where you’ll see him. Bad news, it’ll be seriously uncomfortable staking out like that, it could take days for the guy to show, if he ever does, and you run the risk every time of being seen if the guy they send out decides to do a full perimeter check.”
Dutch didn’t ask if Vance knew if the guy often did a full perimeter check. This situation was in its infancy. Recon had been swift, and it was patchy. He was lucky Vance had this much information to relay. He was lucky Vance and the men at Nightingale Investigations had waded in at all.
But this was about one of Jules’s kids, so maybe it wasn’t that lucky.
“You’re gonna have to melt, brother,” Vance advised. “That guy comes out, you have an exit strategy planned. Which means no watching in the daylight. You can become a shadow, but even I can’t do that shit when the sun is shining. If they catch you, they won’t make an approach if you’re sitting a vehicle. You’re close to their operation, they’ll deal with you fast and no one will ever see you again.”
That caught Dutch’s attention.
“You know who these guys are?”
Vance shook his head. “I know how these guys are. But you do what you do, and we’ve got Brody looking into who owns that warehouse, running the plates of vehicles I took down, and the guys will be gathering word we pick up on the street. When we get something, I’ll relay that to you.”
Dutch nodded.
“We don’t got a lot of man hours to help you out with this,” Vance warned. “Your brothers gonna pitch in?”
Dutch had already decided.
He was not taking this to Chaos.
First, it’d have to be discussed at the table and voted on. And honest to God, after the nightmare his Club had been picking its way through for decades got sorted, and they finally were free and clear of all the shit that included drugs and guns and porn and whores, kidnappings and death, he did not know how that vote would go.
And he didn’t know how he’d feel if the vote didn’t go his way.
Second, he also didn’t know what he would be asking them to do and how deep it would get.
They weren’t a highly trained, skilled, experienced investigation team, like Nightingale. They were bikers. And they could take care of business, they’d proved that often. But this was not riding close to the bone where your motivation was keeping yourself breathing, your brothers the same and your families safe.
But last, and most importantly, this was his.
It was his and Carlyle’s.
And for some reason he was not currently evaluating, he wanted it to stay that way.
At least for now.
“Don’t know what I’m asking them to do and it’ll need to go for a vote,” Dutch told Vance. “So, until I know, not right now.”
Vance, who had pulled himself into Dutch’s passenger seat when Dutch met him there, gave him a chin lift before he looked beyond him, back toward the warehouse.
And then everything about the man changed.
This made Dutch return his attention to the warehouse.
And at what he saw, he was pretty fucking sure he experienced his head exploding even if it didn’t actually explode.
Because first, she was there at all.
And second, she could get caught on camera, and then just get caught.
“The fuck?” he bit out.
“Seems we’re not the only ones interested in this building,” Vance said.
Yup.
It seemed that way.
It also seemed he told a goddamned bitch of a journalist about a tragic situation with a kid and she was tired of her beat, so she took the information he gave her and was looking into the black market in Denver.
He heard the fury in his tone, even as he watched her and felt his heart start to race, as he said to Vance, “You go, I’ll take care of her.”
“Take care of her?” Vance asked.
“I know her. She’s a journalist. Not thinking she’d nose around this, I told her about it.”
“Shit,” Vance muttered.
“Right,” Dutch agreed.
“You need my help with her?” Vance asked.
“I got it.”
“Take care they don’t see you first,” Vance advised. “They see her before you get her, she can deal. I’ll keep an eye. You get her out of here, then I’m gone. You catch trouble, I’m in.”
She couldn’t deal, he could tell by the way she was moving she had no idea what she was into.
“You got it,” Dutch said, thinking fast and moving faster.
He opened his door just as he heard Vance open his.
Then he moved swiftly.
Trying to stay out of camera range, which Georgiana was wandering close to, he took as direct a route to her as he could.
She was wearing all dark clothing, a knit cap over her hair, fluffing out the dark curls at the bottom, and she was slinking through the night, staring up at one of the cameras.
He approached from behind, and she was so bad at this, she didn’t hear him until it was too late.
He had her, one arm around her stomach, the other hand over her mouth.
She screamed behind it, arched hard and started to struggle, so he hissed in her eat, “Quiet! It’s Dutch.”
She stilled, twisted, he semi-let her go, keeping an arm around her, and his hand lifted so he could clamp down again on her mouth if he needed to.
And for some fucked-in-the-head reason, she caught his eyes in the dim light, hers got bright and happy, as did her entire gorgeous face.
She smiled huge and began, loudly, “We had the same—!”
“Shut it,” he bit. “They’re gonna see. Or hear. Let’s go.”
Only then did he take his arm from her, but he did it to grab her hand and drag her ass to his truck.
He practically picked her up and dumped her in before he jogged around the front bumper, got in himself and started up.
“Dutch, we—”
He turned to her, leaned her way, she reared back at his actions—the way he made them and probably the look on his face—and he ground out, “Serious to God, Georgiana, shut the fuck up.”
“You’re angry,” she whispered, looking surprised at this fact.
But she was wrong.
He was not angry.
He was enraged.
He could not believe anyone would hear Carlyle’s story and use any part of it to further their own career.
She’d figured it out, like he had.
And if she investigated it, blew it open for her news website, she’d get off the kids beat for certain.
“Yeah, I’m fuckin’ angry,” he replied. “And you best pray I get a lock on it on the way to my place.”
“Your place?”
“Christ woman, shut up,” he hissed.
With big eyes, she closed her mouth.
He turned back to the wheel, checked his mirrors, slid out of the spot, and drove the ten minutes to his crib.
He parked at the side, got out, walked to the hood of his truck, and saw she was out, moving hesitantly toward him.
He gave a fake-gallant sweep of his arm toward the side door.
She looked at it like a doomed woman looked at the gallows on her way to the noose.
Then she took in a big breath and marched her sweet ass toward his door.
She stepped aside so he could unlock it.
After he did, he stepped aside so she could precede him.
She’d stopped in his mudroom and he moved past her, going into the living room, doing it walking around, turning on lights.
He did this deliberately, taking his time, because he sure as shit didn’t get a lock on his temper on the drive there.
“Yeah, bikers read,” he said snidely.
Her eyes snapped to him.
“Dutch—”
“Shut your mouth, I’m talking.”
She shut her mouth, but she did it with her expression changing.
She didn’t look confused or concerned.
She looked like she was getting angry.
What this fucking woman had to be angry about, he had no clue.
But he was about to ream her with what was pissing him off.
“I cannot believe you sat in my goddamned truck—” he was losing it, he clamped down, and started again, “—with me doing you a goddamned favor, driving all the way out to fucking DIA to pick your ass up, and I told you about Carlyle, and you were struggling with your job, your own shit, when this kid is struggling with his dad getting shot fucking dead, and you used me sharing that with you to do something for yourself.”
“What?” she asked, back to looking confused.
“Investigating the black market info I gave you to write something for your website,” he rapped out. “Bet the crime beat is more interesting than the kids beat. Bet it also has a fuckuva better career trajectory too. Staff writer writing stories about vaping in school make squat. Investigative reporters probably make a bucketload more.”
She took a step back, honest to fuck, like she’d been sucker punched.
“You didn’t think I figured it out the minute I saw you there?” he asked cuttingly. “Bikers don’t read. Bikers don’t volunteer at runaway shelters. Bikers don’t got brains in their heads?”
“Stop it with the biker stuff,” she whispered.