On a Knife's Edge (24 page)

He placed his hands on her waist to guide her movements
until she found her own rhythm. She bent forward and kissed him, her tongue
parrying and thrusting in time to her hips.

Shasta increased the tempo and Lynch soon became embroiled
in a firestorm of passion set to consume him.

He stared into her face, curtained by her tousled hair. Her
half-lidded eyes gazed back. Her short nails bit into his shoulders. Her harsh
moans reverberated in his ears along with the sound of slapping flesh.

His fervor kicked into overdrive. He angled onto his side,
cushioning her head with one arm while scooping her top leg into the crook of
his other elbow…and drove into her without mercy.

The force in his balls reached titanic heights. He knew only
a matter of seconds remained before he came. But he didn’t want to come alone.

He wormed his hand down and tapped her clit. Her eyelids
slid shut as her mouth formed a perfect
o
. He felt her inner muscles
latch onto his dick. He buried his face in her neck and gave himself over to
the glorious rush of pleasure.

Endless moments passed as his body continued to quake. He
rolled to his back, Shasta cuddled on his chest, her hot breath cooling his
sweaty skin.

An acute sense of peace shrouded him. Peace at having finally
revealed the truth of his feelings to her. And also peace at knowing that, no
matter the outcome between Blackwell and the FBI, with him gone from Stardust,
Shasta would be safe.

He couldn’t ask for more than that.

~*~

T
he next morning, Lynch
stared at the early morning light flickering across his trailer ceiling.

He’d spent most of the night awake, just holding Shasta
while she slept. He didn’t want to squander his remaining time with her by
sleeping. Rather he tried to commit to memory everything he could about her…

The way her lashes fanned out on her cheeks. The way her
face scrunched into a pout whenever he jostled her too much. The way she snored
softly…

Just before dawn, he’d dozed off. When he woke, she was
gone.

For the best. No awkward silences or stumbling good-byes. He
didn’t know if he’d see her again. Hell…he didn’t know if he’d see the end of
the week.

The jangling of his cell disrupted his thoughts. He hoisted
himself onto an elbow, nabbed it from the bedside stand and checked the ID. He
flipped it open. “Morning, counselor.”

“Callan…”

The distress in Jarvis’s tone cascaded ice through Lynch’s
chest, freezing his heart. He shot to a sitting position. “What happened?”

“Your mom…” The agent’s voice caught. “She…uh…coded at two-thirty.
They were able to bring her back, but she coded again at three-ten…then at
three-forty. She just kept coding…” Jarvis cleared her throat with a
sniffle. “About five minutes ago, the doctor called it.”

He clutched the small phone with both hands. “Called what?”

A muffling sound filled his ear then Jarvis came back on the
line.

“I’m sorry, Lynch…your mom is dead.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

LYNCH’S
PHONE JINGLED
again with Jarvis’s ringtone. And he disregarded it—again.

After getting the news about his mom, he’d gotten on his
bike and rode. He didn’t know to where…just as far away from civilization as
possible in as short a time as possible. He ended up somewhere northeast of
Stardust, staring across the sagebrush dotted, desert dunes.

His heart felt carved out. First Flyer, then Rolo then Hez…

And now his mom.

Christ
.

His mother—the woman who gave him life and who’d always
loved him no matter what—was dead. Just thinking those words increased the
pressure behind his breastbone.

He’d read about the five stages of grief—denial, anger,
bargaining, depression and finally acceptance. Horseshit.

The truth couldn’t be denied while bargaining wouldn’t get
you anywhere. Depression was a worthless emotion, and acceptance? Like hell
he’d accept what had happened.

Anger he understood, but he didn’t feel something so mild as
anger. Rage…blind and seething...that he felt in spades.

There should be a sixth stage—vengeance. Cold, calculating
vengeance.

He cracked his neck muscles, but the gesture did nothing to
alleviate the building tension in his head. He didn’t blame Jarvis or the
doctors for his mom. He knew everyone had done their best. No…the focus of
Lynch’s hateful ferocity lay with one man…

Blackwell.

So many people had suffered, and would continue to suffer,
until someone stopped that fucker. Until someone put their hands around the
goddamn bastard’s neck—and squeezed. Squeezed until Blackwell gasped his last
breath.

He
would be that someone.
He
would exact the
necessary retribution. His vow to Flyer, Rolo, Hez…and his mom. Starting right
fucking now.

Lynch rode back to Stardust like a man possessed. He dodged
the sparse traffic on the highway at a breakneck speed, not worried about the
cops. He relished the thought of a confrontation. A release for his pent-up wrath
and devastating sorrow.

At the town limits, he slowed his bike and maneuvered
through the streets until reaching Grunge’s house. The treasurer had been in
the Streeters as long as Rolo and Flyer. If Lynch could trust anyone, it’d be
him.

The quiet neighborhood set his nerves on edge. It seemed
almost too quiet. Lynch rolled to a stop in front of the aging duplex. Grunge
and Charlotte lived on one side and their daughter, Melody, lived on the other
with her three kids. Lynch killed the engine while swinging his leg over the
seat.

He retrieved the envelope containing the FBI file from his
pack and headed for the door. It opened before he was halfway to the porch.

“Yo, brother.” Grunge stood in the entryway, a Glock visible
in his right hand. He darted his gaze up and down the street then back to
Lynch. “Am I ever glad to see your sorry ass.” He moved to the side, tucking
the gun into the front of his waistband. “Where the hell you been? I've been
trying to reach you for days.”

“Yeah…sorry.”

Grunge pulled him into a brief hug. “You know what’s been
going down, right? Junkyard’s dead and nobody’s seen Rolo or Hez since last
week.”

Lynch coughed as he released the treasurer “Um—”

“Say…” Grunge peered outside. “Where’s Edie? You didn’t
leave her alone, did you? Shit’s getting weird ‘round here so we need to keep
everyone safe.”

Lynch swallowed—hard. “Ma…she’s…uh…with Hez.”

“Thank God for that.” Grunge shut the door. “I've been
freaking the fuck out. Good to know you, your mama and Hez are both okay.” He
gripped his shoulder. “You heard from Rolo?”

Anguish closed Lynch’s throat. He removed the president
patch from his pocket.

“What the hell…” Worry and anxiety etched Grunge’s face.
“How’d you get this?” His voice trembled.

Lynch struggled for control. His composure hung by a very
thin, very frayed thread. “Rolo gave it to me.” He gulped down his sob.
“Yesterday…when he died in my arms.”

Grunge’s head jerked back as tears formed in his eyes.
“Rolo’s dead? No way.”

“It’s true, brother. Is there somewhere we can talk? In
private.”

“Uh…yeah…out back. Charlotte’s in the bedroom watching TV
with the grandkids. I’ll tell her to keep them inside. Meet you in a minute.”

On stilted legs, Lynch walked through the modest house to
the backyard. Lilac bushes lined the eight-foot, cinderblock fence—the perfect
barrier for privacy and security. He ambled over to the picnic table situated
under the massive oak.

The aroma of freshly mowed grass hung in the air as the sun
shone brightly in the pristine blue sky. It seemed like a perfect spring day,
except it wasn’t. The tragic events from yesterday swirled around him like a
deadly undertow, threatening to drag him under.

In a burst of enraged anguish, he punched the tree trunk
once, twice, three times. Pain roared through his hand and wrist. Good. He
needed something to focus on rather than the grief eating his heart. The
backdoor banged open and he pivoted.

Grunge carried two steaming mugs in one hand and a bottle of
Crown Royal in the other. He sat on one side of the table. Lynch sat across
from him.

The treasurer poured a generous amount of whiskey into both
cups, slid one to Lynch then lifted his in the air. “To Rolo.”

Wrapping his aching fingers around the mug, Lynch drank
deeply.

“And Junkyard,” Grunge added.

Lynch set his drink down with a thud.

Grunge shook his head and drew a hand down his throat.
“Christ…Rolo and Junkyard.”

“That’s not all, brother.” Lynch blinked tears from his
vision. “My mom and Hez…” He sawed his molars together. “…are also dead.”

It was like lightning hit Grunge. His body went rigid then
slumped. “
What the fuck
?”

Lynch could only nod.

“Who the fuck would do all this sit? A rival club?”

“Not another MC. Just one man. Ian Blackwell.”

“Blackwell?” The treasurer sniffed and dug a kerchief from
his pocket. “Never heard of him.”

Lynch’s grief morphed into rage. “He’s a blackmailing,
sadistic bastard who’s had his hooks in the Streeters for years.”

Grunge shot Lynch a frown. “Ain’t nobody had their hooks in
this club. Not ever.”

“This guy has. Thanks to his minion Junkyard, and
his
minions Bowyer, Virgil, Cam and I don’t know who the hell else.”

Grunge frowned. “Watch what you say about fellow brothers,
brother. Besides Junkyard’s dead too—”

“And nobody deserved dying more.”

Grunge’s scowl deepened. “If Junkyard had a hand in this,
how come he’s dead?”

“I don’t know,” Lynch bit out.

“But you
do
know he was involved, along with the
others?” Grunge squinted. “What’s your proof?”

“Proof?” Lynch opened the envelope. “I’ll give you proof.”
He extracted pictures of Rolo and Hez’s tortured bodies and placed them on the
table.

“Jesus…” Grunge’s face paled. “Holy Jesus Christ.” He
cradled his head in his hand then shoved the photos away. “Those prove nuthin’.
Anyone coulda done that.”

“Virgil and Cam were at Rolo’s house. Plus before he died
Rolo
told
me they did this to him.”

“And why would they do that?”

“To get his daughters. We figured Blackwell wanted Ma too.
That’s why Hez got tortured.”

Grunge sat taller. “Who’s we?”

“What?”

“You said
we
figured…so who’s we?”

Lynch shifted in his seat. “Me and Jarvis.”

The treasurer cocked his head. “Your lady lawyer? What she
got to do with this?”

“A lot, actually.” Lynch held the other man’s stare. “She’s
an FBI agent.”

Shock registered on Grunge’s face. An instant later, the
shock dissolved from his expression. “You saying you’re working with the
goddamn FBI?”

“I’m saying the FBI came to me in prison and asked for my
help.”

“Yeah, right,” Grunge scoffed. “Help in ratting out your
brothers.” He slid his hand to the right.

Lynch snaked out his arm and grasped Grunge’s wrist. “Left
hand, brother. Nice and easy.”

Curling his lips, Grunge lowered his left hand under the
table and slowly lifted his Glock using just his thumb and index finger. Lynch
took the weapon, placing it next to him then released Grunge.

“Now what?” Grunge mocked.

“Now you’re gonna listen to me.” Lynch pulled more documents
from the envelope.

“Never figured you for a fucking rat.”

Lynch ground his teeth together, refusing to be baited.

“Just tell me why,” Grunge sneered. “Was it to get outta
prison? Is that why you ratted on your crew? Your brothers?”

“No.” Lynch placed another photo on the table. “It was
because of him.”

Grunge barely glanced at the picture. “And who the fuck is
that?”

“Flyer.”

For the span of several heartbeats, all emotion drained from
Grunge’s face. Then scorn twisted his expression. “Bullshit.”

“No bullshit. It’s Flyer. His body was found in Pyramid Lake
a couple months ago. The DNA tests prove it’s Flyer.”

“DNA tests,” Grunge scoffed. “Riiight. Performed by the
feds. I don’t believe you.”

Lynch leaned across the table. “You’d rather believe Flyer
left my mom for some skank in a skirt? You knew the man better than that.”

Anger and dread warred on Grunge’s face. Finally realization
and resignation took hold. He dropped his gaze to the photo and fingered the
edge. “Christ…” His voice hitched. “Flyer…” The treasurer bowed his head, his
shoulders quaking.

Lynch tightened his jaw, waiting for Grunge to compose
himself.

The other man blew his nose with a loud sniffle. “Why would
anyone do that to Flyer?”

“Not anyone. Blackwell. And he did it because Flyer was
working with the FBI too.”

The treasurer’s mouth fell open. “The hell you say.”

Lynch placed another picture on the table. “With Special
Agent Jerry Olsen to be exact.”

“Tre?”

“Yeah.”

Grunge rubbed both hands down his face then looked at Lynch.
“You still ain’t said why.”

“Because of these.” Lynch laid out the missing person
reports. “You see, brother, all those shipments the Streeters escorted over the
past five years weren’t of black market pharms, but young girls.”

Rifling his gaze to Lynch, Grunge narrowed his eyes. “What
the shit you saying now?”

“That those vans were used to transport kidnapped girls
south of the border where they were sold to a Columbian named Fuentes.”

Grunge shook his head with a dour smile. “Quite the story.”

“Did you ever look in one of those vans?” Lynch countered,
and Grunge glanced away. “So you don’t have fucking clue what was inside. All
you did know was that you got a good payday out of it. And that, unfortunately,
was the plan.”

Lynch went on to recount Rolo’s story about the girl in the
warehouse—and older man’s complexion whitened even further—as well as the
attempts on Lynch’s life and the discovered surveillance equipment in the
various locations.

Finished, Lynch sat back, took a healthy swallow of his
cold, whiskey-laced coffee and pushed the Glock across the table. Grunge made
no move for the gun…he just stared at it.

Empathy nipped Lynch. He knew how his brother felt…shocked,
repulsed, ashamed…but sugarcoating wouldn’t change the facts of what the
Streeters had done. And ignorance was hardly an excuse.

Finally, Grunge met his gaze. “So what do we do now?”

“We do what’s necessary to take out that motherfucking
Blackwell.”

“Fine.” Grunge narrowed his eyes. “But once all this shit’s
done with, the table’s gonna decide your fate for having worked with the feds.”

Lynch nodded and shoved to his feet. He knew better than to
argue. He also knew no reason would be good enough for betraying the club.
Because that’s what it was. A betrayal.

But as long as he got Blackwell, Lynch didn’t give a fuck
about anything else.

~*~

A
fter scouring Grunge’s house
top to bottom for hidden cameras and microphones, and not finding any, Lynch
and the treasurer decided they’d confide only in those Streeters who’d been in
the club prior to Lynch’s prison stint. That meant Mick, Picket, Ennis and Tiny
showed up an hour later, their families in tow.

One of the good things about MC old ladies—they knew not to
ask questions. They cloistered the kids in the bedrooms to watch TV or play
video games then stayed in the living room drinking coffee while the men
congregated out back.

Though Lynch worried how his fellow Streeters would respond
to his collaboration with the feds, knowing Grunge had his back—at least for
the time being—eased some of his trepidation. He quickly summarized the
horrible deaths of Flyer, Rolo, Hez and his mom…no point belaboring events that
couldn’t be changed. Yet the overwhelming reaction of other men’s grief and
sorrow as they looked at the graphic photos of the murders and their murmured
words of condolences jumped tears to his eyes.

Then Lynch admitted his FBI connection with Agent Jarvis.

As expected, angry insults and hostile threats flew, but
Grunge quickly pointed everyone toward achieving vengeance for their fallen
brethren rather than crucifying Lynch.

“So how do we get this fucker?” Mick asked.

“Yeah,” Picket concurred. “I’d like to attach a car battery
to his withered nuts.” He eyed Lynch. “Among others…”

Lynch focused on Mick rather than Picket. “We get him by
finding those girls. According to Jarvis a passenger van was stolen from the
Portland airport over the weekend.”

Mick shrugged. “Don’t those have lojacks?”

“Yeah, but this one’s been disabled.”

Tiny sat forward. “Portland?” He glanced at the other men.
“Didn’t Junkyard say he had a sister in Portland?”