Protect (7 page)

“I’m
fine
,” he insisted, pushing away
from the van, pulling his shirt down over the Glock. “But you’re
right. We gotta go.”

Tank nodded, satisfied. “Good. You get going.
I’ll sort the guys out. Knuckles should be good to go, too.”

He was, too. The crazy bastard was climbing
onto his Harley and gave Fritter his customary grin. “What the fuck
happened to you?”

“Threw myself in front of a bullet to save
you,” Fritter mumbled, tightening his helmet strap and swinging a
leg over his ride.

“I still ain’t putting out.”

In spite of the adrenaline and pain and
holy shit
rattling around in his head, Fritter had to
laugh.

“Let’s ghost,” Knuckles shouted, engine
rumbling awake. With another whoop he tore off, back the way they’d
come. It would mean passing through Hazeldale again but
whatever.

Fritter followed, noting that Buck was
pulling in behind Knuckles. Rusty let Fritter by, then pulled out
behind him. He pointed at Tank and then Mickey, who was climbing on
the back of the big guy’s Fat Boy. Mickey flipped him off, but Tank
was just shaking his head as he fired her up.

Laughing was good. Laughing would do, for now
anyway.

“Really?” Downey mumbled, raising an eyebrow
at Martin. “You drop a stolen vehicle report on my desk?”

“Look at the vehicle,” he suggested, bemused.
Little fucker was less scared of her now for some reason.

She sighed, turned away from her keyboard and
flipped to the second page of the report. Then she frowned.
“Grainger Garage’s cargo van disappeared last night?”

Martin shrugged. “Jolene Grainger just called
it in. Funny thing is, I saw it go by on my way to work today.
Driven by Mickey and followed by a bunch of guys on
motorcycles.”

“Jesus Christ,” she mumbled, rubbing her
forehead. “You know wherever than van is, it’s going to be noisy.
Right?”

Martin shrugged. “At least they keep it
interesting.” Then he was gone, leaving her shaking her head.

“You’re an idiot!” she called after him, a
laugh his reply.

She didn’t want to know any more about this
than she absolutely had to. Some days it irked her that she was all
but taken for granted when it came to a certain criminal element of
Markham, but at least for all outside appearances her little county
had one of the lower crime rates in California.

Mostly because a lot of it went unreported,
but ... details.

Still, a report of a stolen vehicle meant it
was going to be found and it was going to be messy and a headache.
And she wasn’t getting any help from the MC, which meant their
investigation couldn’t possibly go anywhere.

She really didn’t need this during an
election year.

At least they wouldn’t have to go looking for
the stolen property. She set the file to the side and went back to
her paperwork that was already a week behind schedule.

When the phone rang she reached out absently,
eyes scanning all the fields of her annual budget report due for
city council. “Sheriff Downey,” she barked, swallowing a curse word
as she realized she’d put a period instead of a comma. No, the
department had not spent thirty-point-four
dollars
on fuel.
Thirty-four hundred, yes.

“Umm, Sharon?”

She frowned, turning away from the screen yet
again. “Yes? Who is this?”

“It’s ... it’s Jasmine.”

She sank back into her desk chair, swiveling
around to the back wall of her office. Ah yes, the other woman. Her
ex-husband’s current wife. There was no jealousy, though. They’d
been married for thirteen years now, and that was longer than Susan
had worn Steven’s ring. Jasmine was actually a lovely woman. They’d
likely never be friends, but they could be amiable and tolerate a
dinner party together.

“Jasmine? How are things?”

“I’m at the hospital. Steven ... he ...” She
fell into sobbing and Sharon suddenly sat up.

“What is it? What’s happened?”

“There was an accident. A drunk hit Steven as
he was driving home last night. I’ve been at the hospital all
night. He was in surgery for ten hours.”

Sharon closed her eyes, took a deep breath.
“Okay. What’s the doctor saying?”

“He’s still in recovery. He’s got a broken
leg, pelvis, collarbone, arm, God knows what else. He’s going to be
in traction for quite a while.”

Sharon turned back to her desk, taking a deep
breath. “Okay. What do you need me to do, Jasmine? Anything I can
do to help, I’ll do it.”

“It’s ... it’s Brayden.”

Now she was sitting up straighter. “Was he in
the car?”

“No, no. He’s fine. But ... I’m going to be
here at the hospital while Steven recuperates. Can ... can Brayden
come to Markham once school is out?”

Sharon felt a completely inappropriate smile
tug at her mouth. “He’s ... he’s sixteen, Jasmine. He can take care
of himself.”

Now Jasmine sounded uncomfortable. “He almost
got kicked out of school. Steven and I had to beg them to let him
finish eleventh grade. He can’t keep a job and ... he’d got some
friends that make me uncomfortable. I can’t watch him, and I worry
about what he might get up to. He ... he listens to you.”

Sharon rubbed her forehead. “We’ve got
elections starting here. My summer is going to be spent working on
my campaign.”

“I wouldn’t ask,” Jasmine cut in, more
forcefully than she usually spoke. “But I can’t spend my time
worrying about him and being here with Steven. I hate to ask
but—”

Sharon sighed. “No, I’m sorry. You’re right,
of course.”

Shit, she was the worst mother the world ever
knew. After the divorce Steven and Jasmine had requested custody of
Brayden, and it made sense. They were both around, Jasmine worked
part-time. Sharon worked shift work in a dangerous job. She’d been
quite comfortable letting them take her son to their fashionable
Bakersfield condo, driving up there every second weekend to be the
part-time parent.

Clearly that had been the right call.

“Okay, he can stay with me,” Sharon said,
scratching her temple. “When does school end?”

“In a week. He’s done as of Thursday, so
whenever you’re available I can put him on the bus or—”

“No, no. I’ll come get him. I ... I can come
Friday after work. I have to stay until around five but I can head
out right after that.”

“Okay, that sounds good.” Jasmine was
sniffling again. “Thank you, Sharon.”

“Don’t thank me, Jasmine. He’s my son, of
course I’ll take him. Until school starts, if you need.”

“Thank God. Thank you.”

Sharon spent a few more minutes discussing
the details, then hung up the phone and stared at the handset for a
moment.

There was likely a time she’d loved Steven
Westhall, but they’d both been very young. She thought she’d known
what she wanted out of life, and they married in Pasadena then
settled in Bakersfield with Steven selling commercial real estate
and Sharon working traffic with the Bakersfield PD. Little
excitement, no real stress. Comfortable life. So, so happy.

It wasn’t anyone’s fault but hers. She
changed what she wanted out of life, but didn’t say a word to
anyone. She was twenty-six when she got pregnant with Brayden, and
the first time she’d felt him kick she knew she wasn’t going to be
a great mother. She wasn’t even sure she wanted kids. And at that
point she somewhat wished she wasn’t pregnant.

Again, she told no one about any of this.

The first time she’d met Brayden, however,
that was all dashed. She’d loved him, she really did. She just had
no idea what she was doing. She didn’t have that inherent ability
to hold a baby so he couldn’t fuss, she couldn’t hear one cough and
know what was wrong. She loved him, and as he grew older she was
starting to get the hang of it but he took all of her attention.
This left nothing for Steven.

The sheriff’s seat in Markham came open, and
that led to a terrible argument. Name-calling, almost to the point
of throwing things, shouting in each other’s faces until Brayden,
still in the crib, started wailing from the other room.

Sharon wanted that seat, wanted to be back in
her hometown. And she would have loved to raise her son in this
town, too. The city was busy and made her dizzy, claustrophobic. A
smaller town was where a kid
should
be raised, like she
was.

And of course in the midst of the
immediate
issue, all her unhappiness came out. How she
didn’t want to just be a traffic cop, happy to let her husband
really make the money that paid the bills. And she hated the city,
hated the “friends” they had who were really all
Steven’s
friends anyway. All of it came spewing out like the chance to get
out of Bakersfield was an emotional diuretic.

And that’s when she found out about Jasmine,
a woman that had looked after their son a few times. A woman that
was one of her supposed
friends
in Bakersfield who invited
her over for girls’ night martinis and rom coms at the theater.
Steven loved Jasmine, he wanted to marry her.

They were filing for divorce within a
week.

Time made the edges of the break up softer,
less cutting. Sharon, as lonely as she might seem, still preferred
life this way. But losing that constant contact with Brayden was
the only regret of the whole situation. They still got along great,
and Jasmine was right; Brayden listened to his mother a lot more
closely than his father. They had an odd buddy relationship, yet he
deferred to her authority when she had to exercise it.

He was sixteen now. It grated on Sharon a
little to see him exhibit the entitled air of a white kid from a
well-to-do household. Maybe she should have insisted her visitation
weekends take place in Markham. It might help him to see how the
other half lived.

Her phone rang again, rousing her from
memories. She snatched up the handset. “Sheriff Downey.”

“You know that van? Patrol found it. You’re
not going to be very happy.”

“This is gonna hurt.”

That four-word phrase always came right
before it hurt like a fucking bitch. Fritter clenched his jaw and
let his head fall to the back of the leather armchair. Next to him,
Jeremy Fox was on a low mechanics’ stool squinting at the stitches
he was finishing up on Fritter’s right arm. Fox was an asshole, but
he provided professional minor medical services in exchange for a
few dollars, and a blowjob from a sweetbutt usually didn’t go
unappreciated, either.

“Okay. This’ll heal up good. You’ll just have
a badass scar.”

“Perfect.”

Fritter watched the doc cover up the jagged
red line with gauze, tape it in place, and then get up from his
stool with a professional smile. Knuckles was there right away,
handing over a plain white envelope.

“For you, my friend,” Knuckles said with a
grin around his cigarette. “Anything else you need?”

The envelope disappeared into Fox’s bag, and
he cast his eyes around before asking. “Is that, uh ... that blonde
around?”

Knuckles’ grin got wider. “Tessa? From last
time?”

Fox nodded. “Yeah. I’d like to, uh, see her
again.”

“You got it, my friend. Let’s track her
down.”

Fritter grabbed the beer he’d set on the
floor next to his chair and tipped it to his mouth with his right
hand, the one not attached to a throbbing arm.

Mickey sank into the sofa opposite Fritter,
but not before kicking his boot as a greeting. “How’s the arm?”

“Good. How’s Jolene?”

“Pissed about the van. And me not telling her
why it’s missing.”

“That’s for the best, though.”

“Yeah, she knows that, too. She’s still
pissed.”

“She’ll get over it,” Fritter said, closing
his eyes. “Fuck. Why am I always the one getting shot?”

“Lucky,” Knuckles answered, flopping onto the
sofa next to Mickey. “What a fucking rush, though.”

“Any word from Sachetti yet?”

Mickey shook his head at Fritter’s question.
“Jayce is in the boardroom, just waiting for that phone to
ring.”

“What the hell was with that, though?”
Knuckles asked, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “That
fucking guy had to be
someone
. Otherwise they’d cap him
wherever they found him. They wanted him for information or ransom
or something.”

Mickey rubbed his bottom lip. He got a look
he rarely got; the look of truly deep thought. “Whatever it is,
it’s gonna be a shit storm. My money says this guy was known to the
law, too. And he was found dead in
my
van? We’re going to be
getting some uncomfortable attention.”

They all thought that over. It was a noisy
mess they’d left on that highway and the vehicle had an obvious tie
to the club. If the stiff proved to be famous in any way the local
PD couldn’t keep it under wraps, and this meant the possibility of
higher-up law enforcement involvement. And that always made life
tricky for Sheriff Downey.

Not that he was particularly worried about
the sheriff’s career. Or maybe he was. Shit, who really knew?

“Everyone—to the table!” Tank’s way of
talking may have been a bit slower but he could still bellow when
he had to. The three of them got to their feet and filed towards
the doorway just behind the back wall of the bar.

Jayce was hunched forward at the head of the
long table that took up most of the room. He was running his hand
back and forth over his cropped hair, a sign that he was stressed.
His quick look up at them then his nod to the phone that had been
dragged from the corner to the middle of the table told them what
was going on. Sachetti had called.

When they settled Jayce spoke. “Okay, the
guys are here now.”

“And we’re secure?”

Spaz nodded, prompting Jayce to reply.
“Locked down.”