Radclyffe - Code of Honor

“Okay—what was Adam worried about?”

“Nothing…he just mentioned Cam and Stark weren’t in favor of you coming along at first, at least not for a few weeks. I’m okay if you want to delay. Adam’s against it, but—”

“I see,” Blair said, carefully and quietly. “I’m totally fine, Dad. I’ve been planning on it, and I’m not concerned about anything at all.”

“Good. You know I want you along, but more than anything else, I want you to feel safe.”

“I do. And I’m coming,” Blair said. “If Adam had asked me, I would have saved him some time.”

“Okay, honey. I’ll be glad to have you. Lucinda will keep you informed about the schedule.”

“Great. Thanks, Dad.” Blair threw a drop cloth over the painting with one hand. “Oh, by the way, I’ll be in New York until we leave. Just call me if there’s anything.”

“I’ll do that. See you soon, honey.”

“Bye, Dad.”

Blair disconnected the call, capped the open paint tubes, and washed her hands of any remaining paint in the small adjoining bathroom. She splashed cold water on her face and waited for the haze of fury to settle. She’d hated having her life dictated by her father’s staff when she’d been too young to do anything about it—she was way past that point now. And to have Cam take part—

Blair pressed the number for her detail chief and Stark answered immediately.

“Ms. Powell? Can I help you?”

“I’m going to New York.”

“Of course. When would you li—”

“I’m leaving as soon as I’m packed.”

“The car will be waiting,” Stark said. “How long do you plan to be there?”

“I haven’t decided.” Blair disconnected. She hadn’t been quite so angry in a very long time, but venting her anger on Stark wouldn’t help.

She threw a few clothes and other personal items into a suitcase and started for the door. She’d once promised Cam she wouldn’t disappear when she was angry. Technically she wasn’t running out—she had said she was going to New York. She was just going a little early. After all, she still had the right to determine her own schedule, if little else, and if she stayed here, she was going to say or do something she would regret.

Chapter Nine

Loren tuned the old transistor radio on the shelf above the workbench to a rhythm-and-blues station, stripped down to her T-shirt, and pulled the carburetor from the 1949 Indian she’d picked up at an auction in the fall. She laid the parts out on sheets of newspaper to clean and inspect them. Mechanical work was her form of meditation—the routine focused her mind and settled her nerves—first in the desert, during the endless hours of tedium interspersed with the few moments of chaos when artillery shells dug craters in the sand and IEDs made twisted sculptures out of vehicles and casualties out of her friends, and now in this battlefield, where a lapse in concentration and a wrong word could buy her a shallow grave in the wilderness.

The gun deal with the Russians was her way into FALA, and the anticipation had her jazzed in a good way. She had her bases covered—as much as was ever possible in an operation with so many volatile players involved. What had her nerves dancing with a rare combination of uneasiness and excitement was Sky. She was an unknown, a piece that didn’t fit in the patchwork landscape of Loren’s shifting reality, and that made Sky dangerous. Loren was an expert at thinking on her feet, changing strategies midgame, adjusting to the violent swings in power among the bikers, gangs, and crime bosses—all because she knew the players and planned for the unexpected. She didn’t know Sky—only who Sky said she was. And that was the most unreliable intel of all. She’d talked to Skylar Dunbar, her handler, every few weeks for almost three years. Their conversations consisted of instructions, reports, and, on very rare occasions, updates on Loren’s family. Dunbar could have been a computer for all Loren knew—nothing personal ever transpired between them. Dunbar asked how she was doing, if she needed anything, if she wanted backup, but when Loren repeatedly declined, Dunbar never pushed.

Loren never talked about the men who’d gotten her alone in the back of the clubhouse when she was a prospect, forcing her against a wall, running their hands over her body, letting her feel their physical dominance even as they reminded her of their place in the hierarchy. They’d stopped short of raping her, and she’d kept her expression blank while resisting the gut-deep desire to blow their brains out. Eventually, she earned her way in by offering the kinds of connections the club wanted with the Russians and other suppliers, and all she’d said to Dunbar was, “I’m in.”

Now a woman who said she was Dunbar was here, and none of what had come before meant a damn. Sky might be the only person to actually know Loren’s true identity—not who she had been, but who she was—and that was as terrifying as it was exhilarating. Because even Loren wasn’t sure how much of Special Agent McElroy remained in the outlaw she had become.

She’d been working about an hour when the door to the shop creaked open and slammed closed. She only sold restorations she did herself or took on jobs for people she knew. She didn’t keep regular business hours and wasn’t expecting anyone. She slid her hand under the shelf onto the grip of the Glock in a holster attached beneath the ledge. She turned enough to shield her movements and looked over her shoulder.

Ramsey strolled across the room, a friendly smile on his face. As usual, he wore the club uniform of black T-shirt, jeans, wide leather belt, and biker boots. He was forty-five and just starting to get soft around the middle, but his shoulders and arms were bunched with muscle. His gray-streaked black hair was full and swept back from his forehead, shorter on the sides than a lot of the guys wore it. Clean-shaven, his lantern-jawed face was heavy and tough. She’d seen him fight, and he was not only skilled, but ruthless. He fought to win, no matter what it took.

“Hi,” Loren said, leaning back against the counter and letting her hand drop to her side. She could reach the Glock in under a second if she had to. She’d seen him draw too, and he was fast. Probably a standoff if it came down to it.

He admired the Indian up on the work stand. “Nice. You get this running, you’ll make some money on it.”

“Yeah, I know. I might keep it for myself, though.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” He gave her another slow smile. “Maybe I’ll outbid you for it.”

She laughed at the unbidden reminder that if he wanted it, he’d have it. As president of the club, he could pretty much have anything or anyone he wanted.

“So, tell me more about the redhead,” Ramsey said, hoisting a hip onto a stool in front of the workbench. He rubbed his jaw and his smile turned feral. “I wasn’t exactly in a position to carry on a conversation this morning.”

She’d called him after she’d reached out to the higher-ups in the national organization, before she’d decided to confront Sky. He’d been rushed, and Tricia’s plaintive complaints in the background gave Loren a pretty good indication why. She’d given him the bare essentials, and that was all she planned to give him now. If she even hinted Sky’s story was suspect, she’d be signing Sky’s death warrant, no matter who she really was. Maybe Sky was there to take her down, but if she was, Loren would handle it herself—when she was sure. “I talked to her for a few minutes last night before I left the club. She was pretty up front about why she’d come—not smart enough to be hiding anything. Jerome wanted an accounting and maybe to throw his weight around a little—my words, not hers. Dougie knew her from somewhere and put in a word for her with Jerome. He verifies.”