Chapter TWENTY-THREE

MITCH PARKED the Range Rover around the corner from the Fury. A quick glance at the time showed he wasn’t scheduled to meet with Rocky, Stack, and Lucky for another fifteen minutes. Finn was catching a ride to the pub with one of them.

Perfect. Time for a quick call to Ross.

“Well, it’s about bloody time.”

“Hello to you too.”

Ross chuckled, and there was the sound of rustling paper. For a moment Mitch wished he were sitting in the office with Ross instead of waiting for the likes of Rocky and his crew.

“What’s news? Tell me you have something for me.”

“Not enough. But some.” Mitch glanced around, checking activity on the street. “From what I’ve gleaned from Finn and the discussions he’s had with Rocky and the boys, it seems the date’s been set. Friday the tenth of February.”

“Yeah, got that info already.”

“Another note?”

“Uh-huh. It arrived this afternoon. It outlines a plan to collect the shipment when it clears customs and transport straightaway. It mentions unloading and reloading at a warehouse around Alexandria before moving the motorcycle parts to the CMC warehouse and getting the drugs heading down south ASAP.”

That information surprised Mitch because, when he’d questioned Pete, trying to get as much detail from him as possible, Pete swore he didn’t know the specific locations, but Mitch knew Rocky wouldn’t be stupid enough to risk bringing that volume of drugs back and having them on CMC premises, no matter for how short a time. “Was there an address?”

Ross’s sigh was clear. “No. Not specifically, just that the warehouse was located in Alexandria. I’m hoping you can find out something more. In the meantime, we’re checking out factories and warehouses in the area to see if there’s anything linked to the Soldiers. Plus we’re scouting out vacant premises. I’ve checked in with some confidential informants to see what the word is on the street and keeping an eye on activity with the Brutes.”

“What about just intercepting the shipment while it’s at customs like was discussed last week?”

“I wish. It would be so much easier. But we know there are others involved in this. We want to broaden the net, catch as many of the parties involved as possible at each point in the distribution chain. The foreign authorities confirmed the presence of the shipment before it left on the ship, and an inspection will take place here to confirm the drugs have arrived on our soil before the container is released.”

“Yeah, makes sense. Just wishful thinking, I guess. Anyway, I’ve got a few more names for you.” Mitch checked the notes on his phone before rattling off the names of some of Rocky’s associates. “Is Rowena able to shed any more light on Warren Jones, aka Stack? The guy’s really hard to read—cool as a cucumber but dangerous as all hell—and I could do with some help in working out how to crack him. He’s the person closest to Rocky, but he keeps all the information close to his chest. In fact, sometimes it’s like Stack is running the place, as Rocky seems to rely on him a hell of a lot. And Rocky seems really on edge lately.”

“On edge?”

“Rocky’s the opposite of Stack. Where Stack is calm, Rocky seems rattled. From the physical signs and his behavior, I think he’s using, and I don’t just mean dabbling. It’s worrying, Ross.” Mitch took a deep breath. “A guy wielding the kind of power Rocky has, going off the rails, has the potential to cause a lot of damage.” The image of Finn’s face when Rocky hit him flashed in Mitch’s mind.

The sound of Ross’s voice brought him back to the present. “I’ll see if I can find out anything additional about Warren Jones. But you be careful, Mitch. It worries me that your identity is at Peter’s mercy. What if he slips up and says something? The longer this thing drags on, the more chance there is of that happening.”

“I’ll be careful. We only need to hold out another week and a half. Listen, Ross, I’m going to have to go. The boys will be turning up at any moment, and I need to get inside the pub.”

“No worries, mate. Stay in touch.”

“Will do.”

Mitch terminated the call and shoved the phone deep into his jacket pocket before making his way around the corner to the Fury. He bought a beer and found a table in the beer garden. This area of the pub wasn’t crowded so early in the afternoon—in fact, a few of the tables were empty. He could see the street from the table where he sat, and even that was fairly quiet. The afternoon sun beat down on the paved area, so he shrugged off his jacket and slung it across the back of his chair.

The familiar roar of some bikes drew Mitch’s gaze to the road beyond the brick wall that separated the beer garden from the footpath. Out on the street, Rocky and Stack slipped their motorbikes into the space between a couple of cars. Across the road, Pete was reverse parking his ute. A horn tooted, someone too impatient to wait for the large dark blue Toyota HiLux to clear the road. The horn sounded again as the car pulled out and swerved around Pete’s ute, the impatient driver flipping Pete the bird.

“Arsehole!”

Rocky had taken off his helmet and yelled after the accelerating car, and Mitch couldn’t help chuckling at his outraged expression. As if Rocky were the king of road courtesy. He was more like the poster child for road rage.

Rocky and Stack were securing their bikes as another Harley pulled in. The women sitting at a table across the beer garden from Mitch and obviously enjoying after-work drinks, judging from their tailored outfits and laptop bags, were looking at the guys on the bikes. The loud Harleys always seemed to draw attention, particularly when they arrived anyplace en masse.

Mitch looked across the road to see Finn get out of the HiLux. Mitch smiled wide at the sight of the man he was coming to realize had captured a special part of him. Maybe it was too early to say it was love, but there was definitely something that felt a hell of a lot like it, or not far off—a warmth, a sense of completeness, like something had been missing until Finn entered his life. Something that scared the shit out of Mitch.

Finn looked over the roof of the car, his gaze skirting past his brother and the others, straight to the pub. They locked eyes, and Finn’s smile was bright as he saluted in Mitch’s direction, causing Mitch’s happiness to notch up another level.

Mitch glanced away and ducked his head, afraid he’d given away his feelings. He reached for his Stella and took a large gulp of the cold beer while he gathered his thoughts and tried to bring his feelings under control. He was a twenty-nine-year-old man, not a blushing teenager, for Christ’s sake.

What happened next had Mitch forgetting everything apart from the need to get to Finn. A screech of brakes, a loud yell in unison from the men on the street, and high-pitched screams from the women in the beer garden. Oh my God!

Other patrons from inside the pub were drawn to the noise and were making their way to the low brick wall that separated the pub garden from the footpath, joining the onlookers who’d made their way there. Mitch pushed past the small crowd and bounded over the wall, his pulse thundering in his veins. A bike nearly hit him, but he stepped back just in time as Lucky, who hadn’t even dismounted from his bike, roared off down the road in pursuit of a white sedan whose taillights were disappearing around the corner.

Mitch, Rocky, and Stack raced across the road, and it was only when they reached the other side that Mitch understood what had happened: the Commodore had slammed into Pete, who lay in a crumpled heap on the bitumen, with Finn kneeling at this side.

The relief was instantaneous, the weight lifted from his chest.

Finn is okay, he’s not hurt, he’s safe. Finn is fine.

Just as quickly the horror of the situation became apparent, and bile rose in Mitch’s throat. The car had hit Pete with some force, judging from the mangled car door that hung from one hinge. Pete’s head had slammed against the road surface, and a pool of blood seeped in a slowly growing circle around his dark curls. Mitch dropped to his knees beside Finn and carefully checked Pete’s throat for a pulse. It was faint but present. Thank God.

“It’ll be okay,” Finn whispered, gently pushing Pete’s hair back. Pete’s pale, gaunt face was even more colorless, as if life had already left him, and with a wave of clarity, Mitch understood it most likely had, or wasn’t far off. Even if they could repair Pete’s leg, which was bent at an unnatural angle, the chances of them getting him alive to the hospital in order to do so seemed fairly slim. Mitch had seen enough death in his line of work to know it didn’t look good. He shook his head. But it’s not hopeless! While there was still a pulse under his fingertips and Pete took a breath, no matter how weak, there was still a chance.

“Be careful touching him, Finn. Here.” Mitch ripped his T-shirt off and thrust it at Finn. “Take this and use it to stop the bleeding at his head. But be careful not to move his neck. Hold the T-shirt against the wound on the side of his head with one hand and use your other hand to stabilize his head so he can’t move.”

Finn’s blue eyes were wide with shock. “I….” His voice trembled.

“Now, Finn.”

Finn jumped at the command in Mitch’s tone and bent to place a palm on either side of Pete’s head, the folded T-shirt staunching the flow of blood. Mitch let out a quiet exhalation when Finn met his gaze and nodded. Giving Finn something practical and important to do had curbed his panic and distress.

Mitch looked up to Rocky. “Call the ambulance.”

Rocky stood and stared, features unmoving and his mouth in a hard line. He made no effort to reach for his phone.

“We need to get him help, Rocky. Call the ambulance. Now.” The authoritative tone didn’t work as well on Rocky, who looked indecisive, glancing between Pete on the ground and Stack, who stood beside him. Mitch finally lost his temper. “For fuck’s sake!” He fumbled in his pocket before remembering his phone was in his jacket back at the pub, then another voice cut in.

“I called triple O. They’re sending an ambulance and the cops.”

Mitch nodded his appreciation to the stranger and focused back on Pete. There was nothing much he could do, as Finn seemed to have it under control, leaning over and holding the folded T-shirt to Pete’s head while he kept him steady. So Mitch placed a hand on Finn’s back, hoping he’d get the message and know Mitch was there for him too.

“The cops are on their way, Mitch.”

Mitch looked up at Rocky’s statement. “Yeah? I heard.”

“He’s—” Rocky’s voice was low, and he tilted his head toward Pete’s prone body. “He’s carrying.”

It suddenly clicked. Rocky was worried about what the ambos and cops would find on Pete. Drugs, guns. Jesus!

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it,” Mitch said. “You and Stack get out of here. I’ll deal with the cops.”

“What will you say?” Stack asked.

“The truth. Pete and I are workmates, and we were meeting for a drink after work.”

Mitch glanced around and saw the guy who’d called the police had crossed back to comfort the girls, standing with a small group of people who had gathered to gawk at the commotion. He grabbed the chance and turned back to Pete and hurriedly rummaged through his pockets, finding the small plastic Ziploc bag of what he assumed was heroin—Jesus, Pete, how much of the goddamn stuff do you need?—but not much else apart from a lighter. No other paraphernalia, no weapons—thank Christ—and his wallet looked clean.

The sound of sirens rent the air, the familiar noise making Mitch’s pulse race. He glanced at Rocky as he shoved the little packet of heroin down the front of his jeans and into his boxer briefs. Rocky nodded and spun on his heel, Stack following as they crossed the road at a rapid pace.

Mitch turned his attention back to the scene in front of him. Intentionally ignoring the wide-eyed look on Finn’s face, he focused on Pete. Fuck, he didn’t look good. All that blood—too much blood—and his breathing was deteriorating as well. Pete’s chest rose and fell in a way that was way too shallow and slow.

“What are you doing?” Finn hissed, his gaze focused on Mitch’s groin. “The police will be here any second.” He looked panicked as he lifted his eyes, but he didn’t move from his position beside Pete where he held Mitch’s shirt to Pete’s head. Is the bleeding slowing at all?

“And they’ll be focused on Pete and getting him attended to as soon as possible. I want you to go with Pete in the ambulance, and I’ll stay here to deal with the cops.” Finn’s brows pulled tight in a look Mitch had come to recognize. “I mean it, Finn. Just leave this to me. You take care of Pete, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

“But if they search the ute? If they know you’re connected with Pete and that Pete’s connected with the Soldiers….” Finn dropped his gaze to his crotch again, where it was as if the little plastic bag of white powder was burning against his skin.

Before he could say anything else, the ambulance pulled up, and two paramedics jumped from the vehicle. Within moments they were dealing with Pete—stabilizing his head and neck, checking his vitals, inserting a cannula, dealing with his head wound, and preparing him for transport.

Finn stood and moved to Mitch’s side as soon as the ambos gave him the go-ahead to let go of the T-shirt and took over staunching the flow of blood. Mitch wanted to reach out and drag Finn to him, to hold him and offer comfort, but couldn’t, not when a cop car was pulling up in the middle of the street behind them. No doubt there’d soon be press on the scene too. So instead of taking Finn into his arms, Mitch gave him a gentle touch on the shoulder and took the bundled T-shirt from his shaking hands.

Seeing someone so gravely injured before your eyes was traumatic enough, let alone someone you were close to. Mitch had seen some gruesome things in his time, due to the job, but he had a feeling that Finn, even though he was attached to the club, hadn’t dealt with something like this close-up. And how close are Finn and Pete?

Pete.

They loaded him onto the stretcher.

Even though his feelings for Pete had long since faded to something he couldn’t entirely put his finger on, it tore him up to see him like this. For all his faults, Pete had tried to beat his addiction, and Mitch understood it was the drugs that had torn their relationship apart. Mitch swallowed past the lump in his throat.

“Go with them.” He nudged Finn. Finn remained silent, but he nodded before walking to the back of the ambulance. He spoke to the paramedics, then climbed into the ambulance. Mitch got one last look at his stricken face before they slammed the doors closed and the ambulance pulled away in a sharp burst of siren noise.

“Sir?” Mitch became aware of someone speaking his name. “Sir? Let’s get you off the road, and we’d like to have a word with you and any other witnesses.”

He nodded, giving one last look at the already congealing scarlet pool on the bitumen, and moved onto the footpath next to Pete’s damaged car. He could see another police officer across the road, talking to the small group that was gathered outside the pub.

“I’m Officer Ted Johnson. I need to ask you a few questions.”

“Sure.” He gave the young officer his full attention and kept his voice low. “Listen, this is important. I’m Detective Mitch O’Neill, working undercover as part of an antibike operation. I need you to contact Detective Ross Sloane and Superintendent Sutherland. They can back me up. You’ll find drugs, a small bag that I assume is heroin, down the front of my jeans. There could be drugs and weapons in the HiLux. I can’t be 100 percent sure, but it’s likely. The guy who was hit is Peter Crowley—aren’t you going to write any of this down?”

The officer flicked open his notepad and hurried for a pen. His professionalism finally seemed to kick in, and he ignored the pen and hovered his hand over his weapon instead. “Are you armed?”

“No, not on me. I have a weapon—police issued—in my car. A Range Rover parked around the corner. Keys are in my jacket pocket, which is on the back of a chair in the beer garden of the pub over there.”

“ID.”

“Not on me, and not in my real name.”

The guy frowned. “And this incident, this hit-and-run, is involved with your case?”

Mitch nodded. “Peter Crowley is a new pledge to the Soldiers of Fury. He’s pretty close to Rocky Cummings. Acts as a runner and general dogsbody. I can’t be certain, but the hit-and-run could have been a deliberate attempt to target the Soldiers. There was a definite attempt on them recently—a drive-by shooting outside the home of Rocky Cummings.”

“I heard about that.” The cop glanced across the road at his colleague, gesturing to get his attention and beckon him before turning back to Mitch. He only had his eyes off Mitch for a second, and his hand didn’t leave his weapon. “I need to check up on your story. Stay right here and don’t move.”

The two policemen chatted for a bit, the younger one gesturing toward Mitch. He finally returned to the police car, obviously radioing for more info and to validate what Mitch had given him. The murmur of the crowd reached his ears, along with the sound of more sirens. He glanced at the place where Pete had lain. Mitch bit back the bile and fought down the emotions. Now wasn’t the time to let his personal involvement get the better of him, but he still couldn’t help the tinge of sadness at the thought of Pete in the back of the ambulance, and the ache in his heart at the sense of helplessness that had risen at the sight of Finn’s distress.

He closed his eyes for a moment and squeezed his hands tight as he tried to bring himself under control. The coppery scent of blood filled his nostrils. Pete’s blood. He opened his eyes, taking in the twisted and stained T-shirt. He dropped the shirt and stared at his bloodstained hands, then leaned over and promptly vomited into the gutter.

Yeah, keeping his professional and personal lives separate sure wasn’t happening.