Chapter Eight
The cool night air washed over Finn as he drove through the empty streets. He’d been in small towns many times through the years, but the silence always astonished him, especially after working at the nightclub.
In Las Vegas, it was easy to lose track of time, the Strip running non-stop along with all the connected businesses. No matter what time of the day or night, you could find and get access to anything your heart desired. Legal and illegal.
Here, most of the stores rolled up the sidewalks at closing time and went dark, filling the streets with an eerie stillness. Other than the inner core where the bars were, Whispering Willows became a ghost town.
Which made his job both easier and harder. Easier in that he’d be able to access areas without worrying about being interrupted. Harder because he’d be the only one around, possibly drawing attention.
He slowed the truck and turned into the bar he’d noticed earlier—the Broken Spoke. It had been an obvious choice, the slew of motorcycles outside signaling it was a frequent gang hangout. Pickup trucks filled the parking lot, covered with dust and dirt, some held together by bumper stickers. Loud music vibrated through the walls, a heavy metal throbbing that drowned out everything else.
This wasn’t one of those nice bars that put umbrellas in your drink. If he was lucky, he wouldn’t catch anything from sitting on the stools.
Finn got out of the truck, adjusted his leather jacket, and headed on in.
The bar was busy, the wall-to-wall customers enjoying the live band as they surged back and forth from the bar to the small dance floor. If the Spoke had a decor, it was smoky and dark, the wooden floor stained almost black from foot traffic and spilled beer. The leader of the live band screamed something indecipherable into the microphone as the rest of the band howled and banged on their instruments.
Finn caught the eye of the large, no-necked man standing by the front door, a permanent scowl announcing his position. Finn gave him a respectful nod before pushing through the crowd.
Finn fingered the tiny buttons in his pocket as he reached the bar. Another of Trey’s little toys, these portable GPS tags would allow him to track the movements of anyone he placed them on.
He could have asked Trey to hack their cell phones and access their tracking software, but Finn suspected the bikers weren’t stupid enough to have that particular feature active. Underestimating the gang members could get him killed and place Skye and Robby in more danger than they were in already.
He knew where the bikers had their headquarters. That was no secret.
Now he needed to find out where they worked.
He turned his attention back to the crowd, searching for targets.
A good number of bikers were in the club, most of them at the bar drinking beer. He could easily identify them by the leather vests, each emblazoned on the back with the gang insignia—a white wolf’s skull with a revolver shoved in its mouth, ready to fire. Gold coins covered the skull’s eye sockets, the shiny thread catching the light.
The vests were prized possessions, bought with hard work and blood. No one wore one who wasn’t devoted heart and soul to the gang.
A gang’s colors were treated with the same reverence as a national flag, not to be abused or maligned. Anyone disrespecting a gang’s colors, member or not, could expect a severe beating at the very least.
The Wolf’s Teeth didn’t strike Finn as being any different from other biker gangs in that regard.
Under no condition would the leather vests be discarded, tossed onto a laundry pile, or left behind in some woman’s room. They stayed with their owners from dusk to dawn, and he suspected some slept in them.
It was a perfect target for the tracers.
It took a few minutes to get the bartender’s attention as the woman scurried back and forth filling orders. Once he did, Finn ordered a draft beer and studied the man next to him.
The biker was older than Finn, the black hair at his temples going gray to match his thin beard. He didn’t pay any attention to Finn as the bartender placed the beer on the dented and scratched wood, foam sloshing out over the top of the glass. Alone and away from his fellow bikers, he was focused on his drinking.
Perfect.
Finn spotted a pair of women at the other end of the bar smiling and giggling as they surveyed the crowd. Every few minutes their gaze would sweep over the bar patrons, studying Finn and the biker beside him.
It was obvious they preferred the biker over Finn.
He didn’t take it personally.
Finn took a sip of beer and winced, the lukewarm drink assaulting his senses. Holding the glass in one hand, he slipped his other into his jacket pocket and flicked the tiny piece of paper off the back of the tracer with his fingernail. It was small, barely a half-inch in diameter, and coal-black. Trey had chosen the color back at the nightclub with this plan in mind, giving the tracers as much camouflage as possible.
It was now active, sending information back to Trey’s computer servers in the Playground’s basement.
With the disk between his fingers, Finn pulled his hand out.
“Hey.” He tapped the biker on the back, close to the white crescent patch with the gang’s name on it. “Looks like you’ve got some ladies wanting your attention.”
The man twisted and glared at Finn, his lips pulled away from his teeth in a snarl. “What?”
Finn stood his ground. He nodded toward the end of the bar. “Ladies been checking you out. They look interested. Thought I’d let you know.”
The biker’s stare went past Finn to the women. He grunted, a thin smile appearing as he studied the lovely ladies.
“Good pickings there. Have a good night.” Finn glanced at the man’s back, checking that the marker had stuck. It took a second to find it, just under the edge of the patch and flush against the leather. The adhesive was top-grade, a variation on the super glues out on the market. Trey had promised the tracers would stay on through almost every situation—something Finn didn’t want to put to the test.
The man nodded at Finn as he picked up his beer. “Later.” He pushed through the crowd, headed for his admirers.
Finn let his breath out slowly, happy, for the moment, with his success.
One down, four to go.
He had more than that in the box, but he wasn’t going to up the risk of getting caught. The last thing he needed was for the thugs to find a tracker and go on alert, aware they’d been tagged. Five would be enough, for now.
Finn turned around and scanned the crowd. He sipped his beer, mentally logging the number of gang members in the bar. It was going to take some time and careful maneuvering to tag four more, hopefully without being punched out.
Information is power.
He swished the foul liquid around in his mouth and forced himself to swallow it.
Time to play the cheap drunk.
…
Skye couldn’t sleep. She lay in bed fighting the urge to touch herself and relieve the racing need burning through her since she’d kissed Finn.
Skye shifted again, twisting the sheets into knots.
She hadn’t gone to the Playground to find a man.
Well, not for that.
Face reality. When the Wolf is gone, Finn will be gone as well—back to Vegas and the Brotherhood.
Her lips tingled with the memory of his kiss.
Slow down, she told herself. Slow the hell down.
Whatever was between them was temporary, just a flash of lightning in the middle of a storm. That was all there was to it. Two lonely people seeking solace in each other’s company, no promises offered or given.
She could live with that.
With a shock, she realized she was touching her cheek, tracing where his stubble had left a light burn, the reddened skin still sensitive.
She rubbed her nose, ignoring the temptation to slip her hand elsewhere.
Go to sleep.
Stop thinking about Finn.
She forced herself to calm down, her mind still racing as she juggled her concern for Robby, her anger at Mick Smith, and her desire for Finn. After a good hour of mental shuffling, Skye fell into a restless sleep.
It was well after three in the morning when she heard the front door open and the man moving inside the apartment.
Skye froze before remembering she’d given Finn the spare key.
The footsteps moved down the hall. A muffled curse came as he bumped into a table, and she recognized Finn’s voice, putting her fears to rest.
The light went on in the hallway, soon switched with the one in the spare room.
A few minutes later, the bathroom light came on. She caught the smell of tobacco and stale beer wafting in from the hall. Skye scrunched up her nose. She wasn’t allergic to cigarette smoke, but she wasn’t a big fan of the habit and was grateful Finn was taking a shower.
At the sound of running water, Skye closed her eyes, trying hard not to imagine Finn in the shower, naked and wet.
She failed miserably.
The hot water trickling over those tight abs, the washboard muscles calling to be touched and stroked, a road she longed to trace with her tongue.
Soap bubbles starting on his bare chest, breaking free of his hands to slide southward, the wet, white line dragging her attention to his hips and what lay beyond…
She turned her face, muffling a groan with her pillow.
This wasn’t helping her get back to sleep.
A few minutes later, she heard the water stop. The door opened and the light went off as Finn returned to his room.
She heard him tapping on a keyboard and speaking in a low whisper, obviously concerned about waking her up.
The urge to get up and go to him was overwhelming.
But she didn’t.
She shook her head in the darkness. For them to be together they’d need more than just a mutual hatred of these monsters.
Skye listened in and picked up “Wolf’s Teeth” and “clubhouse.”
The words chilled her desire and packed it in ice, banishing all lustful thoughts from her mind.
She closed her eyes and settled back, imagining the bikers’ home base going up in a firestorm of destruction, the motorcycles burning in a heap in the middle of the compound.
Mick Smith burning to death, screaming for mercy as she stood with Robby and watched.
That thought escorted her to sleep.
…
Finn wiped his forehead as he sat in his room. The shower had removed the worst of the stink from his skin, but he suspected he’d be buying new clothing before long if he spent every night inside the Broken Spoke. He reached for his water bottle and finished off half of it in a single long gulp, grateful for the cold drink. He was thirsty and not necessarily for just water, as his thoughts cruised down the hallway to where Skye lay.
Damn, could that woman kiss.
He glanced at the open door, his grip tightening on the bottle.
No.
Mentally or physically, he wasn’t going there, not when he was still on the clock.
First on the list was sending a report to Dylan, updating him on the situation.
During the past few hours in the bar, he had managed to tag four other gang members, either by patting them on the shoulder or back while complimenting them, or tripping and falling against them. When he got back to his truck, he sent off a text to Trey that the tracers were live and he could start tracking them.
It might take a few days or even weeks, but he’d find out where the bikers worked other than the clubhouse. He was in no rush.
Now he had a new target—finding out where the Wolf’s Teeth were rendezvousing with the drivers to give them the cars. The meetings would happen away from the public eye, in a quiet, secure place where the gang would feel safe.
He put the water bottle down and finished the report.
As the laptop powered down, he glanced again at the open door, wondering if Skye was still awake.
Was she listening, wondering what he was doing?
His imagination put her in bed, awake and waiting for him to make the first move—under the sheets, naked and curled on her side, those long, lovely legs begging to be touched and caressed.
She’d expressed her willingness, shown him she was interested.
His turn.
Finn rubbed his palm against his thigh, trying to ignore the heat pooling in his groin. His black track pants, usually loose and baggy, seemed a size too small.
“Damn it,” he said aloud.
The mission came first.
He stripped down and slid between the sheets, forcing his thoughts back to the job.
The first biker he’d met and tagged had been called Jake—he hadn’t hated Finn as much as the others. He would make a good contact, one he could use to his advantage. He’d slapped Finn on the back while exiting with one of the ladies, thanking him for the tip. Right now, the gang was a driver down, and they’d be looking for a reliable civilian replacement, someone to take Robby’s place.
He wanted to be that man, no matter how dangerous it’d be.
His gaze went to the wall, imagining Skye on the other side. He would shoulder the danger because it was his job, finish it, and put Smith back into jail.
After that…
He smirked and closed his eyes.
After that, all bets were off.