Undeniable (Undeniable, #1)(25)

She was being sincere; she even looked apologetic.

I shrugged. “It’s really not a big deal. I was on summer vacation and wanted to have some fun without my daddy and brother breathing down my neck, you know?”

Lie. Biggest lie I had ever told. But the last thing I wanted was a club whore feeling sorry for me. She bought it and took off down the hallway to hide in her bedroom. I was still standing there staring at nothing when Deuce walked back in.

“ATF’s outside; we got ’bout two minutes before they blow the gate,” he said. “Figured Preacher might have used you before, yeah?”

“Yes,” I said.

He handed me a ring full of keys. “Those are for the doors. Code to the gate is 009673.”

I nodded. “009673,” I repeated.

He stared at me.

“Go,” I said. “Do what you need to do. I’ll stall them.”

? ? ?

Outside the gate stood white-collar special agents wearing bulletproof vests over their button-downs. Behind them, SWAT was pouring out of several large paddy wagons dressed in military-issued boots and BDUs. They, too, wore bulletproof vests, but unlike the agents, they had Glocks strapped to their thighs and assault rifles slung over their shoulders.

“ATF,” an older, seasoned agent said in greeting. “You mind opening the gate?”

I smiled. “What’s this about?”

Another agent—young, clean-cut, and good-looking—waved a piece of paper around angrily. “Warrant,” he barked. “Open the f*cking gate!”

“Can I see that?” I asked sweetly.

He shoved the piece of paper through the gate, and I scanned it quickly. It was a search and seizure, dated correctly, and signed by a judge. In order and legit.

I handed it back but took my time punching in wrong code after wrong code after wrong code until a good fifteen minutes had passed by, and the agents were getting angry with me.

As soon as the electricity running through the gates was disarmed, they clicked open, and the tarmac flooded with SWAT headed straight for the club.

“Front door’s locked!”

“Side door’s locked!”

I rolled my eyes. Of course, they were locked. I wasn’t stupid.

“Get the ram!”

“Wait!” I yelled. “Don’t break it down! I have the keys!”

The younger, good-looking agent turned to glare at me. “Get over here!” he barked.

I hurried to the door, and the good-looking agent leaned down over me. “Open it,” he hissed.

I tried the first key, and it didn’t work. Truth be told, I didn’t know which one would. Deuce didn’t tell me.

By the third key, I had two agents screaming at me. By the sixth key, the good-looking agent grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked me roughly aside.

“Give me the keys,” he growled and snatched them from my shaking hands.

When the doors were open, I was shoved aside as the crowd poured in. Aside from ATF, no one else was in the front of the warehouse. I took shelter in a corner near the bar and watched the room being torn apart. Leather couches were sliced open, televisions were smashed, and cupboard doors were ripped off their hinges. Crashes, the sounds of wood splintering, and plastic cracking came from inside Deuce’s office and the kitchen.

There was so much activity going on around me that I didn’t see the good-looking agent until he was standing right in front of me, breathing hard, his face red with rage. “Where are they?” he bellowed, sending spittle flying in my face.

Wiping off my cheek, I shook my head. “I don’t know,” I whispered because really I didn’t know.

He grabbed my arm and shook me hard. “Where. Are. They?”

Tears burned in my eyes. The Horsemen must not have any Feds on their payroll, or this wouldn’t be happening.

“Please,” I begged. “I really don’t know.”

Pain exploded throughout my face. My mouth flooded with blood. His punch had landed on the left side of my jaw, the force of which had me stumbling backward into the wall. He closed the distance between us, and I turned my head into the wall, bracing myself for another punch. His fist barreled into my stomach, and my lungs exploded. I doubled over, clutching my midsection, gagging and gasping for air.

“GOT ’EM!” a voice boomed. “Trap door! Basement!”

The brothers were led single file into the room, their hands zip-tied behind their backs. Individually, they were shoved up against the far wall.

Deuce was directly in the middle of the lineup, nonchalantly scanning the room full of people. His gaze landed on me—lying on my side, holding my stomach, trying to breathe—and he went ramrod straight, his eyes blazing with fury. More tears flooded my eyes, and the room went blurry.

I recognized the good-looking agent’s voice.

“I have witnesses placing your L.A. boys meeting with Curtis’s boys in Vegas. I know for a fact you’re distributing for them. I also know you haven’t moved it yet. So let’s make this easy. You tell me where the f*ck you stashed the weapons, you blow in Curtis, and I’ll go easy on you.”

“No f*ckin’ clue whatcha talkin’ ’bout.”

I thought that sounded like Cox, but I couldn’t be sure.

“Really?” the agent sneered. “AK-47 rifles, AK-47 pistols, FN 5.7x28 millimeter pistols, and .50 caliber point rifles—twenty-five hundred in all and all from f*cking Curtis—isn’t ringing any f*cking bells?”