The Wolf (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #2)(107)

Setting the report down on the corner of the desk, not that there was any rhyme or reason to that particular location, he followed the brrrrrr’ing, brrrrrrr’ing to the door to Stan’s private crapper.

“You forgot your phone, Stan,” he said as he pushed the door wider.

The sound was still muffled even as he leaned into the sacred space—and then, before he could zero in on the where, things went silent. He glanced around the counter. Nothing there, out in the open. And on the back of the toilet—only golf magazines. And he wasn’t going into the guy’s drawers—

The sound started up again.

José bent down. Bent farther. The phone was vibrating in the lowest of the cabinet’s drawers.

He pulled the handle slowly, sliding things open. But for godsakes, he’d known the guy his entire professional life. What was he going to find other than toilet rolls—

There was a button-down shirt wadded up in the drawer. Blue-and-white-checked. No doubt another mustard casualty.

Reaching in, he pulled the cotton folds out.

Underneath them was a black nylon wallet . . . and a cell phone. And as the caller hung up again, or things went to voice mail, the vibration stopped.

With a sense of total disbelief, José took a pair of nitrile gloves out of his pocket. Yet after so many years in his job, he’d learned to trust his gut.

And his gut was telling him that what he was about to find was going to break his fucking heart.

Leaving the phone alone, he picked up the wallet, tore open the Velcro, and—

Officer Leon Roberts’s face stared up at him from a driver’s license that had been slotted into the see-through half of the two flaps. And across on the other side . . .

. . . was the Caldwell Police badge the man had earned and done proud.



“You know, you’re quiet. Even for you, you’re really frickin’ quiet.”

As V stopped under the fire escape and looked up, he wondered, if he stayed silent, whether Rhage would move on to another topic. Like, food. Or . . . food.

Or maybe . . . food?

You know, just to mix it up.

“Hello?” Hollywood prompted.

“I’m focused on what we’re doing here.”

Rhage stepped in front, and given his size, it was like the earth had coughed up a big, blond, beautiful mountain. With a piehole that, with no pie around, was flapping in the wind.

“And we’ve walked aimlessly for how many blocks now?” the brother said. “What’s wrong.”

“Fine, you want to chat? Answer me this. How does getting in our three hundred and fifty thousand steps tonight correspond to conversation—”

“V, what’s up your ass.” Rhage crossed his arms over the black daggers that were holstered, handles down, to his massive chest. Then he winced. “Actually, how ’bout you just tell me what’s on your mind. I think I better leave your ass and what may, or may not, be inside of it out of this. No offense.”

V leaned back against the club. As the music was really bumping, the vibrations coming through the cement walls were like a massage chair.

“What did you dream about, Vishous,” came the question he dreaded.

He shook his head. “You don’t know me.”

“The hell I don’t. What did you see.” When there was no reply, the brother said, “Who died.”

“Who said anybody died?”

“You don’t get visions about happy shit, V. Like never once have you told me you’ve had a dream about a bag of Lay’s Sour Cream and Onion. Or Doritos. Hell, some Snyder’s of Hanover pretzel nubs would do nicely.”

“Nubs?”

“Yeah, with peanut butter in them. They’re awesome.” Rhage shrugged. “I mean, I’m assuming you’d mention it if you’ve seen any of these snack foods in my future. Like, have you?”

“Let me get this straight. You’re putting nubs in your mouth, but you’re worried what’s doing with my ass?”

“Don’t hate the pretzel. And let’s get back to the issue at hand.”

“Right. We’re trying to find the missing female officer posing as a dealer, and this is where we saw her last.”

“What the hell did you see over day.”

Okay, this was the problem with Rhage. The brother was a tenacious motherfucker—and he actually had spot-on instincts.

Oh, and then there was the ass-slapping fact that V kinda wanted to talk about it. Hey, Rhage’s shellan was a therapist, right? That was halfway to goal.

Not that he was looking to get his head shrunk.

The words came out of his mouth fast: “I dreamt that José de la Cruz’s head got blown off his shoulders.”

The brother rubbed his eyes like they stung. “Butch’s former partner.”

“No, another human with that name in Caldwell—” V put his hand out. “Sorry. I’m being bitchy.”

“It’s okay. You must be freaking out. I mean, what do you do with information like that?”

“And no timeline. None. It could be ten years from now. Or tomorrow night.”

“Or tonight—”

“Holy shit,” V cut in. “It’s that guy.”

Rhage wheeled around and squinted through the darkness. “You’re right. From that thing.”