Shelter From The Storm (The Bare Bones MC Book 6)(18)
“No,” agreed Slushy, “I don’t ‘like’ those ones. But you get my point. I live life above board, everything out in the open. There’s nothing to see here, just keep on moving.”
I thought the lawyer was protesting too much. Good gracious, Ignatius, he worked for an outlaw MC, not a legit riding club. But maybe compared to the Ochoas, the Bare Bones were ten One Direction members rolled into one.
“So what’s your opinion?” Fox asked. “Wolf and I have to go snoop around there without being seen. Why do you think they’re scoping out Lytton’s farm?”
“I’ve got to say it’s that Gunhammer thing. They want to see what you’ve got that they don’t have. They’re dying for Gunhammer’s backing so they can seem legit, but I’m telling you, if Gunhammer even slightly investigates between the covers over there, he’s going to find some…”
“Unsavory stuff,” repeated Wolf dully.
Fox’s phone chimed then. He held up a forefinger to excuse himself, and he stepped back a ways to read a text. It was then I was able to identify his back piece. It was a verse from Ezekiel that said,
The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyrannies of evil men. Blessed is he, who in the name of charity…
And that was all I was able to read.
Slushy was saying, “I’ll tell you, Wolf. I’m trying to convince Lytton of the value in Gunhammer’s backing. He’ll have a legit and well-known tech tycoon vouching for him, not to mention his dough. The problem comes when pot’s still illegal in the eyes of the feds. That’s the sticky wicket that makes investors in pot startups a bit queasy.”
“Wolf, we’re out of here,” said Fox, putting his phone back in its holder.
In a hot second, Wolf was tossing his green shake into the garbage. “What’re we doing? A stakeout? A ride-along?”
“No. Lytton had a dashboard cam on one of his shipments going down 17 near Camp Verde. There’s been an explosion.”
“Oh boy! An explosion! Is it the Ochoas? They’re sabotaging our shipments of weed now?”
Fox said, “I’ll tell you as we walk to our scoots. Pippa, sorry about the short lesson. Maybe Slushy here can continue it. He must be good at archery, having an office right back there.”
I didn’t anticipate how upsetting it would be, seeing Fox walk off. I chalked it all up to rampaging hormones, but I was really sorry to see him go. It was like he took with him some cloud of oxytocin that my system needed. My body literally craved him.
“Ah, can I get a rain check on that lesson?” Slushy asked me. “I’m late to my Mandarin class. Got to keep up with the tools of the trade! There’s a World Music show later at a club a few blocks up. I like their single malt scotch…”
CHAPTER SEVEN
FOX
Something other than my cock had stirred when I lifted Pippa up to retrieve her arrow.
True, I hadn’t been near any women other than hookers in over a year. Maybe it was just having a fresh, relatively innocent gal in my arms that stoked my sappy, emotional flames. She had an innocent powder scent, especially between her breasts. I could breathe that in, because I’d intentionally twisted her around so we faced each other.
I could have turned her the other way and enjoyed the press of the rise of her butt against my chest, but I really wanted an excuse to brush my face against her cleavage and inhale.
What a f*cking pervert. I was supposed to kill her. Now I was wondering what perfume she wore.
Only a flaming box truck could have wrenched thoughts of Pippa Lofting from my head. That did the f*cking trick. I pulled my Panhead to the shoulder of the pump station access road, Wolf Glaser pulling up behind me. I even removed my shades in awe of the sight. Wolf, walking up to where I straddled my bike, had already removed his. Our jaws hung open.
Wolf said, “This is sure enough a bizarre sight in the middle of this shit.”
Frowning, I glanced sideways at him. “Apocalypse Now?”
He was back to his usual grin. “Yeah. I always wanted to say that.”
Wolf’s attempt at comedy sort of wrenched me from my reverie. Getting off my saddle, I got as close to the burning truck as I dared. The back doors had been flung open. Someone had thrown some kind of incendiary device into the interior to set the boxes of weed alight. Whenever the wind shifted, I’d get a whiff of Lytton’s prize-winning pot full in the face. I certainly didn’t f*cking need that, so I whipped my bandanna into a mask tied at the back of my neck. I replaced my shades so I could get closer.
One burnt driver lay on the passenger side of the road. He was already a crispy critter, and if I stood there any longer, the stench emanating from him would get in my clothes and hair. Out of an ounce of compassion I kicked him onto his face as a way of putting out the flames. The black crust covering his face and chest was probably tar to make the gasoline and gunpowder stick. I glanced inside the cab. Two other drivers had each been shot once through the forehead.
They hadn’t been here to hijack the shipment. They’d been here to destroy it.
The dashboard cam video that Lytton had sent me showed several masked men—they could’ve been Ochoas, who knew?—stopping the truck by the rest stop back a half a mile. Some of them rustled around inside the cab, but ultimately made our driver take this access road so as not to be seen. That was enough for Lytton to call me, and that was all I’d seen. Now I grabbed the dashboard cam to save it from destruction, walking back to stick it in my saddlebag.