Through A Glass, Darkly (The Assassins of Youth MC #1)(41)

Carradine dropped the palsy-walsy attitude now. “I’ve got more than enough already to get Chiles for stockpiling weapons, interstate trafficking, and welfare fraud.”

I opened the small fridge. “You can’t get him on welfare fraud, Carradine. Those women truly are single mothers.”

“If they are literally single mothers, Chiles should be paying them child support.”

I snorted. There was bacon in the fridge, but I didn’t feel like frying any, or cooking eggs. There was a homemade loaf of something. I took that out. It smelled like sourdough. “Chiles would just say he already sort of does pay them child support by giving them homes to live in and stipends to shop for groceries with. He’d get out of it somehow, Carradine.”

“That’s why I’m more interested in the weapons stockpiling angle. My bosses are too. What have you seen in there? Was it in the book bindery? Sources tell me that’s where the shootout occurred last week.”

I sliced into the bread. The pungent aroma drifted into my nostrils. I hadn’t had real sourdough in years. I was going to toast that baby to bring out the flavor. I lied, “All I’ve seen is a few completely legal fifty cal sniper rifles. And no, not in the bindery. I have no idea why you’re so fixated on that.”

“Where’d you see them?”

I turned to face him. “Who’s your source?”

Carradine frowned. “You know, Fortunati, I can just subpoena you. You might not believe in any higher power that forces you to tell the truth under oath. But I’ve got a feeling you’re a true blue son of Uncle Sam.”

I was. I really was. There was nothing in our biker culture that belied a belief in the founding fathers’ credos. If anything, we enforced those beliefs. All for one. One for all. But since I couldn’t honorably give Carradine a single additional shred of intel about Cornucopia, I said, “All I have to do is speed dial Chiles. Since saving his life last week, I’m on his honor roll. I tell him you’re in here, you’ll be lucky to get hustled out at the business end of a tank.”

Carradine held up his hands. “All right, all right. No need to get pissy. I’m going. You know how to get ahold of me.”

“Listen, Carradine. I’m not in Allred Chiles’ back pocket. I’ve got no love lost for the guy myself, and I suspect him of being a wife abuser. But I’m out here to start a new chapter of our club, a new legitimate chapter, and I don’t want anyone messing that up. I’ve got a good gig going. I see no reason to throw a monkey wrench into anything. So split already. People might say we’re in love.”

“All right,” Carradine agreed, reluctantly moving to the door. I was already busy inhaling my piece of sourdough toast. There was a stick of butter in the fridge, but I wanted to eat it plain. Carradine was just irritating me, like a fly buzzing around a room. He turned at the door to face me. “This thing is going to go down whether or not you like it, Fortunati. It’d be best if you and the people you love were coincidentally removed to safe houses before all the shooting started.”

I waved him off, not bothering to see where he went. Someone would see him eventually, know he was out of place, and call Chiles.

Strangely, no one had left me any voicemails the past week wondering where Breakiron was, or anything else of that nature. There were a couple of innocent voicemails, my old roommate Sledgehammer asking me where the electric drill was, Sax telling me Dust Bunny was on his way up, and then Dust Bunny asking some technical, admin-related questions about the mining office. But no one wondering where the f*ck Breakiron was.

Now that I thought about it, he didn’t really have anyone who’d care. He had no old lady, having scared the last one off years ago. He’d been in the club at least as long as I had—in other words, the entire eight years I’d been there—but I’d never noticed any siblings or relatives come by to see him. The fact remained, though, I’d shot him through the throat, even though it was in self-defense. I was going to have to face the music eventually.

I wanted to leave it that way for now. Eventually I’d have to answer for my crime. I wasn’t in Papa Ewey’s good books to start with, and Breakiron had been his Veep, for better or worse. I could have tried to cover it up, to make an excuse, to say Breakiron drove off a cliff or went back East to family. Nobody would dig too deep. But right now, I couldn’t take off, ride back to Bullhead City to sit at the chapel table. Even once I got better, I couldn’t. Time was of the f*cking essence right now, and saving Mahalia and her daughter was my number one priority. Breakiron could have his funeral later. He certainly hadn’t given two shits about mine.

But then I thought. Maybe I should have asked Carradine more questions about when this raid was set to take place. He was right—it’d be handy if I had Mahalia and Vonda out of there before any commando action took place.

I didn’t have time for a f*cking sit-down with Papa Ewey and the rest of the club. They’d need to bring my action to the table, and seeing as how I was already exiled into extremist sect territory, well, who knew what the outcome would be. But I was literally stuck in that cottage, and I was praying that the second I got out, it would be to take Mahalia and Vonda with me.

I was doubtful it’d be safe to just bring them to my house. Even though a safe house would be a good idea, if it meant collaborating with the feds it would be a convenience I couldn’t afford. I’d heard too many stories of Cornucopians dragging women screaming back to the compound. It was ironic how they threw away men and boys, yet had to drag women back fighting them all the way.