Author: Dustin Stevens
Category: Suspense
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/dustin-stevens/page,13,565390-office_visit.html
Pausing a moment, Morgan focuses on her words. He hones in on the message she’s relayed, superimposing it on the situation at hand. For the first time, he feels a bit of understanding seep in, clarifying at least one of the emotions he’s experiencing.
Even if it does nothing for the animosity he feels for the woman across from him.
“And they’re going to finish things?”
“They will,” Teller replies.
“And in return?”
A whisper of a smile flashes across the woman’s face. “I’ve promised to give them something they really want.”
What that might be, what possible thing she might have extended their way without prior authorization, Morgan doesn’t want to truly speculate at. All he really wants is for the meeting to end, for the woman to be out of his office and on her way.
“Which is?”
“Which is Clady.”
Opening his mouth to respond, already suspecting he won’t like whatever she’s about to say, Morgan pulls up short. His voice falls away as he considers the notion.
Offering them Clady eases things for them tremendously. It creates a storm of confusion around the various players, enough to keep anybody that might come sniffing focused elsewhere, completely overlooking their own involvement in things. It won’t just work, it is nothing short of brilliant.
Even if he will never bring himself to say as much to Teller.
“And they’ve agreed?” he asks.
This time, the smile that appears is larger, hints of wicked vindictiveness appearing around the edges. “All too readily. I would not want to be Fran Ogo or Kyle Clady right about now.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
For the first time in as long as Ringer can remember, certainly since he took over for the Wolves, the Den has closed early. Gone are the ladies that lined the bar just an hour before, taking with them any hints of humor or frivolity in the air. Without them, all that remains are more than a dozen members of the club, each sporting the colors, circled up around the corner table.
Some stand with their forearms across their chest. Others sit backward on their chairs, hands draped over the wooden supports.
To the man, everyone looks to be somewhere between somber and pissed.
Shifting his gaze from the men gathered around to the only two sitting at the table with him, Ringer takes in Gamer and Byrdie. The former sits with a scowl on his face, his hands resting on the table, the middle knuckle on his right hand busted, a tendril of blood snaking down the length of his finger. His eyes narrowed into slits, he is angry, sweat droplets dotting his scalp.
Beside him, Byrdie looks like he’s been through hell. The entire right side of his face is pink and puffy, promising some hellacious bruising by morning. Streaks of blood radiate out from an open wound on his cheek, the underlying bone looking dented and misshapen. The side of his mouth looks like he tried to eat a sea urchin whole.
“What the hell happened?” Ringer asks.
Meeting his gaze for a moment, Byrdie immediately looks away. It is no secret that the two haven’t always been on the best of terms, the smaller man feeling the head post was his for the taking and unjustly stolen from him. For as much lingering animosity might exist, though, Ringer can tell this isn’t because of that.
Whatever exists between the two, Byrdie is a good soldier, and Ringer will fight any man that says otherwise.
This appears to be something more, hinting to the fact that right now, the man simply can’t speak. His face is distorted and disheveled, looking like he was on the wrong end of a severe beating.
“Gamer?” Ringer asks, shifting his focus slightly.
“They weren’t alone,” Gamer replies, his voice close to a growl as he raises his gaze to Ringer.
“They?”
“The women,” Gamer replies. “The one we were there for, and another one. Younger, might have been a daughter or something.”
Ringer has no interest in who the other woman was. He is more focused on the first part of Gamer’s comment, and what happened to his deputy sitting before him.
“Who were they?”
“Don’t know,” Gamer replies. “Two of them. One big, one smaller.”
Feeling his eyes narrow, Ringer says, “Like you two?”
“No,” Gamer replies. “These two were mismatched. The big guy was soft. Looked like a banker or a lawyer or something. Went down before I even touched him.”
“Hmm,” Ringer says. He leans back in his seat, folding one arm across his chest while raising the other to his chin and rubbing at his whiskers.
The woman hadn’t really said who the target was. All she’d mentioned was that it was the second half of a job Linc had taken and that someone had intervened. Depending on why these people were wanted dead, it wasn’t hard to imagine a banker or lawyer being involved.
“Which means the other guy, he was the muscle?” Ringer puts together. He flicks his gaze to Byrdie, seeing the man lower his head, refusing to meet his gaze, before looking back to Gamer.
“I don’t know that I’d call him the muscle,” Gamer replies. He flashes his hand to Ringer, showing him the smear of blood, before adding, “His ass went flying pretty good when I showed up.”
Again, Ringer grunts in response. The scenario isn’t too hard to put together. Byrdie had most likely gotten there first. He’d either gotten too worked up and took off, or he’d just been a lot faster than his portly partner. Either way, he’d arrived, and promptly had his ass handed to him.
The guy doing it probably hadn’t even known Gamer was there, too consumed with working Byrdie over, and the big man had landed a sucker punch.
It happens. No such thing as a fair fight.
“Professional?” Ringer asks.
“Dunno,” Gamer replies. “Pretty compact, dressed in black.”
“Military?”
Gamer lifts both his hands, flashing his palms toward the ceiling before letting them fall back into place. “Could be. Right age. Hard to say.”
Again, Ringer nods. In a town like San Diego, active duty and vets alike seem to be crawling from the woodwork, some of the men around him having even spent time in uniform.
“And the women?” he asks.
This time, it is Gamer’s turn to look away. “We didn’t get a chance to finish things. Just got the hell out of there.”
Judging by the looks of Byrdie, Ringer took that to mean that Gamer had scraped his ass off the floor and gotten away while they still had the chance. For as great as the big man is in a scrap, he is definitely more of a complementary piece. If things go sideways, or there is any call for fleet action, he is not the one to be spearheading it.
Though, to his credit, at least he is smart enough to realize it.
Remaining silent, Ringer continues to work at his chin, contemplating the situation. This new development changes things for sure. It takes it from needing to finish a single job into something resembling an open war. Who it is with or over what, he doesn’t know just yet, but that doesn’t change the need to be acting on it.
Anything else would appear weak, and that is something the Wolves cannot abide.
“Okay,” he says eventually, his gaze averted as he continues to think things through. “I want a couple of men on that house at all times. Watch everyone coming and going, report back to me if either one of these guys shows back up.”
He doesn’t add the part about one of them likely being responsible for Linc. His guys would already be hungry for retribution over Byrdie getting beaten to a pulp. Adding in the death of a brother would make it almost too much to control.
“In the meantime, let me get that bitch back on the phone. It’s time to go hunting.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
I know the cadence of the walk the instant it appears at the opposite end of the hallway. Short, choppy steps hitting in even intervals, there is no mistaking the sound as I step out of the room, leaving Hiram’s side for the first time since we arriv
ed. Sliding into the hallway, I pull the door shut behind me, the sounds of his heart rate monitor falling away behind me.
Replaced only by the determined strides of Angelique.
Dressed in jeans and a sweater, her purse looped over her left forearm, she comes straight at me. Her lips are pressed tight together, her eyes bulging, anger pressing so hard to the surface it threatens to make her face explode.
At the sight of me, she extends one finger before her, wagging it in earnest. “What? What did I tell you?”
I know better than to say a word. Just as if it was my own mother staring me down, I have no choice but to take the coming fury in silence.
Closing the gap between us, she raises her right hand beside her. She swings it back well past her shoulder, ready to turn her body into a whip, smacking me with everything she has, before seeing the side of my face.
Most of the blood is gone, but the bruising is clear, and only bound to get worse. The jagged ends of stitches stand out against my skin, causing her to reverse course, pulling her hand back mid-slap to cover her mouth. There she stands for a full moment, the color, the anger, visibly retreating from her face.
When finally she is able to speak, she asks, “Is he okay?”
“He is,” I manage. “Doctor said it was an acute anxiety attack. They have him sedated, he’s resting now.”
Maintaining her post in the center of the hallway, Angelique looks from me to the closed door behind me.
“You can go in,” I say. “I only pulled it shut so we didn’t wake him.”
Keeping her gaze on the door, I can see the stages pass in a sequence. The first is sympathy, a mother concerned for her youngest – and only remaining – child. The second is a bit of resolve, a deep breath that resonates, reminding her there is more to be done first. And finally, determination.
“Not yet,” she says, dragging her gaze from the door back to me. “Are you okay?”
I nod. “Just a scratch.”
“I doubt that,” she replies, sarcasm apparent, the comment exactly what Mira would say if she was standing in front of me right now. Turning to the side, she takes a couple of steps to the row of visitor chairs lining the wall. She drops her bag down on the right end of the trio before sinking herself into the middle one, the padding beneath her letting out a low wheeze of air.
Extending a hand, she pats the last remaining chair. “Sit.”
Doing as told, I cross the bright white tile and drop into the chair, the pad beneath me making the same sound it had for Angelique. Putting my attention on the wooden door across from us, I let my eyes glaze over, the dimmed lights making it easy to drift back, to pull up as much of what happened as I can remember.
Starting with my call to Mallory this morning, I run through everything as quick as being thorough will allow. I describe looking through Mira’s computer and finding the address to calling Hiram and asking for him to come and act as translator. No matter how much I want to finesse what happened at the Ogo’s, I leave out not a single detail as I outline what transpired, telling her everything save the minute or two in the middle, which is nothing more than a bright flash of light followed by darkness.
Start to finish, it takes me almost five full minutes to relay the entire story. When I am done, Angelique takes an equal amount of time to digest everything, working through her thoughts in silence.
As she does, a pair of nurses happens by, each looking as if they might ask if we need anything before seeing our expressions and thinking better of it. Otherwise, the hall is ours, the overnight ward quiet and empty, a group of non-serious issues that will likely be discharged in the morning.
“Any idea who the men were?” Angelique eventually asks, her voice detached.
Giving my head a shake, I say, “Nothing beyond the vests they were wearing.”
“Mmm,” she grunts softly. “I’ve seen these Wolves out in our end of town before. Bad news."
The information is thin, and blatantly obvious, but it still means she’s had more personal contact with them than I have. Prior to seeing the tattoo of the man who shot my wife, I’d heard nothing more than stories of them, popping up around here as footnotes whenever trouble breaks out in the area.
“Yeah,” I agree.
Nodding slightly, she remains quiet another moment before extending a hand my way. She rests it on my forearm and says, “I know I told you this once before, but allow me to be a bit clearer this time. If anything else should happen, and I mean anything, you call me.”
Her fingernails flash white as she presses down on my skin, squeezes my arm in her hand. “Do not involve my son in any more of this stuff.”
Maintaining her grip another moment, her hand begins to tremble from exertion.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Slowly, she releases the tension, color returning to her fingertips. “He doesn’t have the constitution that you or Mira have. He isn’t built for this.”
Already I’m starting to wonder whether I’m actually built for this anymore. Just over half a week has passed, and already I’ve been shot, my hand is aching, and the side of my face is swollen and stitched together. And I still have no idea who killed my wife or why.
Not that any of that means I’ll be stopping anytime soon.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Raising her fingers slightly, Angelique pats my arm. She leaves it there a moment before pulling it back to her lap, both of us falling silent.
“So where does this leave us?” she whispers.
For the last hour, ever since leaving the Ogo house, I’ve been pondering that very question. “Couple of different things. First, like you said, is the Wolves.”
“Right,” Angelique says. She doesn’t bother pointing out I should be careful, both of us knowing that is secondary to doing whatever we need to moving forward.
“And the second,” I say, “is the women.”
“The women?” Angelique says, her eyebrows rising slightly as she turns to look my way.
“The Ogo’s. The two that I went to go meet with, that Mira had been talking to.”
“Right,” Angelique says, her head rocking back slightly in understanding. “Them.”
“Yeah,” I say, turning to face her. “So whenever you’re ready, I figured we could start there.”
Keeping her gaze locked on the far wall, she remains silent a moment before rolling her face my direction. “What do you mean?”
“I mean there was no way I was leaving them at that house alone after what happened. They’re waiting downstairs in the cafeteria with my friends Jeff and Emily as soon as we’re up for it.”
The top of the picnic table I was sitting on had been in place since I’d moved in three years before. Far from new even at that time, the wood had faded to an even shade of grey, splinters and ridges worn smooth from years of use and exposure to the elements.
I could feel that very thing against the backs of my legs as I sat atop it, the warmth of the early summer sun having preheated the wood to a comfortable temperature, keeping me warm as the last few rays of daylight fought a losing battle with the horizon.
My eyes pinched up tight against the glare, I sat and stared out, my elbows resting on my knees, hands hanging down between them. Behind my stare were a thousand thoughts, all of them fighting for supremacy, my mind grabbing hold of one and considering it for just an instant before it was pushed aside, something equally pressing fighting to the fore.
So lost in thought, I hadn’t heard the door from my kitchen open, hadn’t even heard Mira’s flipflops slapping against the porch floor as she made her way to me. Not until her hand rested on my shoulder was I aware she was there, a spectral being seeming to materialize from nowhere.
“Hey there,” she said, keeping a hand on my shoulder as she leaned a hip against the side of the table. Turning her attention to the last gasps of the sunset, she said, “I was going to ask what you were doing out here, but now I know. Pretty.”
“Hmm,” I replied, pr
essing my hands into the table on either side of me. Using them for leverage, I lifted my backside a couple of inches and moved over, making room for her beside me.
Better dressed for the weather in stretch pants and a pullover, she slid up on the spot. “Ooh, toasty,” she commented, watching the last bits of the sun disappear from sight before turning to look my direction. On her cheeks were the dying gasps of dusk, her hair pulled back.
“So serious,” she said, giving me a once-over. “Everything okay?”
Matching her gaze for just an instant, I turned back toward the horizon. My mind spinning, I opened my mouth to begin, unable to form a response.
“Oh-kay,” she said, “let me guess. You’re sad about graduating next week?”
The thought had never even entered my mind, and we both knew it. I’d loved my time in Corvallis, but sitting through class was pretty even with getting a root canal on my list of preferred ways to spend a morning.
Smiling slightly, I shook my head.
“No?” Mira said. “Okay, you’re nervous about heading to the College World Series tomorrow?”
This one was a much better guess than the previous one, though I’d been playing baseball for almost twenty years. It was our third World Series appearance in four years. I was beyond getting nervous.
“Not that either, huh?” Mira surmised. “You’re trying to think about how you’ll explain to everybody that your girlfriend won a national title and you didn’t if things don’t go to plan in Omaha?”
Unable to stop myself, I let out a single sound, a laugh that was equal parts squawk and guffaw. Turning to her, I smiled, the look lingering for just a moment before fading slightly.
“I got a call a little bit ago.”
Matching the look, Mira said, “You got a call? From who?”
Once more, I opened my mouth to respond, the words eluding me as I turned back to face forward.
“Okay, you want me to guess again,” Mira said. Leaning forward she slid a hand up over my shoulder, resting her cheek against it, her touch warm in the cooling air. “Pizza Hut lost your order. It’s going to be another twenty minutes.”