Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 56314 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 282(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56314 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 282(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
Indy’s face went white. “Isaac, Irish, Tex . . .” Her eyes were widened with a sudden realization.
It took me a moment before it hit me like a freight train.
I’d been so concerned about telling Indy about the Talia Bennett story I had completely missed the connection.
First, Isaac had been murdered.
Then Tex.
And then Irish.
Was there a connection between their deaths and Talia’s death almost ten years ago?
Or were we clutching at straws here and this was mere coincidence?
How did Mirabella fit into it?
And Freebird?
I looked at Indy, she had gone very still.
“How did Talia die?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I woke up the next morning when the cops banged on the club door. Said a young girl had fallen from the water tower.” I squashed down the memory of seeing the white sheet and the form of a body beneath it when we had ridden out to the watermelon fields. “There was some talk about it being a homicide, but they never got anyone for it.”
“Do you think any of the guys had something to do with it?” Indy asked. She was frowning, but other than that, it was hard to gauge her reaction.
“I spoke to Isaac. He swore they had nothing to do with it. Said they’d partied and he had passed out on the sofa. Next thing he knew, the cops were banging on the door.”
I can’t make you leave, but if you stay, you’ll be making a huge mistake.
“You need to speak to Jacob,” Indy said. She picked up my cell off the nightstand and held it out to me. “And you need to call him now. Find out how Mirabella fits into all of this.”
But before I could make the calls, my cell phone buzzed in my hand. It was Caleb.
“You need to get down to St. Gabriel’s now,” he said. “Jacob just went under a truck.”
INDY
The human body can endure great trauma— but not the trauma of falling under an eighteen-wheeler.
Jacob was pronounced dead on arrival at St. Gabriel’s.
Using my staff access, I was able to get us into the ER where we spoke to the Head of Trauma, a highly-strung young buck by the name of Craig Malone.
“He can’t be back here,” Craig said, indicating to Cade.
“We’ve got a couple of questions about the fatal motorcycle versus a truck,” I said. “He was one of Cade’s friends.”
“They could’ve been twins for all I care—like I said, he can’t be back here.”
I bit my tongue.
“Listen, I know it’s not protocol having him back here, and I understand your attitude toward the MC because of who you think they are—”
“On the contrary, he and his buddies are great for business.”
I decided to ignore him and adopted a more diplomatic approach. I placed a gentle hand on his arm.
“Please, I just need to know what happened.”
He sighed, resigned to answering our questions. He looked at Cade and then back to me. “Paramedics spoke to eyewitnesses at the scene. Said he just laid his bike down and skidded into an oncoming truck.”
I couldn’t help but flinch.
“So this is a suicide?” I asked.
Craig didn’t give it another thought. He picked up a file and started to walk away. “Don’t see how it could be anything else.”
He was right. It would be pretty hard to time that kind of assassination.
Maybe this time it really was suicide.
Or maybe—just maybe—the assassin was a lot better than we thought.
CADE
Still in a state of shock over Jacob, Bull and I rode to Parchman Farm, the Mississippi State Penitentiary, to visit with Churchill. I was a little surprised he agreed to talk to us. But then again, prison could be a fucking boring place.
Churchill was a scary looking motherfucker. But it wasn’t his size that was intimidating because he was relatively short and small, and I towered over him in height and width. And it wasn’t the way he spoke which was intimidating, because he was quietly spoken and had an almost slow, sleepy cadence to his voice. It also wasn’t the way he held himself, because his mannerisms were calm and still, almost unassuming and Zen-like.
No. What was scary about Churchill—the president of the Southern Sons MC—were his coal black eyes. They were cold. Dead cold. Like the empty stare of a great white shark.
When Bull and I sat on the other side of the glass from him, he fixed those demon eyes on us and I felt that look all the way through to my bones. Chilling motherfucker. Bull pulled off his dark glasses and it was like a damn stare-off between the freaky-eyed kids. Churchill with his satanic-black eyes, and Bull with his bright, otherworldly blue eyes. It was a silent throw down between the two presidents of rival motorcycle clubs to see who could out intimidate the other.
Me. I didn’t have fucking time to worry about anything other than finding out if Churchill had any information about the attack on the Kings of Mayhem. And if I had to break down the glass between us and rip the information out of his throat, then I was prepared to do it.