Page 39 of Johny B

I’m too fired up to go back to my motel room, I’d only sit and stew over what a fucked-up mistake I’ve made. So, I drive over to the factory to see if anyone or anything is going down. Myface now known at the place, no one asks questions if I turn up on my own unexpectedly. Not that there’s usually many hanging around at this ungodly hour. I park up and make my way into the building after punching in the security code.

After walking around for a while, I check over in the loading bay area where they’d unloaded the gear that had been highjacked from the Young Outlaws, but still there’s no one. I find myself at the bottom of the open metal stairs that lead up to where I think Dunne’s office is. The temptation is too much, and I end up taking the rungs two at a time, still checking around that no one is about, until I get to the top. I slip through the unlocked door at the top of the metal gantry and find myself inside a large room that, as suspected, is the office.

Three, four-drawer, gray metal cabinets are lined up against a wall. A large, chipped wooden desk holds center stage with a high-backed swivel chair behind it. Two old wooden kitchen chairs for the menials to sit on the opposite side. Against another wall is an old fabric-covered couch that’s stained, with the inner stuffing escaping from one of the arm seams. It’s well past its best, and one can only guess how rancid it smells if you get too close.

I can safely say that Dunne is not one for extravagances, at least not in this office. Maybe his private space is at the other end of the spectrum.

I make a beeline for the desk first, but all the drawers are locked. When I check the papers scattered on the top of the desk, nothing jumps out. Even the ones weighted down by a large, clear, round paperweight with a real four-leaf clover set in the center of it. I do, however, find what will come in extremely handy. Paperclips.

I straighten on of them out, the other I pull open, but leave the end in a hooked position. Kneeling in front of the desk drawers, I work the lock.

It takes a little time, but eventually I hear the satisfying sound of the lock giving way and the drawers free.

The contents I find inside the drawers themselves don’t give up anything of interest. However, they do hold a set of keys on a silver ring. I take them over to the filing cabinets, checking the individual keys in each lock until one gives way.

The first cabinet that opens yields a multitude of files, each marked with names. Some of which stand out amongst the rest.

My eyes are immediately drawn to three files that, although don’t seem to hold much inside other than a few loose leaves of A4, have my blood boiling.

Colt, Wesson and Smith Gunner. My Prez, Cannon. Mammoth and their brother, Brick. He has eyes on the Florida chapter.

Then I find Ronan Hale and Gabriel Linus Parish, which I do know are Smoke and Stones’ legal names. Jacob Ezra and Savannah Parish, I assume, are Stone’s brother and wife who were tragically killed. Dexter Maine, Kit Blackmore, and a few more that must belong to other members of the Nevada chapter.

This dude is not only looking to bringing down the Nevada chapter but the whole of the Young Outlaws network.

What I find next makes every hair on my body stand on edge. A cold chill rolls over me when I flick open a file with no markings, and my eyes find a collection of pictures. The subject: Scarlett.

Scarlett leaving Velvet Reds. Scarlett walking into the building where she now works. Scarlett drinking in the coffee shop down the street. An image of her car, car registration and make, model and even a picture of the chassis number.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I bite out in quick succession. This bastard knows more than we thought. Smoke’s attempts to keep his daughter’s identity covered have failed, and although it’s not one-hundred percent clear that Dunne has made the connection,it’s likely that he’s put two and two together and come up with the right calculation.

I quickly take shots of the files on my phone, including the one holding pictures of Scarlett, and shoot them over to Mammoth, before checking to see if there’s any paperwork showing plans or information on how they are going to target the MC next.

The sound of distant voices stops me in my tracks and cuts any chance of me delving further into the cabinets. I quickly slot everything back where it came from, wiping any surfaces with the cuff of my jacket. Next, I move back to the desk, placing the keys back, closing all the drawers, and again wiping away any possible fingerprints or evidence that I’ve been snooping.

By the time the voice is right outside the door, I’m laid flat out on the worn couch, the stench clogging my throat with bile, but I push back the urge to vomit and close my eyes, feigning sleep.

The door whooshes open, followed by the rustling sound of moving bodies as they enter the room. But I don’t move a muscle.

“What the fuck?” I hear Mal hiss, followed by the squeak of sneakers moving across the concrete floor in my direction. “Hey, motherfucker.” My body jerks from being pushed hard by what feels like a foot. “Wake the fuck up.”

“Mmm. What?” I open one eye, quickly bringing my hand over to shield my face from the blaring, bright overhead lighting that now illuminates the room. “Oh crap.” I push myself up into a seated position and squint up at Mal. “What time is it?”

“Who cares what fucking time is? What the hell are you doing in my office at stupid o’clock in the morning?” Paddy demands from where he rests with his butt against the side of his desk. I train my gaze on him, but if he’s really pissed, he’s notadvertising it. Nolan is also here, but Rory’s nowhere to be seen, and that makes me twitchy. The twins are always together.

“Sorry Boss, I came in here to find you but when I saw that you weren’t here, I thought I’d stick around and wait.” I try to explain. “Must have crashed out.”

“This is my office, not a fecking B and B.” He growls, finally showing his annoyance at me invading his space. “What’s so fucking important, anyway?”

I stare at him for a few moments. My brain ticks over so fast, trying to come up with a feasible reason, it almost makes me dizzy.

“Truthfully,” I pause, giving myself a few more seconds to decide whether to come up with some bullshit answer, or go down the less complicated route. “I’m fucking bored out of my skull. I’m crawling up the walls in that motel room, so I thought I’d seek you guys out, see if there was anything you wanted taking care of? Break a few bones, smash a few heads?”

“Why is it that you’re still living in that crappy motel? Anyone would think that you’re not planning on staying in Reno.” Mal steps closer, his eyes narrowed, top lip slightly curled.

“You’re right. I need to find a decent place, because I’m here to stay,” just not because of the DVI. Something, or should I say someone else, is the true reason I’m planning to stick around. “But the place is cheap. It’s not like I haven’t been looking, but have you seen what those robbing bastard realtors are asking these days?”

“You know, JB, that is your ‘biker’ name, isn’t it?” My eyes instantly connect with Dunne’s the second he mentions my tag. He taps his clenched fist against the surface of the desk where his hip rests. “I truly believe, that under different circumstances, we would’ve gotten on like a house on fire.” There’s no doubt by the cocky smirk on his face, and the pure delight that radiatesfrom him like a spooky aura, that he knows exactly who I am, but to what extent, I’m not yet sure.

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