Page 41 of Unveiled Wounds

The cell door slid open. “Come here and turn around,” the guard said to me. I wasn’t excited about not facing him, but I followed instructions. The fucker wrenched my arm back, pulling at the wound on my side. “You fell. The cameras are off.” He waited a beat and then he said, “Jonathan Barnett, your lawyer is here.”

Chapter 17

Emily to the Rescue

Grizz

The officer led me out of the cell and down the hall, but every time I had to stop at an intersection, he’d kick the back of my boot, forcing me to stumble. If he had just told me which way to turn, it wouldn’t have been a big deal. I would have said nothing, but he’d sealed his fate.

I was prepared for the next time he kicked my boot, and I exaggerated the stumble, looking over my shoulder at his name badge. Officer P. Franklin. I committed it to memory. When I was back in the clubhouse, I’d pay Cyph to look him up. Guaranteed, the fucker was taking bribes.

He made me stop in front of an office door. There was a window, but I couldn’t lean forward to see what I was walking into. It could have been anything, and with my hands cuffed behind my back, I was at a severe disadvantage. The slice on my side was still bleeding. My shirt stuck to my skin as the blood soaked through. I sniffed and scrunched my nose, but when nothing hit my shirt collar, I decided everything was fine. I could still breathe.

The officer stood in front of me. “Take our survey and rate your stay here five stars.”

I said nothing, not wanting to release my inner violent thoughts. I’d already pictured all the ways I was going to get revenge on this pompous asshole. He’d tried to be a big man, but Officer Franklin was a pawn in Diego Lopez’s game against us. I didn’t have the heart to tell him the weak always took the fall for the strong.

“Step in front of the door and turn around.”

I complied, still not able to see through the glass at what lay on the other side. He uncuffed me, and when the door opened, he placed both hands on my back, shoving me into the room.

“I’ll ignore that, but I expect the cameras to be off. We have attorney-client privilege, officer,” a man said, sitting at the head of a table. I would have pegged him for some sort of lumberjack with his bushy red beard. Broad-shouldered, he looked like he could have bench-pressed a few of the smaller brothers and not even break a sweat. The custom-fitted suit said it all–lawyer—but I didn’t know where he had come from. It could have been Sabre, if he had made it back to the clubhouse since he hadn’t stepped outside, but in this place, it could have easily been the cartel.

There was a huff from behind me as the door closed, the lock loudly clicking into place as I picked up my head. Each brother who’d been in the holding cell with me was sitting in an office chair around the table with a fresh expression of horror. I must have looked bad to warrant that type of reaction.

“It looks worse than it is,” I said, trying to reassure them I wouldn’t die soon. I hadn’t forgotten that once I got back to the clubhouse, I was fucking my wife silly.

“Mr. Barnett, thank you for joining us. Take a seat.” He waited until I grabbed the remaining chair. “Now that you’re all here, I’m supposed to tell you, Mr. Hastings, to park the car in theyard when you go get more bleach.” He sat back in the chair with his hands linked over his stomach, waiting.

How said nothing, smiling widely as he waited for the rest of us to catch up, but we didn’t understand the clue like he did. The clock on the wall ticked each second as time seemed to stand still. I was too tired to think about anything else besides the gaping hole in my side.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Slate grumbled.

“I’m starving,” Count said, sliding down further into his chair.

“I’m too pretty for jail, so one of you motherfuckers needs to explain what’s going on.” Pretty leaned his elbows on the table and framed his face, batting his non-existent eyelashes.

How shook his head as he pinched his nose. “Eric!” he said, in his posh accent, two octaves higher. I figured it worked when no one looked confused. Whomever the lawyer was, he was a gift from Emily.

“Now that we’re all on the same page, I’m Duncan Douglas.”

“Double D,” Pretty laughed.

The lawyer ignored him and continued. “You’ve already paid your retainer, so everything you tell me is confidential. However, I suggest you keep your comments to a minimum.” He looked at the blood staining my shirt. “Do you need immediate medical attention?”

“No.” I would rather die than have some dumbass nurse try to fix me. It would be just my luck that I’d catch some flesh-eating bacteria. No, thanks. I would rather bleed out. Once this was over, I’d call Scrub and get him to patch me up.

The lawyer shook his head, mumbling something about a tough son of a bitch. I smirked. If he only knew, but one thing was for sure: I wouldn’t be challenging him to any axe-throwing contests soon.

“Here’s the deal: a group of bikers robbed the liquor store on Elm. They wore black helmets, white t-shirts, and jeans. Soundfamiliar?” The lawyer smirked. “Here’s the problem: the traffic camera caught all of you, in formation, at the red light that’s near the entrance to the medical complex at the same time. Mr. Williams, you’re the only one here who has a record, but it’s not for armed robbery, so they can’t use it against you to establish a pattern. There isn’t one.”

Slate had been on a drug run about twenty years ago when federal agents had overtaken the club. He had had nothing on him, so he’d given himself up as a decoy, letting the other brothers take off. It wasn’t uncommon then for the brothers to outrun the agents, rendezvousing at some safe house to let the heat die down. My father had often been the decoy man, letting his mouth run until he’d been let go. I didn’t miss those days.

“The evidence they supposedly have on all of you won’t hold up, and they know it. If it did, you’d be sitting in that cell for another thirty-six hours. I’ve already negotiated your release, and once you walk out the front door, this will all be behind you. They’re supposed to be working on your paperwork now, but until they knock on the door, you’ll sit in here with me.”

“How long do you think that will be?” I asked, feeling lightheaded.

“Within the hour, but I’ll put pressure on them every fifteen minutes. Before you walk out of here, take off your shirt and clean yourself up. It’s better if you’re shirtless, rather than showing any sign of injury. Did you leave any blood behind?”

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