Page 38 of Scotch: Unraveled

“I didn’t join this club to be told what I can and cannough do.” I start for my truck again.

“Ya also didn’t join this club to deal with shit alone. Blue, Crass—yer on ’im. Lock ’im down if ya must. Ain’t wasting time bailing brothers outta jail while we’re trying ta mount a rescue.” Duke’s words are law and the next thing I know, Blue and Crass jog up to my side. They both mount their bikes while I pile back inside my truck, wishing like fuck that I had my bike because I need to ride.

Before I can think better of it, I turn in the direction of the Sheriff’s Department. It doesn’t take but ten minutes to get there and with my brothers at my back, I walk inside. I’m not stupid. It takes a great deal of strength, but Duke was right. I won’t do the lasses any good if I’m in jail. Before I hit the waiting area I breathe in slow-like, letting it go slower, to calm myself down. It’s a damn good thing I do, too as all heads turn to look at us when we enter. But I don’t give any of ’em a second glance, dead set on talking to the man himself. Murmurs rise in the air as I approach reception.

“I’m looking for Rodrick,” I tell the lass behind the desk. “He in?”

“Deputy Rodrick is in back. Let me call him. One moment, please.” Then she picks up the phone, presses a button, and waits. I hear it ring through the receiver. I know he picks up because she tells him, “There’s someone out front to see you.” After she hangs up, she tells us to take a seat.

My brothers and I drop into a set of uncomfortable wooden chairs lined against a wall opposite the desk to wait. Business carries on around us, though we continue to get looks. And the jacknut keeps us waiting forever. My leg bounces a mile a minute. I run my hands through my hair for the fiftieth time when Crass asks, “You wanna tell us now what we’re doin’ here? Already got Tommy on the case.”

“It was Rodrick. He took my family.”

“So you march into his house to confront him? Is that smart? You got proof?” He pulls a smoke from the pack in his hand but doesn’t light it because there’s no smoking inside the building. He taps it on the pack instead.

“He’s not wrong,” Blue chimes in. “Be smart, brother. Unless you got something Tommy don’t, let’s get proof before we confront him.”

“Listen, if yar scared, then get the fuck out. I didn’t ask ya here.”

Crass shoots Blue a look, but neither of ’em moves to go. Finally, I see the fucker walk out of an office. There’s a second man with him. They shake hands and the man turns to leave. Rodrick catches my glare and doesn’t make a move in our direction until that other man leaves. Only then does he saunter up to the desk. The brothers and I stand. And with them at my back, I make my approach. “My family’s missing. Where are they?” I demand to know.

“Did they go missing within the city limits? If so, then I’m afraid that’s TPD jurisdiction. I’d be happy to call down for ya,” he answers in a tone that couldn’t be more patronizing if he tried. I ball my hands to keep from reaching out to grab him by this throat.

“Where are they?” I ask again, losing patience.

“I’m sure I don’t know, seein’ as I been in meetings all day, but if you wanna make a report, I’ll be happy to call around, see what I can find out.” He raises an eyebrow at me like he thinks he’s won. Crass and Blue step to my back, each taking a side.

Then Crass leans in and murmurs, “Lock it down or we lockyoudown.”

Right.

And that’s when my phone rings at the same time as my brothers’ phones. It’s Tommy Doyle on mine. “Whatcha got?” I ask.

Blue and Crass crowd me.

“The prints got a match,” Tommy says. “The guy’s name is Ray Turnbull. He also goes by—”

“Bull,” I finish for him, gritting my teeth. “Fucking Horde.”

12.

Frankie

Every bone, muscle, tendon, and bit of cartilage in my body hurts more than I ever imagined I could hurt. Only one of my eyes opens enough to see out of; the other throbs, so completely swollen I couldn’t pry it open if I tried. Nausea fills my belly and I can only turn my head enough before I puke to not get it down the front of me.

I can’t see Brighton or the babies.

My whole body shakes as I shove up to a sitting position. Putting even the slightest pressure on my left wrist brings fresh tears to my eyes and I pull it back, cradling it against my body. I’m positive it’s broken. That’s when I see the blood in my vomit, but although concerning, I can’t be bothered by it right now. I need to find my girls. And it wasn’t my fault, per se, but Brighton only got dragged into this mess because of my association with the Lords. What else could it be?

The nausea comes back as I force myself to stand, still hunched over, because every time I try to make it to my full height, my breathing sputters and sharp lightning bolts of pain shoot through my system. I’ve never had broken ribs before and I’m no doctor, but it seems pretty plausible to believe there are a few broken ones now.

Slowly, I’m forced into a sort of limp-drag of my right foot, the only way for me to escape the corner our attacker dumped me in. Using the wall to steady myself, I make it to a flimsy wooden door, twisting the handle, expecting it to be locked. It’s not locked. The door doesn’t just look flimsy; it feels cheap and hollow and thankfully doesn’t take too much effort to push open, revealing an expansive room, dark in this corner. An ugly, garish orange light shines in the opposite side of the room—the side where the noise comes at me from. Not the noises from crying babies or a scared friend, but the murmur of low voices, maybe two. And the most god-awful burning chemical smell fills the entire space.

Oh god, my brain keeps thinking as my eyes blink continuously while I attempt to hold back the retching. If it didn’t hurt so much to move and I didn’t need my left hand to guide me along the metal wall, I’d use it to cover my nose and mouth.

Eventually, I have to push off the wall, seeing as the way is blocked by an overly large crate. The crate’s lid sits askew, leaving the—well, seeing as I don’t know much about guns, I have no idea if these are automatic or semiautomatic—but there has to be a whole lot of them in a crate this size and looking around the room, there have to be at least fifty of these same-size crates. Without looking inside each, I can’t know if they all contain guns, but I’m going to go with they do.

So I’m probably in a warehouse. A warehouse full of guns plus a burning chemical smell. I’ve watched enough cop shows to figure they’re probably cooking drugs in here. What kind of drugs get cooked? Meth, right? That’s one of the big ones?

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