Page 44 of Devil's Due: Sarge

Vlad’s eyes grow hard. “They hurting her?”

“Physically—no,” I reply. “But they’re forcing this marriage on her.”

“Marriage?” Cutter asks. “What the fuck? We suddenly living in the 1800s?”

I shift in my seat, rubbing my hand over the back of my neck. “He’s some jacknut who buys stolen art. I guess he took a shine to her, thinks she’s hot—”

“She is hot,” Dark says, cutting in.

With my jaw clenched, I shoot him a well-practiced,Will you shut up?look. He shrugs. “What? She is.”

“Iknow. She’s also smart and has a degree in art history and conservation. Her stepdad doesn’t give a shit about her. What gets him hard is how lucrative this merger will be for the family.” I shoot up from the chair pacing, feeling like a caged animal. Ready to attack, to kill. Then I turn my narrowed eyes on Vlad. “She’s not marrying anyone butme.” I must look like an animal too, with my nostrils flaring as I jab my thumb at my chest onme.

He nods once. He gets me. It’s not like I’m talking in code here, but he gets me. Gets what she means to me. “We’ll get her back, brother,” he says. “How do you want to play this?”

“She hasn’t said so, but I’m thinking that they probably live in some kind of gated community.”

“This neck of the woods,” Reap says, “makes sense.”

“I think we scope out the neighborhood to find all our entry and exit points—get comfortable with them. Then I think Vlad and I stroll up to the front door and tell them the truth. They’ve taken something that belongs to the Horde. They give her back, we leave and they don’t see us again. Try to keep us from her, we bring the full weight of the club down on them.”

“What if it turns hostile?” Vlad takes a drink of his beer, then sets the bottle down harder than necessary. He’s feeling this too… Of course, he is. He feels responsible for Greer. His woman is Greer’s best friend.

“I’m going into this assuming hostilities. They kidnapped her. How will it end peacefully?”

The brothers give rounds of agreement.

“What if they won’t give her up?” Roughneck asks.

“We call in the Lords,” Vlad answers for me. “They’ll come. We saved their women; they’ll help save ours. And if they’re not enough, we’ll see who else we can bring in, though I don’t think it’ll come to that.”

Reaper raps his knuckles to the table. “Then let’s do this.”

Right.

The brotherhood.

This is what club life is supposed to be about.

We break, half of us heading to gather what we’ll need from a local military supply shop and the other to rent a higher-scale SUV. If we plan to scout out the area, we need to be less conspicuous.

Our last stop, and god help me, I never thought I’d ever do this, the brothers and I drop a ton of cake on ridiculously expensive clothing that I’m certain none of us will ever wear again. Four-hundred-dollar polo shirts don’t really work with the biker life. Some of us wear blazers and long pants—the brothers with the most tattoos to hide. As mine are mostly located on my chest and back, I walk out of themen’s boutique—yes, in south Florida, men have boutiques—in twill shorts, a pastel pink polo and boat shoes. I feel ridiculous.

“Ready to go yachting, gents?” I ask in a horrible fake British accent. The brothers roar with laughter.

Reconnaissance during the daytime means fitting in with the locals. A group of tatted-up bikers wouldn’t get far in this neighborhood, but as I walk around casing the area, I get head nods. They recognize quality. They recognize money. Anyone who can drop two-grand on these labels’ fits—no, more than that—belongs. I’m allowed to move through the parks and down the streets without raising questions despite the fact that I look like I was on the losing end of fist fight with a semi.

I’m living proof that in this neighborhood, they only see the labels, not the person underneath. Greer must’ve been so goddamn lonely growing up here.

Once we’re confident on the ins and outs of the neighborhood—and yes, Greer’s family lives within a gated community—Vlad and I change back into our jeans, tees and most prominently, our biker cuts. He and Dark loan me clothing that actually fits. Jeans from Vlad – Vlad’s bigger on top than me or Dark – and a black tee from Dark. There’re a hundred reasons why he got the name Dark, one of which comes from the fact that every piece of clothing he owns is black or dark navy.

Reaper loans me his bike. We’re a presence just the two of us, Vlad and me. We rumble up to the gate, stopped by the security guard. He’s no rent-a-cop. This motherfucker is large, ripped and carrying, making sure to let us see he’s packing heat. He’s the kind of guy who intimidates, just not us. Vlad and I have gone up against worse. Hell, I took on the Devil’s Hangmen alone.

“I think you’re in the wrong neighborhood,” he says to us.

I laugh. “Nah, we’re exactly where we need to be,” I answer in a way that he knows I mean business. “Need to speak with Andrew Broadchurch.”

“I don’t think—” he tries to say.

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