Page 141 of Jagger's Remorse
"You're quiet," Jagger observes as we cross back into California.
The desert has given way to mountains, then forests.
"Thinking about what comes next."
"Which is?"
My phone rings before I can answer. Unknown number.
"Hello?"
"Scarlett?" A woman's voice, shaky with fear. "It's Tina."
I put her on speaker so Jagger can hear. "You've got some balls calling me."
"I didn't have a choice. They said they'd protect me, but they lied. The FBI, they're using me?—"
"Where are you?"
"Motel 6 off Highway 5. Room 23. Please, I know I fucked up, but I have information. About the prosecutor. She's been watching your club. Watching Digger specifically."
"Why would I care?"
"Because she's not just building a case. She's obsessed. Has pictures of him all over her office. Follows him home. She's going to do something stupid, and when she does?—"
The line crackles with static.
"Tina?"
"Shit, someone's here. I can see headlights. Oh God, I think?—"
A door crashes open. Tina screams. Three shots, rapid succession. Then silence.
"Tina!" I shout.
A new voice comes on. Male. Professional. "Ms. Delgado. We'll leave the laptop. Consider it a professional courtesy. One powerhouse to another."
The line goes dead.
"What the fuck was that?" Jagger demands.
"Someone cleaning house. Or sending a message." I think about the voice. Familiar but disguised. "Call the others. We need to get there now."
We're still an hour out when we reach Poncho, Hammer, and Digger.
Tell them to meet us at the motel.
"Bring cleaning supplies," I add. "This won't be pretty."
The motel is exactly what you'd expect.
Desperate people making desperate choices behind thin walls and cheaper doors.
We approach room 23 carefully, but the door is already cracked open.
The smell hits first—blood, cordite, and death.
"Shit," Digger mutters.
