Code of Honor

Chapter Two

Senator Franklin Russo walked the last guest down the spacious central hall to the front door of his estate in Idaho Falls. His assistant held out a long sable coat for the doyen of the county, a widow who wielded the power her money could buy with the cold indifference of a threshing machine. Whoever was unfortunate enough to stand in the path of her plan to put a man worthy of God and country in the White House was destined to be mown down. Fortunately for him, he was that man.

“I’m so glad you could come tonight, Eleanor.”

Eleanor Bigelow smiled at him thinly and turned her back so Russo’s deferential assistant, a thirty-year-old man in a conservative navy blazer, charcoal pants, and narrow red-striped tie, could drape the coat over her shoulders. “I know how busy you are, Franklin, and I’ve been wanting a moment with you for some time. It’s always wise to know what my money is buying.”

Franklin kept his expression bland, reminding himself that once he sat in the Oval Office, no one would own him. The power would be his. Until then, he would ingratiate himself as need be. He had his own resources and his campaign coffers were healthy, but some expenditures he couldn’t afford to have made public. Private benefactors rarely demanded an exact accounting of how their funds were spent. Knowledge might be power, but it was also culpability, and the rich coveted the illusion of clean hands. The language of politics was less what was said and more what was implied and inferred, and he had understood Mrs. Charles Bigelow quite well. She expected her candidate to put a gun back in every house, God in every school, and the white elite in every position of power. Since he happened to agree, he wasn’t worried about placating her need to exercise her authority, at least on the surface.

He bowed ever so slightly. “You can be sure I’ll see that your generosity is put to use in support of an agenda—”

“You can save the speech for the campaign, Franklin. Just see that Washington doesn’t give away what’s left of the country, and put the power back in the hands of those who know what to do with it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Franklin said solicitously. “I surely will.”

Franklin stood in the doorway, the brightly lit, expansive hall decked out in holiday trimmings at his back, until the limo driver hurried up the path from the driveway to escort his employer to the idling Town Car. Snow drifted into Franklin’s face and coated his shoulders, but he didn’t move until Bigelow departed. Then he dusted off his black cashmere jacket and stepped back inside.

Derrick was waiting. “I take it the meeting was a success?”

“She’s promised us three million. For starters.”

“Merry Christmas,” Derrick murmured softly. He nodded toward the paneled door of Franklin’s study across the hall. “Can I pour you a drink?”

“I’d say this calls for one.” Franklin frowned. “Where’s my wife?”

“She retired some time ago.”

“Of course.” Franklin followed Derrick into the study and settled behind his broad desk. His wife managed to perform her hostess duties out of some long-ingrained sense of decorum, a virtue of her Southern upbringing, but she was barely able to do much more. With every passing week, she became more of a liability than a benefit. Idly he wondered which would create a more sympathetic figure in the voters’ eyes—a widower or a devoted husband to an infirm wife. Powell had certainly gotten a lot of mileage out of his widower status, and the absence of a first lady had given Powell the excuse to push his degenerate daughter onto the national stage. “Pour one for yourself.”

“Thank you, sir,” Derrick said, handing Franklin two fingers of scotch in a crystal rock glass and holding up a glass of his own. “To a victorious campaign.”

“To winning.” Franklin drained the whiskey in one long swallow. He had ten months until all his plans paid off, but he didn’t intend to wait that long to take care of Andrew Powell.

*

Loren noticed the redhead the instant she stepped into the bar. At three in the morning, the only people in the place should have been club members, their old ladies, and hopefuls, girls hoping to become somebody’s old lady. The redhead looked too confident and too high-class to be a hopeful, unlike the two girls in skimpy halters and jeans cut so low their pubic hair would’ve shown if they hadn’t shaved it all off who were slouched in a couple of battered chairs, sleeping off too much booze or too much sex or both. Nobody was behind the bar, but the redhead had a whiskey glass in front of her.

Realizing her steps had slowed as she took in the redhead’s shoulder-length waves, smooth creamy complexion, sharp green eyes, and killer body, Loren averted her gaze and followed Quincy toward the hallway that led to the club rooms in the back.

Quincy stopped next to the redhead, and Loren pulled up behind him.

“You lost?” Quincy said.

The redhead swiveled on the stool, her long slender legs, encased in tight blue jeans, crossed at the knee and ending in shiny black leather boots with four-inch heels. Her leather jacket was open down the front, exposing a tight, scooped-neck turquoise T-shirt and no bra. She had nice breasts, just the right size. She had hot and sexy written all over her. Loren yanked her gaze up and saw the redhead watching her look.

Quincy tapped her chin with his fingertip and repeated, “Lost, sweetheart?”

“I don’t think so,” the redhead said in a throaty voice, finally giving him a slow smile. “I saw the bikes out front. I love bikes. Bikers too.”

“The place is closed,” Quincy said.

“The door was open.”

“Look, honey—”

A gravelly rumble from the far end of the room said, “Let her stay. She brightens up the place. Nice change of scenery.”

Loren, Quincy, and Armeo shifted in the direction of the club president. Ramsey slouched in the door, his muscled arms folded across his leather vest, the black T-shirt underneath tucked into broken-in jeans. His wide black belt sported a buckle with the club’s logo on it—an American flag with wings. His wedding ring glinted on his left hand. His eyes glinted at the babe at the bar. Looked like the Prez had already staked out his territory, and Loren registered a flush of anger that she quickly brushed aside. None of her business who the president chose to bounce with.

Quincy started forward again, and Loren fell into step next to him.

The redhead murmured, “See you later,” and Loren could’ve sworn she was talking directly to her.

They all filed into the club room, and the heavy wooden doors swung closed behind them. All the voting members were there: Ramsey—the president, Quincy—the VP, Armeo—the treasurer, Loren—exact description still open, but procurer was probably the best term, and Griffin—the enforcer. They all settled around the table in traditional order, with Ramsey at the head, Quincy at his left, Griffin to his right, then Loren across from Armeo. Ramsey pulled a cigar from the inside pocket of his black leather vest, bit off the end, spat it unerringly into the dented wastebasket leaning in the corner, and lit it with a silver Zippo. He drew in, savored the smoke, and exhaled slowly. His gaze moved over Loren and Armeo and landed on Quincy. “Everything all right tonight?”

Quincy said, “No problems.”

“Terms?”

Quincy relayed the particulars of the meeting and the agreed-upon price. Ramsey nodded in satisfaction.

“Are we going to have any trouble filling the order?” He looked at Loren.

Loren shook her head. “It’ll take at least two weeks, but there shouldn’t be a problem.” She thought about the calls she’d need to make, the guns she’d need to have moved into the warehouse. “For that quantity, though, we ought to make two runs on different days, different couriers in both directions.”

Ramsey nodded in agreement. “Set it up.”

“How sure are we these militia guys can be trusted?” Quincy said.

“The Bloods have dealt with them before and they say they’re solid,” Ramsey said.

“We’re going to be inside their turf when we make the exchange,” Quincy went on. “That’s a lot of money and merchandise we’re talking about.”

Loren saw an opening, and she might not have another one. “I’m with Quincy on this. If we agree to make the transfer inside the Liberation compound, we’ll be outmanned and outgunned. People disappear all the time up in the Bitterroots. And we can’t exactly file a missing-persons report if some of us don’t come back.”

“So we’ll take precautions,” Ramsey said. “Can we get a backup team up in the mountains to cover the meet?”

Quincy shook his head. “No way up but the one road. They’ll have that watched.”

Ramsey grunted. “Anybody got any suggestions?”

“How about we request some kind of insurance policy before the meet,” Loren said. “One of their guys comes down here and one of us goes up there. Nobody goes home until the money and the guns are transferred and everybody moves back to neutral space.”

“What if they send somebody down here they don’t care about losing?” Griffin said. “A hostage is only worth as much as his value to the other side. They could shoot up our guys, rip us off, and leave us with a useless body to deal with.”

Quincy pointed a finger like he was shooting a gun. “The Bloods know these guys. We can get a rundown on the major players from them. Make sure they send someone with weight.”

“Let me think about it,” Ramsey said. “I don’t like putting one of our guys out there with nothing but his dick for a weapon.”

“No problem,” Loren said. “I’ll go.”

Everybody laughed. Loren shrugged as if she didn’t care, but her nerves jangled with anticipation. Things were finally coming together. She might finally be able to get a firsthand look at FALA.

Ramsey stubbed out his cigar. “Any more business or can we go home and enjoy what’s left of Christmas?” When no one spoke, Ramsey rose. “Meeting adjourned. Nice work.”

Loren pushed her chair back, feeling the fatigue for the first time. She’d been on edge for weeks setting up this buy, and it just might pay off.

The men started to file out, and Ramsey said, “McElroy, wait a minute, will you.”

Quincy looked back, his eyes narrowing. When Ramsey didn’t invite him to stay, he pulled the door closed, leaving Loren alone with Ramsey.

Ramsey edged his hip onto the corner of the long, scarred table. A Glock was tucked into the small of his back. Hers was still in her jacket, but she couldn’t slide her hand into the pocket with him watching. She’d seen him execute a traitor to the club once. He’d smiled and patted the guy on the cheek, right before he’d pulled out his gun and shot him through the eye.

“See what you can find out about the squeeze at the bar.”

Loren must have looked surprised because he laughed.

“Well, I can’t ask my old lady to do it,” Ramsey said. “And if I send one of the guys, they’ll be sniffing around her pussy before they even get her name. Let me know what you find out.”

“Sure, boss. You want me to call you?”

“In the morning, not too early. Trish likes to sleep in, and the kids are with the in-laws.” He grinned.

She nodded. “Got it. Night.”

“Yeah.”

Loren strolled back into the bar. The lights in the hanging green-glass-shaded lamps were turned down low, making the place look less tacky than it did during the day. The few mismatched round tables looked less rickety, the felt on the pool table less worn, the bar less scarred. The two hopefuls were gone, probably sleeping it off with Armeo and Griffin—possibly together. The redhead still sat at the bar, a quarter inch of amber liquid in the rock glass in front of her. The hand that held the glass was long fingered and smooth, the nails shining sculpted ovals. Classy.

Loren sat on the stool next to her, leaned across the bar, fished a glass from underneath, and drew a beer from the tap. She skimmed off the foam with her index finger and took a long drink. “Why don’t I think you’re here by accident?”

The redhead half turned, her knee brushing Loren’s thigh. “Because you don’t look stupid to me.”

“What’s your name?”

“Lisa.”

“Lisa…?”

She smiled. “Smith.”

“Uh-huh. So, Lisa Smith—what are you doing here?”

“Jerome sent me.”

Loren’s spine stiffened. Jerome was international president of the Renegades—every local chapter along the Pacific Coast and as far east as Montana and Idaho paid tithe to him from the profits they made running drugs or guns or girls. “Why?”

“You’ve been busy here. Moving a lot of product. I’m an accountant.”

Loren laughed. “Right, and I’m an undercover cop.”

Lisa’s smile widened as she traced a single finger down the center of Loren’s chest. Goose bumps lifted on Loren’s torso and her nipples tightened.

“I don’t believe you,” Lisa murmured. “You’re too good-looking to be a cop. So why are you really here?”

Loren laughed again. “I’m here on a mission from the president. He’s interested in you.”

“Really?” Lisa emptied her glass and set it down. “He’s not my type.”

“Don’t let the wedding ring bother you.”

“It doesn’t.” Lisa leaned forward and kissed Loren on the mouth. “It’s more the cock I’m not interested in.”

“And I’m not interested in getting killed for a little bit of pussy.”

Lisa ran her tongue slowly over the surface of Loren’s lower lip. “How about for a lot?”

Loren eased back. Her clit was tight but she wasn’t insane. No one got between Ramsey and a woman. “I’ll have to give it some thought.”

“You do that.” Lisa slid off the stool, her high firm breasts brushing over Loren’s arm. “Have a nice night, Loren.”

Lisa turned to walk away, and Loren said, “I don’t remember giving you my name.”

Lisa winked over her shoulder. “You didn’t. Night.”

*

Sky Dunbar slid behind the wheel of her crap rental car and pulled out of the gravel lot onto the deserted highway. The sky was crystal clear, an ebony blanket studded with stars and a full moon. The silver light was nearly bright as day. Before she accelerated away from the Ugly Rooster, she glanced at the big dark plate-glass window and wondered if Loren McElroy was looking out at her, or if she’d forgotten her the moment they’d parted. She didn’t question why she cared.

McElroy wasn’t exactly what she’d expected. Somehow, she’d thought McElroy would keep a lower profile, but apparently taking a backseat wasn’t her style. Figured, really. A woman didn’t get accepted into a biker club as one of the members and not one of the old ladies unless she had something special to offer. McElroy had that, and more. An Army vet, she’d started out as a grease monkey in the motor pool and worked her way up to commanding a supply company. Along the way, she’d made plenty of contacts, and soon her unofficial duty became procuring whatever needed to be gotten for the post. Everything from extra fuel, surplus body armor and machine parts to contraband of all description. The bureau had recruited her by then, and her illegal activities were sanctioned. Her cover story was a long time in the making, and by the time she’d reached Silver Lake, where she owned her own garage, her story was more than a cover. It was her reality.

They’d never met in person—in this kind of long-game, labyrinthine operation where the smallest breach could mean disaster, the fewer people who could identify one another, the better. Until an hour ago, she was just a voice to McElroy—her telephone voice that didn’t resemble her natural tone at all—and McElroy was just a black-and-white photo clipped in the PDF of her classified file. The file with half the lines redacted. The photo had been of McElroy in desert camo. She looked a lot different now, decked out in leather, her unruly dark hair scattered around a face that would’ve been called beautiful if the edges had been a little softer and her coal-black eyes a little less piercing. Handsome wasn’t quite right, either, but closer. Bold, brash, dangerous. In uniform she’d been imposing; in biker black she was tantalizing.

McElroy moved with the lethal kind of confidence that said she’d unhesitatingly use the weapon tucked into the right front pocket of the jacket that displayed the patch of the Renegades. The Renegades weren’t a Sunday-afternoon club filled with lawyers and accountants and other weekend warriors. They were all longtime bikers, many of them friends since young adulthood, almost all of them with records, and they’d been on the FBI’s and ATF’s radar for a dozen years or more. But their threat level, and consequently their interest level, had waned as more dangerous groups had slowly infiltrated the West Coast—Salvadoran gangs and Mexican cartels, and the right-wing paramilitary groups that were hotbeds for domestic terrorism. The low-level drug, gun-running, and porn rings associated with most of the biker clubs didn’t pose the kind of national security threat that the other groups did. So instead of arresting the bikers, they infiltrated them.

Sky pulled into the rambling, run-down motel complex where she’d taken a room late that afternoon. She’d signed in as Lisa Smith, the woman whose identity she’d assumed. Her orders, predictably vague, had been to tighten the leash on McElroy and be ready to escalate McElroy’s involvement with the militia at short notice. She didn’t know why, hadn’t been read in on the big picture, and wasn’t about to make that call from three thousand miles away. She wanted a closer look if she was sending her contact in deeper, and she was sick of flying a desk. She wanted a firsthand look. Her phone rang, and she slipped the smartphone from the right front pocket of her skintight jeans. She recognized the number, and she wasn’t in the mood for a tongue-lashing. At least, not the kind she knew was coming after her disappearing act.

She hadn’t made her way in the bureau by going through channels, but this time she was way outside the lines. But then, what were they going to do? Fire her? She smiled.

She unpacked the few articles of clothing she’d brought and slipped them into the rickety, chipped Goodwill dresser and sat on the bed to get rid of the god-awful high-heeled boots. Why anyone would choose to wear them was beyond her. She slid her feet into flip-flops, choosing not to look at the faded carpet too closely, and padded into the bathroom to turn on the shower. She was feeling just a little bit grimy. Maybe that had been more a result of the day’s activities than the long hours, but she chose not to think about that too carefully, either.