Code of Honor

Chapter Nine

Loren tuned the old transistor radio on the shelf above the workbench to a rhythm-and-blues station, stripped down to her T-shirt, and pulled the carburetor from the 1949 Indian she’d picked up at an auction in the fall. She laid the parts out on sheets of newspaper to clean and inspect them. Mechanical work was her form of meditation—the routine focused her mind and settled her nerves—first in the desert, during the endless hours of tedium interspersed with the few moments of chaos when artillery shells dug craters in the sand and IEDs made twisted sculptures out of vehicles and casualties out of her friends, and now in this battlefield, where a lapse in concentration and a wrong word could buy her a shallow grave in the wilderness.

The gun deal with the Russians was her way into FALA, and the anticipation had her jazzed in a good way. She had her bases covered—as much as was ever possible in an operation with so many volatile players involved. What had her nerves dancing with a rare combination of uneasiness and excitement was Sky. She was an unknown, a piece that didn’t fit in the patchwork landscape of Loren’s shifting reality, and that made Sky dangerous. Loren was an expert at thinking on her feet, changing strategies midgame, adjusting to the violent swings in power among the bikers, gangs, and crime bosses—all because she knew the players and planned for the unexpected. She didn’t know Sky—only who Sky said she was. And that was the most unreliable intel of all. She’d talked to Skylar Dunbar, her handler, every few weeks for almost three years. Their conversations consisted of instructions, reports, and, on very rare occasions, updates on Loren’s family. Dunbar could have been a computer for all Loren knew—nothing personal ever transpired between them. Dunbar asked how she was doing, if she needed anything, if she wanted backup, but when Loren repeatedly declined, Dunbar never pushed.

Loren never talked about the men who’d gotten her alone in the back of the clubhouse when she was a prospect, forcing her against a wall, running their hands over her body, letting her feel their physical dominance even as they reminded her of their place in the hierarchy. They’d stopped short of raping her, and she’d kept her expression blank while resisting the gut-deep desire to blow their brains out. Eventually, she earned her way in by offering the kinds of connections the club wanted with the Russians and other suppliers, and all she’d said to Dunbar was, “I’m in.”

Now a woman who said she was Dunbar was here, and none of what had come before meant a damn. Sky might be the only person to actually know Loren’s true identity—not who she had been, but who she was—and that was as terrifying as it was exhilarating. Because even Loren wasn’t sure how much of Special Agent McElroy remained in the outlaw she had become.

She’d been working about an hour when the door to the shop creaked open and slammed closed. She only sold restorations she did herself or took on jobs for people she knew. She didn’t keep regular business hours and wasn’t expecting anyone. She slid her hand under the shelf onto the grip of the Glock in a holster attached beneath the ledge. She turned enough to shield her movements and looked over her shoulder.

Ramsey strolled across the room, a friendly smile on his face. As usual, he wore the club uniform of black T-shirt, jeans, wide leather belt, and biker boots. He was forty-five and just starting to get soft around the middle, but his shoulders and arms were bunched with muscle. His gray-streaked black hair was full and swept back from his forehead, shorter on the sides than a lot of the guys wore it. Clean-shaven, his lantern-jawed face was heavy and tough. She’d seen him fight, and he was not only skilled, but ruthless. He fought to win, no matter what it took.

“Hi,” Loren said, leaning back against the counter and letting her hand drop to her side. She could reach the Glock in under a second if she had to. She’d seen him draw too, and he was fast. Probably a standoff if it came down to it.

He admired the Indian up on the work stand. “Nice. You get this running, you’ll make some money on it.”

“Yeah, I know. I might keep it for myself, though.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” He gave her another slow smile. “Maybe I’ll outbid you for it.”

She laughed at the unbidden reminder that if he wanted it, he’d have it. As president of the club, he could pretty much have anything or anyone he wanted.

“So, tell me more about the redhead,” Ramsey said, hoisting a hip onto a stool in front of the workbench. He rubbed his jaw and his smile turned feral. “I wasn’t exactly in a position to carry on a conversation this morning.”

She’d called him after she’d reached out to the higher-ups in the national organization, before she’d decided to confront Sky. He’d been rushed, and Tricia’s plaintive complaints in the background gave Loren a pretty good indication why. She’d given him the bare essentials, and that was all she planned to give him now. If she even hinted Sky’s story was suspect, she’d be signing Sky’s death warrant, no matter who she really was. Maybe Sky was there to take her down, but if she was, Loren would handle it herself—when she was sure. “I talked to her for a few minutes last night before I left the club. She was pretty up front about why she’d come—not smart enough to be hiding anything. Jerome wanted an accounting and maybe to throw his weight around a little—my words, not hers. Dougie knew her from somewhere and put in a word for her with Jerome. He verifies.”

Ramsey pulled a toothpick from the pocket of his vest, stuck it in his mouth, rolled it back and forth a few times, and shrugged. “Jerome’s never asked for an accounting before. You think it has to do with the guns?”

Loren’s stomach tightened. She didn’t want Ramsey connecting Sky to the guns or even contemplating a connection. She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I haven’t gotten wind of any interest in that from her or anyone else. The Russians wouldn’t want word of the deal with the Soledads. They’ve got an uneasy truce, but the Russians aren’t dumb enough to dangle a shipment like that in front of a competitor who shares a border with them.”

“Maybe Jerome is contemplating moving in on our shipment. A big shipment like this would bring a lot of money on the streets.”

“I can’t argue with that.” She didn’t want to protest too much. “But Jerome is the president—if he wanted in, he’d just say so. He’s going to get his cut anyhow.”

The toothpick rolled lazily across Ramsey’s full lower lip. “If he hijacked our guns before we made the exchange, he’d get a lot more than a cut.”

“He’d be risking war with us and a lot of the chapters would back us.”

Ramsey nodded. “Watch your back all the same. And watch this broad. I’ll have Armeo give her a look at the books”—he smiled that lazy serpent smile again—“the ones we keep for public review, and see if that keeps her happy.”

“Sure,” Loren said.

Ramsey scratched his stomach, his fingers settling on the waistband of his jeans above the outline of his cock. “For now, she’s free territory.”

“Whatever you say.”

He laughed. “Don’t tell me you weren’t looking.”

Fire leapt in Loren’s belly, and for one second she wanted to launch herself across the space between them and plant her fist in his face. She’d had to swallow a lot to prove herself with Ramsey and the others. Even when they’d stopped physically taunting her, she’d had to listen to them demean every woman who wasn’t their old lady, swallow their racist and homophobic rhetoric, and pretend she agreed. But knowing he was undressing Skylar in his mind, sliding his hands over her body and his dick between her legs, came closer to breaking her restraint than anything she’d had to endure personally. She took a long breath and laughed, feeling as if her throat were filled with broken glass. “She’s got a lot to look at.”

“Yeah, sent me home with something to give the old lady last night.”

Loren knew better than to comment about his wife. He could say what he wanted, but if anyone else so much as looked at her for too long, they’d pay for it.

“All right.” He stood, stretched a little. “Keep me informed. When do you expect you’ll be moving the merchandise?”

“It’s a big order, it’s gonna take a while to bring it in—we’ll need to move the shipments piecemeal, get it all safely warehoused and inspected before we can set up the exchange. A week or two.”

He nodded, glanced around the room. “Nice place you got here.” He stared at her for a long moment. “You’re a surprising woman, McElroy.”

Loren tensed and smiled back at him. “How’s that?”

“At least half the guys in the club want to bang you, and usually, dykes don’t cause that kind of reaction. You can shoot better than most, ride as well as any, and you’re smart. But you’re willing to take orders. How is that?”

“I like being a soldier,” Loren said truthfully. “I understand the necessity for taking orders. I don’t mind following a leader I trust.”

He laughed and pointed a thick finger at her. “Like I said, you’re smart. Keep an eye on the broad.”

“I’ll do that,” Loren said softly as she watched Ramsey stroll out. She wondered just exactly how much he suspected about Skylar. And about her.

*

In the last hour of daylight when most of the troops were settling down in the barracks or mess tent, Jane worked her way through the obstacle course laid out in the forest behind the compound, trudging her way through thigh-high snow in some places with a rifle strapped to her back. Frost rimmed her nostrils and the frigid air burned her throat. Tears froze on her lashes. Every fifty yards or so, she stopped, unslung the assault rifle, took aim at human-shaped targets set out at various distances from the trail in the underbrush, on overhangs, and in trees. She was timing her run and, on the way back, would collect the targets and determine her accuracy. She’d show her father the proof that she was ready for command.

While she’d been in Georgia working in the lab, she’d had to keep in shape at the gym and with infrequent visits to shooting ranges. She’d always driven at least a hundred miles from home to shoot, so she wouldn’t run into anyone she might possibly know while at the range. As far as those at the lab knew, she was a quiet, single woman whose main interests were her job, occasional trips to the theater, and bicycling along the many trails outside the city. She kept a low profile at work—friendly but not so friendly as to be included in casual after-work or weekend events. She didn’t want to make an impression, and she didn’t want to be forced into situations where she’d have to reveal personal information. Fortunately, when she’d volunteered to work the midnight shift, she no longer had to interact with colleagues. Only a skeleton crew worked at night, and the Level 4 lab precluded much in the way of conversation.

Now that she was home, nothing much would change. She and her siblings had always been kept apart from the other children of the survivalists, homeschooled by their father and mother, trained to be soldiers from the time they were old enough to shoot, and prepared to be leaders of the organization one day. She’d never had close friends other than her sister and brother. A sharp pain shot through her chest as she pulled herself up over an ice-covered embankment. Jennifer, only a year younger, almost her twin. Her closest friend, her comrade, her sister. Thinking of Jennifer caged, interrogated, imprisoned by the enemy filled her with rage and pain. She understood that theirs was a long-term war, but she wasn’t going to leave Jennifer behind bars for years. She wanted her free, and somehow, she’d find a way to make that happen. If she couldn’t, she’d make someone pay.

*

Cam’s driver dropped her off a little before seven. She stopped just inside the lobby doors and scanned the foyer. None of Blair’s protective detail was present. The doorman behind the desk nodded.

“Evening, Steven. Quiet night?”

“So far, Director Roberts.”

She keyed the elevator to her floor, a frisson of wariness tingling along her spine. No one standing post. She paused at the door, listened. No music. Carefully, she let herself into her apartment. The only light came from the muted glow under the hood above the stove top. She knew the apartment was empty, but called out anyhow. “Blair?”

The silence was complete.

Without turning on the lights, she dropped her coat over the back of the sofa and strode through the empty living room, down the hall, and into the bedroom. She flipped the switch inside the door. The bed was made, the closet doors were closed. The nightstand on Blair’s side of the bed was bare. Her iPad, phone, and wallet were gone. So was she.

Cam turned out the light, walked back into the living room, sat down on the sofa, and leaned her head back. Reflected light danced on the ceiling. A few weeks ago she’d strolled on the beach with Blair, awash with the amazing sensation of having just gotten married. For a very short time, the world had receded and there had been only Blair. She wondered what it would be like to live a life where the thing that mattered most to her would not be something she could only embrace in stolen moments out of time. She rubbed her eyes and unclipped her phone. She pressed Blair’s number and waited. The call went to voice mail. She listened to the familiar sound of Blair’s voice telling her to leave a message.

When Blair’s voice faded away, she said, “Hi, it’s me. I imagine you’re in transit somewhere, so let me know when you’ve arrived. I’ve got a six a.m. shuttle, so I’ll be out most of the day tomorrow. Be careful. I love you.”

She pocketed the phone and contemplated the evening ahead of her. Then she pulled on her coat and walked out the door.