Page 62 of Static

"I don't even have a wife!" he snapped. "Pregnant or otherwise."

"Jesus," Smoke said, horror creeping into his voice. "Could you imagine the spawn of Butcher?"

Now everyone looked horrified. Including Butcher himself.

"Do you think it would have horns? Or cloven feet?" Hell asked.

Lock just shook his head. "Give the poor fucker a break. He actually looks like he might puke."

There was a distinct lack of color in Butcher's face at the mention of his imaginary pregnant wife.

"There's no way all of us are fittin' in there," Hush said, bringing the conversation back to the matter at hand.

"Hush, Toxic, Butcher, Smoke, Ricochet, Hell, and Priest, wait out here," Lock told us. "The rest of you. With me."

I watched as the rest of our group walked through the door. The bell jangled happily, announcing our presence. I looked over my shoulder and met Butcher's wary eyes. "It's going to happen for you sooner than you think." I was fucking with him, of course.

"The fuck are you, asshole? Some kind of psychic? Get the fuck out of here," he growled.

Chuckling, I walked into the shop and left the others to deal with an extremely pissed off Butcher. The Berserkers were back at the compound, getting ready for the next place—the bigger business—we were planning to hit later today. They were also watching over our families and the clubhouse.

From this point on, we weren't going to be able to leave anyone alone. Fremont was going to get wind of this, and shit was going to hit the fan. We were finished with his bullshit. Now that we were ready to take action, we were going to get this shit done fast.

Lock leaned on the counter and we waited until the woman came out from the back. She paused as she saw the four of us standing there. "H-hello," she stammered.

"Hi," Lock told her. "I was wondering if we could speak with the owner?"

She blinked, looking shell shocked. "Oh...well, that's my brother. He doesn't usually come in this early." Her eyes strayed over to a clock. It was ten in the morning.

"We really need to speak to him," Lock told her with a reassuring smile. He started tapping his finger on the glass case. It was a habit for him, but you could see her tensing more and more with each tap and the silence that stretched out after Lock's statement.

"I...can try to call him," she finally relented. "Just a moment." She hurried into the back and after a brief pause, we heard hushed whispers.

Riptide craned his head, trying to see past the curtain that hid her from view. As soon as he was convinced she wasn't going to see him he reached over the counter and picked up a black box that was sitting, shoved under the shelf.

"What's that?" Idaho muttered.

"This is the recorder for their CCTV," he replied with a grin. He plugged a USB in and then started tapping away on his phone.

"Why would they keep it up here?" I asked. I'd used CCTV footage from stores plenty of times in my cases. It always turned the tide of a case whenever a store had it.

Rip pointed over to a bench that had stems and a pair of floral scissors sitting on it. "She works out here. Probably just keeps stock in the back, so I doubt she's back there for long."

"Having the system out here lets her keep an eye on the hard to see corners of the shop," I added, finishing for him. Glancing around, I realized the clear display cases that held bouquets and plants made it hard to see certain areas from the counter. There were too many petals and leaves in the way.

Idaho leaned his head to the side as he watched Rip work.

Lock's eyes were glued on the curtain, waiting for the woman to come back. "Rip," he muttered as we all heard her shoes clicking back toward us.

Riptide tapped his phone twice more, pulled the thumb drive, and placed the black box back under the counter, near the computer monitor that showed the footage.

The woman brushed the curtain aside and gave us a weak smile. "He'll be here in about ten minutes." Her gaze bounced between us. "Is there anything I can help you with while you wait?"

"Yeah," I said before the others could tell her no. Pointing to a bouquet filled with wildflowers, I asked, "How much for those?"

"Those are seventy-four-ninety-five," she told me.

Shooting Rip a look, I muttered, "Cheap my ass."

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