Page 88 of Lucky's Trouble

“It’s all good.” He holds up a folder. “There’s not much in here, but maybe Satyr can make sense of something I don’t see.”

“What do we do about this?” Judge asks.

“Call Vance,” I say.

“You want to call the Sheriff?” Rigger’s tone implies I’m stupid.

Picking up a few of the files, I flip through them, seeing bank account numbers, wire transfers, names, and other information. “Might make his department look good if they take down a human trafficking ring.”

“Good enough to excuse this?” Judge motions to what’s left of Neal.

“Won’t know unless we ask.”

Rigger shakes his head. “All right. I’ll make the call, but I’m throwing you under the bus if he doesn’t go for it.”

I shrug, not worried about it. Vance is a frequent customer at the ranch. We keep his old balls empty and kick him some cash now and then, and in exchange, he looks the other way when we need him to. Right now, we definitely need him to.

Twenty minutes later, Sheriff Melville is standing in Neal’s office, red-faced and pacing. “This is not part of our arrangement. You’ve gone too far this time.”

“I’m handing you the opportunity to bring down an entire trafficking ring, maybe bring hundreds of women and children home to their families, and you’re bitching about the death of some piece of shit no one will miss?” I ask.

“What am I supposed to do with a dead body and no suspect? Hell, Reno isn’t even my jurisdiction.”

“Call the police chief and tell him you were stopping by to ask Neal some questions about a different investigation and found him like this.”

He shakes his head. “No, no way. Someone has to take the fall. Otherwise, I’m taking you all in.”

“So what you’re saying is that your wife and kids are cool with you coming in and getting your dick wet once a week by our talented ladies?” I slap him on the back. “Well, shit. You’re a lucky man.”

“Don’t you threaten me, son. I’ve done more than enough for you to keep my name clean,” he sneers.

Dutch walks into the office, shoving the two goons he’s been babysitting in front of him. “Hey, Lucky? Hand your knife over to this gentleman.”

Confused, I take the blood-crusted blade in my leather-gloved hand and hand it over, handle first. The guy must be as baffled as I am because he takes it.

“Now, hand this one your gun.” I clear the chamber and pop the magazine out because I’m not an idiot and pass it over.

“There. Suspect one and suspect two. You’re welcome.” Dutch slaps the two on the back and walks out.

Vance sighs, pulling his gun from his holster. “Put your weapons down and get on your knees.”

“Wait. What?” Loser One says.

“Now,” Vance says, reaching for the radio on his shoulder and calling it in.

Loser Two tosses the gun on the ground and lowers to his knees, hands raised. His eyes are narrow on me. “I’ll kill you for this.”

Rigger, Judge, and I walk past as Vance cuffs them.

“Doubt that,” Judge says. “You’re going down for murder. I’d choose better friends on the inside. Seems like you’re not a good judge of character.”

After collecting Dutch—who had been busy clearing their cameras of our visit—we walk out and hop on our bikes.

“Good thinking in there. Hopefully, this means you’re starting to use the brains in that big head of yours,” Rigger says to Dutch.

“Nah. It was a momentary stroke of genius. I’ll be back to my idiotic ways by the time we get back to the clubhouse.”

“Good because I kinda like giving you shit.”

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