Page 95 of Lucky's Trouble

In all my years of Sunday school, I never put much stock into God or any of that shit. While my parents and sisters were singing hymns, I was doodling skulls and plotting my revenge on all the preppy assholes who thought they were better than me because I had long hair and wore Metallica T-shirts. I’ve just always been drawn to the darker side.

That part of me only grew stronger when I patched in and was exposed to the dark underbelly of the world. So if there is a god or goddess out there somewhere, they’ve got a sick fuckin’ sense of humor.

That said, as I stare at an image of the woman I’ve quickly found I can’t live without, I find myself praying to all things holy that she’s okay and that she’ll be back in my arms soon where I’ll never let her go again.

Fuck marriage. That can be dissolved. I want an unhealthy level of permanence for her in my life. I’m talking surgical attachment at the hip level of commitment.

Nearly an hour goes by before Satyr walks back in, blowing the last drag of his smoke through his nostrils. “Got him.”

My brain goes through whiplash as I shift from despair to hope. “Really?”

He nods. “Facial rec was a bust, but that didn’t surprise me because I doubt a fella like that drives himself anywhere. He’s the type to tuck himself behind blacked-out windows. But remember that SUV we saw circling the ranch?”

“Yeah?”

“I’d already sent our security feed to Vance and was waiting for a callback. Since he had his people looking into this, he had them run that through, too. They were able to catch the same vehicle on the traffic cams and run the plates. Seemed like a dead end because it was registered to some dummy corporation, but I remembered seeing that same corp digging through financials.” He taps the side of his head.

“Can we get to the part where I get a name and location?” I ask, ready for his explanation to give me something.

“Almost there.” He plants his ass on a stool. “The corp told me we were on the right track, so we followed the car around on the cams, waiting for it to stop somewhere. From our feed, we know that every night around the same time, it drove into town, circled the ranch, and then left—until last night. Before it made its rounds, it stopped for gas. Melville called over to the twenty-four-hour mart and got them to release the credit card receipt. It was tied to some nobody, but that nobody is employed by Jeremiah Beaufort. He comes from old, old money. His family has their hands in oil, banking, and a bunch of other shit.”

“Jeremiah Beaufort,” I repeat the name, something triggering in my memory. “Neal gave us the name Jeremy Defort. Does that sound similar to anyone else?”

“The fuckwad didn’t even try to hide his identity,” Satyr says.

“You get an address?”

“Doing that now.” He powers up his laptop and goes into full-on hacker mode.

Adrenaline pumps through my veins, perking me up more than the ten cups of coffee I’ve had throughout the night. We’re close; I can feel it.

“There are hundreds of properties from all over the world tied to the Beaufort family,” Satyr says.

My stomach sinks. It’s not out of the realm of possibility that he left the country, and I don’t even have a fucking passport.

“What properties does he specifically own?” Rigger asks.

Satyr’s fingers fly over the keyboard. “Three. In Switzerland, New York, and Vegas.”

“Pull up the one in Vegas,” I suggest on a whim.

He pulls up a map and shifts the laptop so we can see. It’s a goddamn mansion just outside the city, surrounded by desert with no nearby neighbors. Perfect for hiding your dirty secrets.

“That’s it,” I say.

“What makes you think that?” Satyr asks.

“Worth checking out. Just look at it. If you’re the kind of asshole who gets off on buying women, would you take her to New York? No, you’d take her somewhere hard to escape and out in the middle of nowhere but still close to the city.” I grab my phone off the bar. “I’ll call Cy and bring him up to speed.”

“I’ll call Raunchy,” Rigger says. “I’m sure our Vegas brothers will back us up.”

“Good call.”

Being part of a national club definitely comes in handy when trouble finds you away from home. Raunchy is the Prez of the Vegas chapter, and being so close, we’ve helped each other out numerous times.

After waking Cy up and suffering through a few vividly descriptive death threats, I get the go-ahead to call Riot. As Road Captain, he’s in charge of rounding the troops, while I’m in charge of making sure we have the firearms necessary for the mission ahead.

Within an hour, the clubhouse is buzzing with activity. Sugar, Char, and Navy are kind enough to whip up a quick breakfast while my brothers and I prepare for the eight-hour ride. The energy around me is intense and serious. We don’t know what we’re walking into and only have a general idea of the security this Jeremiah asshole has, thanks to Google Maps.

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