Page 71 of Fire for Effect

But I did.

Chapter 19

I’m not Leaving Her

Griff

We hogtied Mr. Trout, and dumped him in the Crown Royal’s trunk. I followed her in the Maybach to yet another location, since we weren’t depositing him at the bondsman’s office.

Jesus Christ, I was livid.

I thought her little joyride would result in maybe some guy who was skimping on his DUI hearing - not trying to roll up some DEVGRU guy with a bad attitude and a love of things that go boom.

Worse yet, it wasn’t even for a fucking bail. What extrajudicial justice shit was this? What was she into? What insanity was she getting herself involved in, and why?

Once I got into my Maybach, I did the only reasonable thing I could think of. I called Agent Sierra… again.

“I need you to tell me everything you can about Noam Braun, and Mike Trout, and everything you can possibly dig up about the Prodigal Sons Motorcycle club…”

“Hello,” she said, without any further words.

“Hello? What? Did we get disconnected already?”

“No, but usually when you’re calling someone for a favor, you start off with a little ‘hello’, maybe a ‘how are you?’ Something to establish rapport. You know?”

“I swear to God, I’m not in the fucking mood, Sierra,” I said as I followed right up on Taz’s ass, my headlights glowing off her trunk, just to make sure that the asshole didn’t come undone and try to jump out.

“Oh dear, you’re being a real sour puss. Has Wifey rejected the marriage? Try increasing the dowry! You Griffiths are loaded!”

If I could have reached through the phone and throttled her, I would have. Unfortunately, that wasn’t how telephonic devices worked… yet.

The only thing that kept me from losing my absolute shit was the sound of her typing on the other end. Even as she gave me hell, she was working on my request. Which was what made her a half-way decent partner.

“You know, I could have been out getting laid, or something, when you called. Then what would you do?”

“Tell you to dump the guy, and get back to your computer,” I said through clenched teeth. “Or tried again in five minutes after you snuck out.”

“Eh,” she said, noncommittally. Her version of an agreement. “Prodigal Sons, you say? Black leather, burning skulls for a logo?”

“Yes,” I said, as Taz turned the vehicle down another lonely highway, up a mountain to a strange looking mansion.

“I have something, and it’s… complicated. I’ll need to call you back with further information.”

“The fuck?”

“I can’t talk about it on these phones.” The phone I called her on was a secure Satellite Phone that gave us a reasonable level of privacy. If she was worried about security - as fucking loose her relationship with that concept was - then we were in for a world of hurt. “I’ll have to schedule a rendezvous with you. Somewhere your Daddy can’t listen in.”

Insulting. But what she really meant was that she didn’t trust the CIA.

Neither did I.

“Copy,” I said, letting her know that I understood her meaning.

We rolled up a long drive, through woods and to a house that looked like a castle. Gothic spirals went up long balusters, and dark green moss and vines wove its way like fingers up the bricks. The place was creepy. Like there should be gargoyles on the rooftop, and a humpback in the tower.

At the grand, marble staircase that expanded along the front, there was a man standing in a tailored suit. Brown hair, brown eyes, tall, with a strong jaw, and cleft chin. He looked down his nose at the guy I recognized as Noam, standing at the bottom of the stairs in front of his Honda Civic.

A fucking Civic… really? Why not just kill yourself?

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