Page 18 of Welker

Yup. Under her boot. She’d yanked off his helmet, and currently had her foot placed on the back of the perp’s shoulder, looking like she was exerting some pressure.

Welker chuckled. Great minds think alike.

He walked closer until he could hear their conversation.

“Who told you I’d left my house?” she growled low in her throat.

“I ain’t tellin’ you nothin’, bitch,” the downed man choked back.

“Wrong answer, dickwad.”

Moira ground her heel down, harder.

“What the fuck?” the guy cried. “This is harassment.”

“Says the man who just opened fire and took out my windshield.” Welker joined the pair, his own gun now held lightly by his side. “In my opinion, this is a justifiable use of force.”

“He’s right, ass-wipe,” Moira growled. “Nobody’s going to care if we scuff you up a little. So spill.”

The man remained stubbornly silent.

Welker had been around Moira long enough to know she wasn’t a rule-breaker, so her next words didn’t surprise him.

“Fine. You want to play it that way?” Moira snorted, backing off. “Keep your secret.”

Welker was the one who had to hold himself back from kicking the man until he gave them information.

Moira continued. “We’ll find out who’s behind this, don’t you worry. And in the meantime, you’ll be behind bars rotting with your MC’s president. Or maybe,” she speculated, “since you’re so pretty, you’ll find yourself as someone’s girlfriend,” she taunted.

A look passed over the man’s face, but he remained clammed-up, and Welker sighed. “Looks like we’re not going to get anything out of him tonight.”

“I know. I wish I’d capped his ass instead of his tires,” Moira grumbled. “Waste of skin.”

Lights appeared from behind them, and Welker knew the cavalry had arrived. The boss would take the guy into custody.

With luck and if no further confrontation occurred during their short drive, he and Moira would make it safely to his place.

Pulling into Welker’s driveway—sans windshield—eight minutes later, he was thankful that not only had Mason and Mike come to pick up the perp, but they’d helped sweep his driver’s side clean of all the broken glass so his ass could get home, unscathed.

While they’d been on clean-up duty, Welk had reiterated his suspicions about someone in Moira’s department having given them up. The boss and Mike had both agreed that his reasoning was sound, and after the prisoner had been secured in the back of Mike’s truck—and with Moira’s nod of understanding—they all decided not to tell anyone who wasn’t already in the know, where Welk’s house was located. Not many people were aware—other than Mason and their immediate posse—that he’d moved in to his new, unfinished place, three months previous. As far as most everyone else besides his relatives were concerned, Welker still lived in the condo he owned and maintained in town.

All good, but now that he and Moira had actually arrived…

He wondered how she’d react to his place. He knew it didn’t look like much from the outside since he hadn’t bothered with painting anything yet, but the major exterior renovations were all solid, as was the interior framing of his house. The few rooms within that he had completely finished should give her an idea of what he was aiming for.

He immediately pulled his vehicle into the oversized, seen-better-days garage behind the house. At least he wouldn’t have wet upholstery if it rained before he could get a new windshield, and the vehicle wouldn’t be seen by anyone who might be looking for it. Luckily, as bad as the six-car garage looked on the inside, it, too, was solid from the work he’d done to make sure it remained standing, and it housed a few more rides he could utilize until his windshield was replaced.

Welk gave Moira, who’d paused to see what he wanted her to do, a wave that she should take one of several available spots inside, and she quickly complied.

Stepping out first, he approached her door as she parked, and opened it for her.

She snorted. “I don’t need you to be a gentleman.”

“Tough luck,” he retorted cheekily. “Because my mother brought me up to be one.”

Moira shrugged, and as he should have expected, ignored the comment and got back to business. “If my enemies are keeping an eye out for us, how will we get to town tomorrow for supplies?”

Welker grinned. That was an easy one. “Remember I said, incognito? I actually have a few cars here that are registered and ready to roll out, under the radar,” he told her. “But I think we’ll skip taking my black, ’69 Cutlass 442. It might garner a little too much attention.” The vehicle was his baby, having restored it from the frame, up, in his grandfather’s garage when he was in his early twenties.

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