Page 14 of Naughty Santa Daddy

Remembering the original mission we were given last night, I ask, “What about finding those ex-prospect assholes?”

“Those fuckers are a few fries short of a happy meal.” Drake rolls his eyes so hard, I’m surprised they don’t get stuck in the back of his head. “I know where they were living back when they were prospecting, so once we’re done at the warehouse, we’ll swing by and see if we can find them.”

“And you ran this all by Miller or Wash already?” I ask, double-checking that someone in charge knows where we’re going. Yes, plausible deniability is necessary in some situations, but when we’re going into areas where we have no idea what we’ll find, someone needs to know where we’ll be if we don’t come back in a reasonable amount of time.

“Sure did,” he replies as he stands up to his full height. “I’ve also been ordered that we not take our bikes so we don’t draw any unwanted attention to ourselves. Wash gave me the keys to his SUV, which has plates registered to an LLC, as well as the VIN scratched off, so it’s totally untraceable.”

“So if we have to ditch it and run, nothing links it to the club,” I clarify my thoughts out loud.

“Exactly.”

“I need to run back to my room to grab my SIG.” I point my thumb back toward the clubhouse. “I haven’t been carrying in public yet because of my parole.”

Drake smirks and pulls one side of his cut back, and I see the gun he has strapped in an underarm shoulder holster. “Never go anywhere without mine.”

“Be right back.” I hustle inside and head straight for the closet in my room.

After shrugging off my cut, I pull my trusty shoulder holster off the top shelf, then strap it on. I haven’t worn this bad boy in way too long, but putting it on feels so natural it’s like it was just yesterday. I pull my cut back on, then open my nightstand drawer.

Unlocking the small safe built into the drawer bottom with my thumbprint and seven-digit code, I pull out my gun. I slam in a full magazine, slide a bullet into the chamber, set the safety, then clip it into my holster.

Now I’m back.

It’s been a long seven years, four months, and three days since those damn handcuffs were snapped onto my wrists for the first time, but I’m out now and ready to get back to my ass-kicking, hell-raising self. Bring it on.

“You see anything?” I whisper to Drake, who is right beside me.

We’re currently in an old, abandoned paper mill across the street from the warehouse in question. Both buildings are in an industrial park that seems to have seen better days, but there are signs of improvement happening based on a few surrounding buildings being under construction. There is a ‘For Sale’ sign on the front of the mill, so we’re using that to our advantageduring this stakeout. Hopefully, if anyone drives by or sees us moving around in here, they’ll think we’re potential buyers or contractors.

The SUV is parked behind the building, out of sight under a covered loading dock, and Drake and I are looking at the warehouse out of a row of half-broken windows, trying to see any activity. And just like whoever is inside knew we wanted to see what they’re hiding, the gate at the end of the driveway starts to roll open, giving us a clear view of everything beyond.

“Jackpot.” Drake pulls his phone out of the inside pocket of his cut and starts snapping pictures. “And there’s the van.”

Just inside the gate is a small parking lot. To the left, the white van with the Jensen Medical Supplies decals still on it sits parked at the end of a row next to three other vehicles—one silver pickup truck, one dark blue utility van, and one black four-door car. All look to have seen better days, dented and rusted, showing that their owners have no care for what they drive.

That’s the total opposite of anyone in the Hell’s Jokers MC. We all have pride in what we own. We take care of our vehicles, both the two- and four-wheel kinds. It grinds my gears when I see people who have no pride of ownership. When you come from very little like I did, watching my grandparents pinch pennies just to put food on the table and keep the lights on, you learn to appreciate and care for the finer things because you never know when they’ll be taken away.

Drake nudges my elbow, snapping me out of my anger daydream, and I snap back to reality.

Straight ahead are three tall bay garage doors, and two of them are rolling up, showing us the activity inside. Four men, all wearing very nice clothes, come walking out into the parking lot and head for the different vehicles. People who wear fancy suits and ties aren’t the types who hang around these parts, driving beat-up vehicles in that condition.

Something isn’t right here.

“Who are these fuckers?” I question out loud. “Do you recognize any of them?”

“They’re definitely not dressed like they should be driving those vehicles,” Drake answers. “I don’t—”

He stops talking as we watch four gleaming, black luxury sedans drive out of the open bay doors, two following the other two. Then, the four vehicles that were previously in the lot drive inside, and the doors roll down behind them. A minute later, those same four men appear outside again and each slide into the passenger seats of the shiny cars. Those sedans then glide out of the parking lot like they’re being driven in a rehearsed, choreographed fashion. They turn right at the first corner and disappear.

“What the hell was that?”

“I have no fucking clue.” I’m as stumped as he is. “But I think we need to call in some help before we go find out.”

“I’m two steps ahead of you.” I look over to see Drake texting, thumbs flying across his phone screen. “Miller, Cowboy, JD, and a few others are on their way. ETA thirty minutes.”

“Tell them to come in from the south and keep an eye out for the sedans. Maybe they can intercept them to follow and see where they’re going.”

“Good thinkin’, brother.” Drake nods, typing away.

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