Page 56 of Kilo's Edge

“Give me a couple days and I’ll get it back to you.”

He nodded. “Sure.” He looked back toward the house. “I just want them to be safe. I’ve been with them long enough that they’re not just an assignment anymore.”

Gritting my teeth, I nodded. “I get it... Thanks.” I nearly choked on the word, which made him laugh.

“See you later,” he said, getting into his car and driving off.

I looked down at the folder in my hand. It was bulging at the seams. First chance I got I would give it to Flir. His anal retentive ass would have a field day with it. But first I would see if anything stood out to me.

When I got back inside, I checked on Camila. She was still sleeping, so I went out and sat at my dining room table and started searching through the records. I didn’t want her to see that I had it. Not because I was hiding it from her, but there were crime scene photos in this thing and I didn’t want her to have to relive the death of her father, yet again.

CHAPTER 23

Kilo

The next morning, I was already on the way to the clubhouse as the sun was rising. I’d stayed up most of the night, sifting through the reports, and I needed to talk to Flir. I knew he’d already be at the compound. He liked to get there first and double check his counts from the previous day before Bolo got there and got started for the morning. Bolo and Flir were employed by the club. They handled pretty much any job that needed doing, so they were at the compound most days.

I pulled in and killed the engine on my bike. Digging the Marshal’s folder out of my saddle bag, I strode inside. My eyes zeroed in on Ruck, Bolo, and Flir where they were sitting, having a cup of coffee.

Ruck looked up at me and sighed. “Don't.”

My steps hesitated. He was my president, so if he meant it, I’d turn my ass right back around and as much as it killed me, I’d wait until later.

He saw the indecision on my face and groaned. “Dammit, do you know what time it is?”

“Five twenty-two,” Flir answered. He took a drink of his coffee, unbothered by the fact that Ruck was now glaring at him.

I was still standing in the middle of the clubhouse, waiting to see what Ruck would decide.

“Stop standing there like a fucking idiot and get over here,” Ruck muttered.

From the hours of about nine a.m. to about three a.m. Ruck was a caring man who would flay himself alive for those he loved. But from three a.m. to eight fifty-nine? It was up in the air as to whether he’d care if you were breathing or not. Anything in the five o'clock hour was a gamble.

I walked over to the table, sat down, and opened up the folder.

“What’s that?” Bolo asked, craning his neck to try to read the papers I was sifting through.

As soon as I found what I was looking for, I set it in front of Flir. “It’s the FBI record on Kruzman and Camila’s father.”

Ruck let out a whistle. “Do I want to know how you got that?”

“Believe it or not, I just asked,” I said with a shrug.

“The dirtbag Marshal?” Bolo asked.

I nodded. “I might have to give him some fucking points for caring enough about the girls to bend the rules.”

“That’s more than bending,” Flir said, picking up the pages. His eyes lit up when he saw the columns and rows of numbers. “It’s full on breaking them. Are these Kruzman’s books?”

“They are. Could you do me a favor and look through them?”

“You think Camila’s father was cooking the books?” Ruck asked, eyebrows raised.

“I was thinking about it. What does Kruzman care about more than his freedom?”

“Power,” Bolo said.

“Money,” Ruck replied.

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