Page 21 of Dagger

“I can convince him,” Brett insisted. “I’ll happily walk back in there and carry on with the job, but I need to know there’s at least a chance of Henderson believing my cover story.”

“It depends,” I murmured. “My husband has to think you despise the club as much as he does.”

“He already thinks that,” Pete interjected. “We’ve had Brett acting like a tool for the last three years for a reason.”

“No,” I told him. “We need more. We need to show him. There can’t be any room for error.”

Pete’s eyes caught mine, and I knew he understood.

I hated the thought of what needed to happen. Brett had been the closest person to me and my most trusted ally for so long. He was almost like a son to me.

Brett studied me, and I saw the instant that the realization hit him. His shoulders sagged and he muttered, “Fuck!”

“We can control it,” Pete stated quietly. “We can stop every few hits, check you over, even administer pain relief.”

Atlas’s forehead furrowed. “What the fuck are you asshats talkin’ about? I don’t speak Fed.”

“We need to convince Henderson that Brett didn’t rat.” Hannigan smirked. “Hypothetically, what would you do to a hypothetical prisoner who kept his mouth shut?”

Atlas glanced at Pete’s presence through the tablet and cleared his throat nervously. “Hypothetically, we’d half hypothetically kill any hypothetical prisoner who didn’t sing like a hypothetical fuckin’ canary.”

Pete’s smirk turned even smirkier. “I rest my hypothetical case.”

Atlas sat forward, a grin curving his lips. “Does this mean I get to beat a Fed half to death? That Fed bein’ Brett ‘dick for brains’ Stafford.” He glanced at me and rubbed his hands together gleefully. “And there’s me thinkin’ my day had already been made with a stand-off at the clubhouse gates. Who knew the big man upstairs would choose to throw even more joy my way?” He raised his hand in the air. “Halle-fuckin’-lujah.”

Colt chuckled. “Depends on Agent Stafford.”

“You know I’m gonna be down for it,” Brett muttered. His annoyed stare landed on Atlas, and he suddenly grinned. “But only on one condition.” Brett jerked his chin toward Atlas. “That ass clown doesn’t get to do it.”

Atlas’s face fell. “Huh?”

“Deal,” Colt declared.

“Now wait a goddamned minute—” Atlas protested but was cut off by Pete asking, “Who’s the best candidate if not him?”

“Bowie,” Colt suggested. “He’s the enforcer and an ex-boxer, plus he hates Brett for the shit he did to Layla. He’ll jump at the opportunity to kick the fuck out of our man.”

A high-pitched squeal escaped Atlas’s throat. “I wanna do it,” he whined. “It’s not fuckin’ fair. Bowie gets to do all the fun shit.”

“I protected Layla,” Brett protested, ignoring my son-in-law’s complaints.

Atlas let out a disbelieving grunt.

“He’s right,” Pete confirmed. “What happened to Layla led him to join the FBI. When Robbie assaulted her, it was Brett who did some digging of his own, discovered what Robbie was up to, and tried to turn him in to the authorities. Pete’s team was looking for a way in, so they recruited Stafford.”

“Fuck me!” Atlas muttered.

I placed a hand on his arm. “It’s a long story and intricate, plus it spans years. Maybe we should fill you all in on the background story when everybody’s together, or else it’ll get confusing.”

“Alright,” Atlas drawled. “We need to get this shit movin’.”

As he got to his feet, Abe sauntered into the room and gave him a chin lift. “Arrow’s on the cameras, says the sheriff’s headin’ our way. We need to get instructions from Prez.” His stare slid to meet mine. “He’ll no doubt wanna talk to ya. Reckon he’ll try to persuade you to drop the charges against your ol’ man.”

His words hit me in the chest, and my lungs began to burn. “He’s not my ol’ man,” I bit out. “Don’teversay that to me again.”

Abe’s forehead wrinkled thoughtfully. “Sorry. Force of habit,”

I gritted my teeth to stop myself from screaming in frustration.

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