Page 48 of Dagger

“Want me to go over it with you again?” he offered.

Again, one word, “Nope.”

“Then you’re good,” Abe declared as we headed into the bar.

“Be better when we know for sure this is gonna work, brother. Gotta say, not feelin’ cool about sendin’ Stafford back into the lion’s den when we’ve got no clue if he’s been rumbled.”

“Henderson won’t suspect anythin’,” Abe assured me as we sauntered toward the main doors. “Bowie’s messed Stafford up.His face is unrecognizable. Poor fucker’ll sport a few scars after today.”

“Better scarred than dead,” I muttered, stepping into the parking lot and stilling as I took in the scene before me.

Sunlight glinted off the five bikes lined up and ready to go. My matte gold and chrome Fat Bob first. Next sat Breaker’s Dyna Glide with the painted blonde-haired, blue-eyed pin-up girl. Atlas’s beast of a Road King sat beside Bowie’s black and chrome Softail. Abe’s turquoise blue Heritage—the color identical to Iris’s eyes—was parked at the end.

I took in the sight of the men milling around the parking lot. Elise and Sophie were talking by the driver’s door of one of the club’s SUVs, with Atlas and Bowie seeing to something in the car.

“Stafford’s already been loaded into the back seat,” Abe told me.

“Is it bad?” I asked.

“He’ll live,” my bud stated. “But Bowie’s knuckles will never be the same.”

I chuckled. “Bo’s been boxin’ years. He’ll be good.”

Abe nodded toward the bikes. “He insists on riding with us. Five is as good as four. Remember you chase first, and we’ll ride a minute behind ya. That way, it’ll look like you chased after Elise, and we all scrambled after ya. We don’t want it lookin’ in any way contrived.”

“You and the boys packin’ enough firepower?”

“Yeah,” Abe replied. “Atlas looks like fuckin Rambo under his cut. All he needs is a camp-lookin’ bandana, and he could fly out to rescue his buddy Sam from a ruthless Russian colonel.”

My lips twitched. I’d watched that movie a hundred times and knew precisely what Abe was talking about.

“Bowie’s hands are bandaged like a motherfucker,” Abe continued. “Underneath his gloves, he looks like Huge-Hands Hans.”

“That sounds funny as fuck,” I stated wryly. “Wish I knew who the fuck Huge-Hands Hans is. He sounds like a goddamned trip.”

“Google that shit when we get back,” he muttered. “You’ll laugh your ass off.”

“Where’s Breaker?” I asked.

“In his room with Ned,” Abe replied. “Prolly givin’ her a goodbye fuck.”

“Nah,” I said thoughtfully. “Ned will be helpin’ her ol’ man get into the zone.”

“Yeah,” Abe agreed. “Watch your boy doesn’t veer off plan. You know what Kit’s like when he gets all soldier-fied and goes into firebug mode. He’ll blow the mayor’s mansion sky high, given half the chance.”

I smirked. “In the words of Doris Day, whatever will be will be.”

“Fuck me,” Abe breathed. “I gotta worry when you start quotin’ Doris Day, John. You sure all this cloak-and-dagger shit hasn’t got to your brain?”

I let out a chuckle. “I’m good, bud.”

The sound of a door slamming made me glance over my shoulder to see Breaker stalking toward us, with Kennedy holding the crook of his arm. Kit’s face had blanked, and his eyes were dark voids.

“We ready to roll?” Breaker asked flatly on his approach.

“Yeah. Just waitin’ for the go-ahead from Soph.” I jerked my chin toward the SUV. “She’s checkin’ on Stafford.”

His stare slid toward the vehicle and back again. “I need someone to ride bitch with me.”

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