Page 22 of Claimed By the Biker Brothers

“We need to find out what he’s doing first,” I tell Jagger and Diesel, “what his movements are, where his money is coming from, if he got a job or if he’s back to his old games. There are plenty of MCs and gangs in the district for him to work with, and he knows Redwood is off limits for any kind of drug or gun business.”

“We’ve had our guys searching for him all over the place. We still can’t pin him down anywhere in particular,” Jagger says. “I agree with an informed approach, I do. But he keeps slipping, man. He’s up to something for sure. And if we don’t get to him before he makes his first move, Robyn might get caught in the crossfire. We can’t lose her.”

“We’re not going to lose her,” I say, my tone clipped.

Diesel’s gaze wanders off to the side. “Kyra deserves better.”

“She’s an angel,” I say with a smile. “Did you see her this morning?”

“Oh, yeah.” He laughs lightly.

“I never put my clothes on as fast as when I heard her calling out for her momma on the other side of that door,” Jagger quips. “It was a close one.”

“A close one? Did you not hear Robyn’s explanation as to why the three of us were in her mommy’s bedroom?” Diesel replies.

“They were fixing my window,” I mimic Robyn, prompting all three of us to burst into laughter. “God, she was sweet. They are both so goddamn sweet.”

“Which is why we need to protect them,” Jagger says stoically, resuming his stern tone.

I nod once. “You don’t have to tell me that, brother. I know. We’ll keep our eyes open. We’ll pay some of the kids down in Wilderville and Rogue River to tell us if they see Calvin passing through. Somebody will say something if they can make a buck off of it.”

A knock on the door causes the three of us to sit up straight.

“Who’s up so early?” Jagger mutters.

“Come in,” I call out.

Samson walks in. The sour, exhausted look on his face makes Diesel stifle a chuckle while I try to understand precisely how much the old man had to drink last night—and what is so serious that it meant sacrificing staying in bed for at least another hour.

“Samson, what’s wrong?” I ask.

He comes over and plays a video clip on his phone. We all stare at the screen with a growing sense of dread and disbelief. It’s a news piece on a gang-related shooting in Grants Pass. I hear mentions of drugs, the hard kind, and a few locals I know, for a fact, to be affiliated with the Hughes family.

My stomach churns as I consider the implications. It’s not the first time I’ve heard about such incidents over the past couple of months.

“That can’t be right,” Jagger says. “Grants Pass? That’s literally across the road from Redwood. What the fuck is going on?”

With a heavy thud and a tormented grunt as if every part of his body aches, Samson sits on the sofa next to Diesel. “Man… I knew this day would come. I was just hoping it would come long after I’m six feet under with a trail of pretty ladies crying at my grave.”

“You’re being dramatic,” Jagger says.

Diesel cuts in, then takes Samson’s phone to watch the footage again. “And unrealistic. A trail of pretty ladies? These are definitely Hughes’ associates. I recognize them.”

“That’s why I came over so early on a Sunday morning,” Samson replies, pointing at the phone. “I’ll have you know I was balls deep in a fiery redhead when Paulie sent me the link.”

“A fiery redhead?” Diesel questions.

“She’s a tour guide at the Oregon Vortex,” Samson replies. “So, yeah, Hughes’ guys, which means—”

“Marlo Hughes is definitely picking up where her daddy left off,” I conclude. “Despite our original agreement and repeated warnings.”

“Marlo? Really?” Jagger sounds doubtful.

Samson chuckles dryly. “Don’t let that prissy manicure and snazzy pantsuit fool ya, brother. Marlo is still a Hughes through and through. They were never gonna make the same fortune in real estate development. Come on. I told you this was bound to happen.”

“They got caught smuggling twenty kilos of H across state lines,” Diesel says. “They recognized the seals on the packs from a gang in Idaho. Shit… It’s gonna bring the Feds.”

“You know what that means,” Jagger sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The FBI and DEA will be swooping in soon.”

---