Page 34 of Claimed By the Biker Brothers

“That can’t be,” Knox mutters. “He’d have had to file something with the courts.”

We’re seated at our usual booth in the clubhouse by the window. It’s the southern corner, giving us a full view of the place—we see everything that comes in and out. At this hour, there’s barely anyone, and they’re all MC members or close friends enjoying a hot, greasy breakfast.

The smell of bacon and pancakes and maple syrup does soothe my senses, though my appetite is nowhere to be found. Coffee has been enough for the past couple of hours. I should eat, though, so I text Roddie in the kitchen with an order for the three of us.

“He’s in the wind,” Diesel says. “The motherfucker is in the wind.”

“What about his parole officer?” I ask.

“My guy can’t reach him. He’s gonna keep trying and let me know.”

Knox curses under his breath. “Calvin is not a fucking ghost. We need to pin him down. He sleeps somewhere. He eats somewhere. He bathes somewhere.”

“I checked every halfway house and motel in the entire district,” Diesel says. “Our guys watched those places for days. He didn’t pop up anywhere.”

“He only pops up when he wants to be seen,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair. “He’s doing it on purpose. Calvin knows we’re watching. He knows we’re keeping Robyn and Kyra close. It’s a strategy. He’s waiting to see how far we’re willing to reach. Waiting for a soft spot.”

“There is no soft spot,” Diesel scoffs.

Knox shakes his head. “There is. There’s two of them, actually.”

“Robyn and Kyra,” I sigh deeply. “Fair enough.”

“But we’ve got eyes on them. Calvin can’t get anywhere near them,” Diesel insists.

“We all know that’s not enough,” I say. “But the best we can do is keep digging. He’ll slip up at some point. Calvin is anything but a criminal mastermind. Someone’s helping him. I’m sure of it. We’ll figure him out. Until then, we keep tight ranks and eyes on Robyn and Kyra at all times.”

“We also move on with our business,” Knox says, opening his laptop. Diesel and I lean forward as he turns it around on the table so the three of us can see the screen. He pulls up a few graphs and a spreadsheet. “The transport routes are doing well. Better in the third quarter, I’ll say.”

“That looks encouraging,” I reply, recognizing the figures and their rise from one column to the next. “What about the times per delivery?”

“Those are still dependent on routes and traffic. The inner-city deliveries all over Oregon take longer,” Knox says.

He’s about to delve deeper into the financial aspect when I hear the front door open and close with a dramatic thud. I look up, somehow expecting to see Calvin walk in. I don’t know why. I’m just itching to bash his face in, much like Knox and Diesel.

The man in the navy-blue suit walking toward us doesn’t soothe my inner tension. In fact, he looks pissed. “Knox Berlanti?” he asks with a low, husky voice.

“That’s me,” Knox says, giving him a curious glance.

“And you must be Jason McKenna and Diesel Voight. Did I get that right?”

“You can call me Jagger,” I say.

“Who the fuck are you?” Diesel says, ever the straight shooter.

We don’t get up; we just sit back and measure the guy from top to bottom. He’s in his mid-fifties. The suit and windbreaker scream Federal. The lack of hair and sharp-smelling cologne whisper small dick energy. I’m guessing middle management that might turn out to be a massive pain in our asses. This guy exudes bad vibes that spell trouble.

“Agent Frank Spalding,” the man says and whips out a badge. “DEA.”

“DEA. No shit?” Diesel mutters and reaches for the agent’s badge. “Can I see it?”

“Why?”

“What if it’s a fake?”

I stifle a smirk as I watch Spalding’s stern face drop for a hot second. Yet he doesn’t object. He gives Diesel the badge and focuses his attention on Knox and me. “I’m here on official business,” Spalding says.

Only now do I notice the black bag on his shoulder. He sets it on the edge of my seat and takes out a package wrapped in yellow plastic, bearing a tag that reads EVIDENCE.

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