Page 82 of Claimed By the Biker Brothers

“How are you holding up?” Samson asks.

“I’m as well as I can be under these circumstances,” I tell him. “Where’s Robyn? How is she?”

The silence that follows has me checking the payphone screen. Maybe the line got cut off.

“Samson?”

“Yeah, sorry, still here. Robyn’s okay, but she left a short bit ago,” he says, and the sky practically falls on my head.

“What?”

“She’s okay, I told you. The Feds turned the whole clubhouse inside out after you were arrested. We tried to stop them, but they kept threatening to arrest us too,” he says. “I figured you wanted us to stay out of jail for what’s coming next. Problem is, they went overboard with their search procedure, left the whole place fucking ransacked and said we should just send the DEA a bill provided we’re still operating by the time the district attorney is done with us.”

“Spalding, that smug son of a bitch.”

“Robyn and Kyra are staying at Ellie’s place. She had to take Kyra out of here, man. It was loud and aggressive; the poor kid was scared.”

“No, I get it. I’m just sorry it turned out this way. We promised her they would be safe at the clubhouse,” I say with a deep sigh.

“I’ve got about four guys watching Ellie’s house as we speak. We’ve got the prospects patrolling the neighborhood on their bikes as well,” Samson replies. “We’re doing everything we can to keep Calvin and the Hughes goons away, letting them know we’re still standing, man.”

“We are still standing,” I declare. “But the drugs… Samson, you know damn well—”

“That shit was planted,” he growls. “We vet our members carefully. Kid, I don’t know what to tell you. It doesn’t make any sense.”

I look around for a moment. The hallway drowns in a dim white light. I can hear chatter from the jail cells at one end and phones ringing and men talking at the other end. The sheriff’s station has been overrun by DEA agents.

“Either somebody managed to sneak in…” Samson says, and I know what’s coming next, though I hate to even consider it.

I beat him to it with a heavy groan: “Or it was an inside job. We might have a dirty Rider among us. It should be on the cameras, though. We have one mounted just above the basement door.”

“True, but there’s always traffic in and out of the fucking basement. We keep a lot of liquor down there, plus financial documents, archived tax returns, and all that crap, sensitive documents in the wall safe, ammo and shit. Almost everybody in the club has access. It’s a wide net to cast.”

“We still have to check,” I insist. “That was a large bag of dope. It’s not something you can just sneak in, alright? Go over the videos and highlight any large boxes or crates being brought into the basement. Have the guys check with you. Do we know where that bag was found specifically?”

“No, Spalding wouldn’t say.”

“We need to find out. It’ll help narrow down the search maybe; I don’t know. But we can’t let it slide, man. Somebody did this to us, and the longer we’re in jail, the more vulnerable the club is, the more vulnerable Robyn and Kyra are, even with security present. It doesn’t matter if we’re not there.”

“I know, I know,” Samson says, trying to soothe me, and I can hear myself talking louder and faster. “Take a deep breath, Jag. Let the lawyers do their jobs. You’ll be outta there in no time. I’ll handle everything else here; I promise.”

“Thanks, Sam. I’m sorry for all this.”

“Hey, no apologies needed. It’s interesting, though, don’t you think?”

“What is?”

“Marlo Hughes is itching to rebuild her drug empire. She wants you to help her. Calvin’s back and working with her. He wants to get back at Robyn one way or another for sure. Then there’s this Spalding prick who came in with a warrant and just happened to find all those keys of dope in our basement… Come on, don’t tell me it didn’t occur to you.”

I exhale sharply. “It did. There’s obviously a conspiracy in the works. But until we find the traitor, we’re flying blind here.”

“Time’s up,” one of the deputies says, coming over after having spent the past five minutes in the bathroom down the hall. “Back to your cell.”

I give him a look of irritation. “Come on, man, one more minute. You know me. You knowus.”

“Sorry, I can’t. Sheriff Bentley said we can’t show preferential treatment, not with so many Feds swarming our station and sticking their noses so far up our asses that if I open my mouth, you’re gonna see a DEA windbreaker at the back of my throat.”

“Samson, take care over there,” I mutter and hang up.

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