Page 47 of Property of Chaos

Know where she’s going?

The dots dance without hesitation.

They went to the airport.

I rise from where I’d been leaning against the bike, fingers stabbing hard enough to turn white on the screen.

What do you mean they?

She’s with Marianna.

The absolute fuck?As tempting as hurling my phone down feels, it doesn’t help me keep tabs on the situation if I destroy it.

Why?

Fucked if I’d know. They just picked up some dark-haired woman who was crying on the ground.

Shit keeps getting weirder. I scan the front of Matthias’s house and sigh out my nose. Fucking jaw won’t unlock.

Stay on them and keep me updated.

What are you up to, my little enigma?I move to pocket the phone, yet another chime has me tug it free again.

Circus sends another picture. My breath leaves my lungs long and slow as I pinch and zoom again. Her fingertips rest against her temple, Vanessa’s chin tucked down as she rides shotgun in Marianna’s car. I zoom as far as the fucking phone will allow.Fuck’s sake.I want to see her eyes. To read the echoes of her heart through the fucking windows to her soul. Is she frustrated? Sad? Worried?

“Fuck!” I jam the useless fucking thing into my pocket and march toward the goddamn two-story home before me.

What am I supposed to do now? What does she need?Ihave to know what she needs; otherwise, I’ll go mad trying to figure it out.

The sooner there’s a camera on the woman, the better.

“Good of you to finally join us.” Matthias drawls from where he stands before his front door.

Crow leans against the porch rail opposite the man, arms folded over his chest. “Sorted your shit out?”

“Yeah,” I bark. “Have you assholes?”

There’s a goddamn F250 parked in our yard that’s currently under investigation by the fire department. If I move it, I draw attention to why. If I leave it there, I risk some nosy fucker discovering the scale of our operations. I mean, sure, one truck ain’t shit in the grand scheme of things. But when I tout the fucking story to the local authorities that we just grow a little green to help the brothers with stress, and then they discover eighty pounds of the shit shoved in a delivery truck… yeah. Do the math.

Weed isn’t illegal anymore, but tax evasion sure is.

“We came to an understanding while we waited,” Crow mumbles. Don’t think I’ve ever heard the fucker use the full strength of his voice. “Need you to okay it.” His gaze slices sideways towards me. The man’s up to something.

Sure. Guess I’ll play along.

“What’d you offer him?” I turn to Matthias, eyebrow raised.

He lifts his chin to fucking square up. “A shift in interests going forward.”

The fuck?“What’s wrong with what we got going on?” The club’s been selling Mary-Jane to his goddamn family for decades. His father was our original drug runner interstate, special hold areas welded into the panels of his eighteen-wheeler.

“Shit ain’t been the same since the stuff went legal,” Matthias states, folding his arms and leaning on the door jam. “You know that.”

“Not stupid. Nope.” As soon as marijuana was placed on the list of legal therapy drugs, growers popped up left, right, and fucking center. Supply flooded the market, and even worse, most newcomers were better set up for legitimate supply deals.

People feel better buying their weed from a well-dressed hipster in an artisan warehouse than a bunch of outlaw bikers in a freight yard.

Go figure.

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