Page 22 of Lone Star

Cantrell sighed. “I want to make it very clear that I don’t like what you guys do.”

Candy nodded. “That’s a given.”

“But it’s…” He grimaced. “I can’t believe I’m saying this. Whatever bad shit the Dogs do, the ritual killing of civilians doesn’t seem to be on the list.”

“We do try to avoid that kinda thing.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.” Candy levered a hint of steel into his voice. “This wasn’t us.”

“I know that,” Cantrell said, and the words sounded like they cost him – but like delivering them lightened the load across his shoulders, too. “Which is the only reason I can sit here and admit to you that I need help.”

Candy felt his brows go up again. “Sorry. I didn’t catch that. It sounded like you asked for my help.”

The agent’s face compressed, expression nearly disgusted. “Don’t get cute. I’m talking about an understanding – a business agreement. I share what I learn, you share what you learn, and we’ll meet in the middle and catch the bastards.”

Candy stared at him a long moment, searching for the catch, the trap.Can’t trust anyone with a badge, Dad’s voice – or maybe Blue’s – pinged unhelpfully in the back of his head. And he knew that; bikers and lawmen lived on opposite ends of a line that – while it could be obscured, or pushed up or down along a scale – could never be erased completely. One-percenters were outlaws, at the end of the day. By choice, by design. The incompatibility would always exist.

But the club did make temporary friends out of the occasional badge or two. Guys who owed the club; guys who’d grown up around it and appreciated the ways they kept petty crime and senseless violence at bay. Guys who understood the futility of trying to bring down the club, and who’d decided to make use of them in the ways they could instead.

Maybe Cantrell was one of those – he sounded like it.

But he was a fed. This wasn’t a local deputy sticking his neck out, ready to be dressed-down and turned loose by the higher-ups. Agents could pull all sorts of governmental strings. They hadresources. When clubs were toppled, occasionally, it was always at the sizable hands of the alphabet agencies.

“I’m not talking about filling out paperwork,” Cantrell said, rolling his eyes. “But somebody has to go take your sister’s statement. Might as well be me.”

Candy searched his face. He’d always thought himself a good judge of character; unless he really had gone soft, Cantrell wasn’t smarmy enough, smooth or charming enough, to be playing any kind of game. He looked tired and frustrated.

So Candy nodded. “Yeah, might as well.”

Twelve

Michelle woke to the sound of a small voice saying “Mama” over and over. She sat up with a little gasp when pain lanced down her neck, and along the backs of her shoulders. She’d fallen asleep at the table, head down on her folded arms, and the position had pressed on all kinds of nerves the wrong way.

Jenny was in the same shape, grimacing across from her, blinking gritty eyes and reaching to massage the back of her neck. Jack stood beside her chair, tugging at the sleeve of her sweater.

“Mama, Mama, Mama, Mama–”

“Shh, I hear you, baby, what’s wrong?”

“Daddy’s here.”

That meant Candy was here, too, probably. Michelle raked her fingers through her hair and glanced around the room. Her tea sat stone cold in front of her, and pale early light streamed in through the windows. She should have been up, showered, and dressed by now. Should have been getting TJ’s breakfast ready now. Should already be thinking about spreadsheets, and numbers, and ways to make TLC run even smoother and more efficiently – the thing she was constantly thinking about.

Before she could stand, the door to the sanctuary opened, and Candy and Colin trooped in.

Jack whirled around with a glad, “Daddy!” and ran at them.

Colin scooped him up without any visible effort, hoisting him high so Jack’s little legs could go around his waist. “Hey, buddy. You get some sleep?”

Jack nodded vigorously, tousled gold hair flying. “Mama’s still asleep,” he said in a confidential whisper that, while hushed, didn’t hit the mark of being quiet.

“No, she’s not,” Jenny said, standing. Michelle caught her giving her hair a quick tidy, tongue running over her teeth with an expression that was a plain wish for a toothbrush. “Hey, baby.”

Michelle turned her head to give them what privacy she could, just in time to meet Candy as he braced a hand on the back of her chair and leaned down for a kiss.

“My breath’s disgusting,” she said, apologetically, after.

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