Page 163 of Lone Star

“You can hit him all you like later,” Walsh said behind him, “but maybe let him explain, first.”

Albie wished he had the sledgehammer back. But he jerked a nod and stopped trying to pull away from Walsh. This was about Axelle and Michelle; he had to keep them in the forefront of his mind. Not like back at the warehouse. That kind of red-haze bloodlust served no one.

He swore he heard Fox’s voice in the back of his head: disapproving of emotional displays.

He reached inside his cut and drew out the documents Fox had given him. Passed them to Walsh when his brother stepped up beside him. His gaze stayed trained on Maddox, and his voice crackled; there was only so much rage he could suppress right now. “Please explain to me how your whole department was in the dark about this,” he invited, mocking.

Beside him, pages rustled, and Walsh whistled as he scanned the birth certificate.

Maddox – still half-hiding behind Jenny – said, “Look, I’ve got no idea what the rest of the department knows, but I don’t know shit. Or I didn’t, until today. Cantrell’s never told me shit. I usually just carry shit to the car and pull surveillance duty.” He shoved both hands through his hair – thoroughly mussed, like he’d done that a lot today – and clasped them together at the back of his neck. Shook his head. He looked like a man who’d reached a point of disbelief and anger so total he’d tumbled over into numbness. The body’s way of preserving sanity.

Albie couldn’t find any sympathy at the moment.

“He never talked about having a family?” Walsh asked.

“No, never. But I thought…” He made a face.

“It would be wise not to withhold information,” Walsh said, almost gently. Albie was struck by the fleeting thought that Walsh was usually the one to do the note-taking when Mercy pried answers out of people. Strong stomach, and a steady manner.

Maddox let out a deep breath, and dropped his hands. “I’ve thought this whole case was fucked up from the start. We didn’t know shit.Howcould we not know shit? No leads, and no witnesses, except for you guys.” His expression went disgusted, momentarily, then fell back to bewildered defeat. “It seemed wrong. All the resources we have, and all this dicking around we’ve done here. He was stalling.” A hard glint flickered in his eyes. “He was planning this the whole time, wasn’t he?”

“Planning what, though?” Jenny said. “To help the cartel take out the Dogs? Arrest the club?”

Albie frowned. “I just came from there. How do you already know?”

Walsh smirked. “Police scanner.”

Jenny smirked. “God help Amarillo PD right now.”

There was a story there, but not one Albie was going to take the time to ask about now. “We need to move. I’ve got an address, and we don’t have time to wait.”

Eden joined them. “You know where the girls are?”

“Yeah.” It hurt to swallow; his stomach felt lodged in his throat. “They’re with the mad priest.”

~*~

Tenny didn’t so much as flinch on the walk from the sofa to their shared dorm room. But by the time Reese had deposited him down onto the bed, his face had gone very, very white, his lips pressed to a tight line. “You didn’t have to carry me,” he muttered, like he was annoyed, but Reese didn’t miss the way the veins stood out in his temples and wrists; the simple strain of trying to move without shifting his head or neck at all.

“I didn’t carry you,” Reese pointed out. He’d only kept an arm around his waist and supported his weight for the slow, careful trip.

“Ugh.” He closed his eyes and pressed his head back into the pillow, finally wincing. The bandages on his throat looked rumpled – they would need to be changed – but there was no blood leaking through. Yet.

Reese was shocked, honestly.

When it became apparent that Ten was secure, and not about to roll off the bed or have a stroke, Reese turned to the dresser and started sorting through his things. He needed some fresh magazines, and he’d take the sawed-off this time, in its sheath, and he was definitely wearing the grease paint.

Behind him, Tenny croaked, “What are you doing?”

“Preparing. I’m going with Albie.”

A pause. “Oh, bollocks, you’re not painting your face. Tell me you aren’t painting your face.”

Reese dipped two fingers into the grease paint and striped his cheek with it.

“You’re an idiot.”

Reese didn’t respond. Finished his face, until he looked properly skull-like, wiped his fingers, collected his guns and magazines. Pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt; he’d worn the long black one, full of holes, its hem tattered from so much use, and so many washings, but with the deep hood that shadowed his entire face. Then he turned.

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