Page 73 of The Wild Charge

Windmere looked like Central Casting had gone searching for a pomaded Reagan lookalike, and wound up with a smudged photocopy instead. Bad teeth, rough skin, a bald spot forming in the back, and a cut of suit that failed to hide his paunch. Your standard aging, unhandsome politician.

But in most of his photos taken at fundraisers, speaking with constituents, posing in front of charitable organizations, he’d managed to get an arm around a woman, a hand on a waist, on a breast, in more than one case, and he seemed to like to kiss strangers – of the female variety – on the mouth.

“Nothing out of the ordinary as far as politics go,” Ratchet said. “Women cry foul, dude looks hella sketch in a bunch of photos, and God knows what’s really going on. But….” He expanded a photo, one in which Windmere grinned too-wide at the camera, a young woman tucked under each arm. The pulse of revulsion she felt caused her to notice the banner behind them a beat late.

“Dreams in Flight,” she read aloud.

“It’s a charity for battered women,” Ratchet said. “In his home state.”

“Thought he’d do a little donating to smooth his reputation,” Fox said, clucking his tongue in disgust.

“Yeah, and guess who owns Dreams in Flight.”

Eden’s stomach dropped when she realized who he must mean. “The Kellys?”

“Yep.” Ratchet sounded pleased. “And they have a sister organization called Back on Your Feet – shit name, by the way – in NYC. Guess who always makes a big deal of donating meals to them.”

“Sal and Matt Moretti.”

“Damn, Ratchet,” she murmured. “How did I miss all this?”

“You didn’t,” he assured. “I just never sleep.”

Fox patted the top of her head. “Also might have something to do with pregnancy brain, love.”

She snorted.

“That connects all of them, at least,” Eden said, “though, loosely, I’m afraid.”

“Stop thinking like a government agent,” Fox said. “We don’t need an airtight case.”

That was both reassuring – and also terribly frightening. She nodded. “Right.”

“There’s more, though,” Ratchet said, opening yet more tabs. “Those companies you had me look into? The ones making deliveries to Nine in Tuscaloosa? Well, look. Moretti gets his liquor from Innovate – they’re a national brand. Same with Lysin, which lists charitable donations on their website: they donate a ton of food to all three of the Kellys’ organizations. Light up the Night isn’t national, though, but I was able to get hold of a work order for a campaign event, one where Windmere spoke on behalf of a congressman running in Alabama? They did the lighting.”

Fox sighed. “All of that could be coincidental. What about parent companies?”

“All different, sorry.”

Axelle returned with a plate of – yes, those were Nutter Butters, and they looked amazing at the moment – and a cup of steaming tea that smelled of oranges. Eden’s stomach made happy noises in anticipation.

“God, you’re an angel,” she said, accepting the cup.

“Any luck?”

“Yes and no.”

Fox paced over to the bar and pulled a Coke out of the cooler; leaned against the bar while he took a long, noisy slurp of it. “Not to be a pessimist–”

“No, you’re always so cheerful,” Axelle said, and Eden chuckled.

Fox lifted his middle finger from the can and Axelle snorted. “Not to be a pessimist,but I don’t think I spoke too son about this being a root-and-branch situation. I think it needs to be a hit, clean and simple. The boys and I can take care of every person on Luis’s list, we’ll dump Luis himself, and so be it.”

Eden frowned. “If the Dogs kill high-profile targets like this, the fallout could potentially be catastrophic. Not just for this chapter, but the entire club.”

He scrubbed his face, weary-looking suddenly. “Honestly, fuck Ghost and his white knight bullshit, sometimes. We shoulda killed Luis that first night and left well enough alone.”

Eden was glad Ghost wasn’t around to hear that. Even Ratchet picked his head up, brows furrowing.

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