Page 87 of Surrender
And a third.
The roller doors to the garage were open about four feet from the floor, so we couldn’t see the front gate clearly, but we didn’t need to.
Anyone who was welcome here didn’t drive that slow or cautious.
Hawk and I shared a look.
“Cops,” I muttered, jaw tightening.
He nodded in agreement.
“Miss, go get Bishop,” Hawk said calmly, though Missy was already halfway out the door. “Drew, warn everyone to lock shit down.”
He snapped a salute and ducked through the connecting door into the clubhouse, pulling it shut behind him.
“Ready?” Hawk asked.
I nodded, and the two of us crouched, ducking under the half-raised roller door and stepping into the morning light, blinking against the glare. At the same time, Bishop threw open the front door to the clubhouse, his face already pinched tight in anger and his eyes narrowed on the scene unfolding at our gate.
Whip stood stiffly, his arms folded as he spoke to a detective in plain clothes with a badge hanging around his neck. The guy’s stance was casual, maybe a little too casual for how tense the air felt.
Three cars sat just beyond the gate.
Two black and whites, and an unmarked sedan.
All with lights on but no sirens, which somehow made this feel even more ominous.
Sirens were loud and dramatic.
This was cold.
Unnerving.
We stomped across the lot, meeting Bishop halfway.
“This isn’t fucking good,” Hawk growled under his breath.
“You got any ideas?” Bishop asked, his fists clenched at his sides. That was the thing with cops. They weren’t always our enemy, but they wereneverour friends. They were more like predators, always watching, looking for a weakness, looking for a reason to pull you over or search your shit.
Did I blame them? Not really.
Most of the time, we weren’t doing what they assumed we were doing.
But sometimes, we were doing worse.
“I could probably take a good guess,” I muttered, already thinking of how many different ways I could make Carringtondisappear. Forever. “There’s only one fucker trying to jam us up in court at the moment.”
Whip glanced over his shoulder as we approached, and when Bishop lifted his chin, Whip unlocked the latch and pulled oneside back, stepping to the side so we could pass.
As we stepped out, a couple of uniformed officers exited each cruiser, their hands resting on their weapons. They weren’t drawn, but damn sure ready like they expected things to get a little ugly.
The detective didn’t flinch. He stood there with his hands in his pockets, chewing a piece of gum and acting like this was just another casual visit to the local MC clubhouse to have a chat. The dark glasses he was wearing hid his eyes, and I knew that was a strategic move on his part, but I didn’t fucking like it.
People spoke a lot with their eyes.
And I was finding it hard to read this guy.
“Morning, boys,” he greeted with a southern accent and a grin. “Sorry to disturb you on this beautiful Sunday morning. I’m Detective Samuels.”
