Page 67 of Burned in Stone
“This is bullshit,” Tank growls, starting forward.
“Stay back,” the second cop warns, hand moving to his gun. “Anyone interferes, they get arrested too.”
“It’s OK,” I tell Tank, keeping my voice steady even though rage is burning through my veins. “Call Stone.”
They start pushing me toward the door, deliberately rough. One of them ‘accidentally’ rams my shoulder into the doorframe.
“Cash!” Mercy starts to follow.
I turn my head, meeting her eyes. “Just call Stone, angel. He’ll know what to do.”
“Shut up,” the cop snaps, shoving me harder.
“Give them nothing, brother,” Bones calls out, and the last thing I see before they push me out the door is Mercy’s terrified face, Bones already pulling out his phone, and Tank looking ready to take on all three cops bare-handed.
They don’t read me my rights. Don’t tell me what the ‘drug’ charges are. Just shove me in the back of the patrol car, making sure my head connects with the door frame on the way in.
The lead cop slides into the front seat, catching my eyes in the rearview mirror. “Your old lady’s husband says hi.”
I let myself smile, a thin slice of violence in the mirror. “Glad to see his tiny dick is still working overtime, even if he isn’t.”
The cop doesn’t take the bait, just throws the car into gear and pulls away from Devil’s with a squeal.
They don’t take me to the local station—I’d know the inside of that shithole in my sleep. I expect the usual booking and holding cell, but instead we drive out past the city limits, up toward the industrial zone at the edge of Summit’s half-built mini-mall. Abandoned construction trailers dot the landscape, puddles of rainwater iced over in the moonlight. The wind’s got a bite even through the glass, and it smells like damp dirt and cold concrete.
And that’s when the real fear kicks in. No rights read means no official arrest. No booking means no record. A message from Gabriel means this is personal, not procedural. No one knows where the fuck I am.
Shit.
I know what cops do to people when there are no cameras. I learned that lesson the hard way when I was a kid. But now I’ve got a hell of a lot more to live for. I’ll be damned if being dragged away by this fucker’s goons is how my story ends.
They park behind a trailer with the Summit logo half-painted over, like someone ran out of patience or paint. The cop in the windbreaker yanks me out of the backseat. The other two hang behind for a second, scanning the dark like they’re expecting trouble. The wind whips around my ears, stinging and cold, but I’m tuned to the heat of adrenaline surging in my veins.
“You want to tell me what this is about?” I say, playing it bored. “Or are we skipping the foreplay and going straight to the part where you pretend I’m resisting and try to break my ribs?”
Windbreaker shoves me once toward the trailer door, then rips off my cuffs. The instant I’m free, I think about swinging, about taking even one of these pricks with me, but that’s exactly the reaction they’ve been hoping for. Instead, I plant my hands in my jacket pockets, flex my wrists, and let my voice drip with contempt. “If you’re planning on planting something in my pockets, can you pick something good? Heroin, maybe. Or, I don’t know, some imported cocaine? Go big or go home, gentlemen.”
The second cop, the one with a bad bleach job and shit for brains, spits on the ground at my feet. “You think you’re funny, don’t you?”
I look him dead in the eye. “Statistically speaking, yeah. Compared to you three, I’m a fucking riot.”
They hustle me into the trailer, slamming the door behind us. Inside reeks of mildew and something chemical, like bleachor industrial cleaner. There’s an overturned desk, a couple of folding chairs, and a battered coffee urn that looks like it’s older than Duck.
And sitting behind the desk, boots crossed on the tabletop, is Gabriel-fucking-Rogers.
He doesn’t look up. He’s reading some sort of report, or maybe a menu, or the next sadistic fantasy he’s going to try out on me. I clock his uniform right away, everything pressed flat as a new recruit’s, but the veins at his temple are standing out, a sure sign he’s lost his shit beneath the surface.
He says nothing. Just lets the silence stretch and keeps reading for what feels like a full minute. The three cops stand behind me with their arms crossed, trying to mean mug the back of my skull, but I don’t even turn around. I just stand steady and let my eyes go dead flat.
The silence gives me time to think. To calculate. Gabriel brought me here instead of arresting me officially. That means he either wants me dead, or he wants something. And since he took me in front of so many people, my guess is the latter. Information probably—about the MC, about our finances, about whatever conspiracy theory Summit’s feeding him.
But more than that, he wants me afraid. Wants me to know he can reach me anytime, anywhere. Wants me to understand that being with Mercy comes with a price.
And the fucked-up thing is, it’s working. Not because I’m scared for myself—I’ve survived worse than whatever Gabriel can dish out. But because every second I’m in this trailer is a second Mercy’s back at Devil’s or at the clubhouse, wondering if I’mcoming home. Wondering if her worst fears will become a reality, and that loving me is going to get me killed.
I won’t let that happen.
Finally, Gabriel sets down his reading and looks up, blue eyes flat and cold. He smiles, baring all his teeth like a dog that’s about to lunge.
