Page 89 of Outlaw Xmas
“Did you call the police?” Cara asked.
“Badges and us don’t mix,” Banger said gruffly.
“All you two need to know is the fucker won’t hurt the boys again. The rest is club business.” Hawk stood up and went over to the wet bar in the corner. “I need a shot. Who else wants a drink?”
A half hour later, Hawk closed the front door and turned off the porch light. He went over to the loveseat and cradled Braxton in his arms. “I’m beat. Let’s go upstairs. Braxton can sleep in our bed.” He waited until Cara switched off the lights and turned on the alarm then he followed her to their room.
With Braxton cocooned between them, he lay back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling. That night was the worst one in his life. He’d done four tours of duty in Afghanistan before he joined up with the Insurgents. He’d seen his best buddy get blown to bits. Once he joined the Insurgents, he’d been shot at, gotten into fights, did a short stint in the pen, and almost lost Cara, but nothing had prepared him for the cold terror he felt when he’d found out his son was missing. Glancing over at Cara, he smiled when he saw her arm resting over Braxton as they both slept. Shaking off the covers, he shuffled over to Isa’s room, picked her up from the crib, and went back to the bedroom. He placed her next to Braxton and slipped under the covers. Content that he had his family close to him, he let the tension, anger, and fear melt away and welcomed the refuge of sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Throttle
Ablast ofarctic air poured into the clubhouse as Detectives McCue and Ibuado opened the door. Throttle shifted in his chair and gestured for another shot of whiskey. The last thing he wanted to do was field questions from the fuckin’ badges. He doubted they were here about Christiansen or Garret, but the little problem the Insurgents had taken care of at Bridgewater’s farm was another story. Before McCue could reach him, he downed his shot, the smoky flavor and bite warming him.
“How’s it going, Throttle?” McCue asked as he took out a stick of gum.
“I can’t complain,” he answered, his gaze fixed straight ahead.
“It’s like the damn North Pole out there.” McCue moved into Throttle’s field of vision.
“You didn’t come here to give me a fuckin’ weather report.”
Ibuado chuckled. “No, we didn’t. We have some questions we wanted to ask you and the other club members.”
“The women as well,” added McCue.
“I don’t know anything you’d want to know, so you’re wasting your time,” Throttle replied as Hog placed another shot on the table and ambled away.
“That’s the thing with people. They never think they know anything, but when they start thinking about it, they actually know a whole lot of things. Where were you last Tuesday night?”
Throttle picked up his glass, sipped slowly then put it back down on the table. Stretching his legs in front of him, he looked pointedly at the detective. “I was home with my woman.”
“You weren’t at Chad Bridgewater’s place?” McCue’s jaw moved incessantly.
“No reason to be there. Chad and me aren’t close.”
“What about the other guys around here?” Ibuado asked.
“Don’t know, but if I had to guess, everyone was where they were supposed to be.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Ibuado said.
“Hitched brothers were with their old ladies and single ones were enjoying themselves at the club with the club women. Just an ordinary night.”
“We need to speak with the club women. How many you got living here?” McCue took out another stick of gum.
Throttle held the detective’s gaze for several seconds and the tension between them hissed. “Six.”
McCue shoved the stick of gum into his mouth. “We need to speak to them. Get them.”
Anger bristled inside him. “They’re resting.”
“You guys wear them out?” The detective’s lip curled.
“The brothers leave them satisfied.”
“McCue, what the hell are you doing here?” Banger’s voice broke through the tension.
