Tarnished Lies and Dead Ends Page 13

  “Not without it costin’ me more than the info is worth, no.”

  “Right. Right.” Tip of her thumb pressing in turn along each large knuckle of her other hand, she mentally counted down her remaining questions, trying to settle on the one that would give her the most bang for the buck. Mason’s hint at Wildman’s past ranked high, way high, even as it felt wrong to hear anything about the man that wasn’t from his own lips. Justine chewed the inside of her cheek, the sting and copper taste telling her she’d wound herself up past the edge of sanity. His Florida history sans-personal story would be good to know, yet she somehow suspected a lot of the info would be open to her normal channels of investigation. Unless I don’t want to bring the fact I’m looking into him to anyone’s attention. Huffing out an explosive sigh, she lifted her head and stared at Mason, features schooled into the same blank mask he wore. “What would it cost to find out if the interrogatory were malicious or benign? Not looking for the source’s name, just the meaning behind the inquiry?”

  “Now that would cost a sight less.” Brows quirked together, Mason curled the corner of his lips in something that wasn’t a smile but still strengthened her like a brand of approval. “Knew you’d come up with the right question. I’ll call your home in two—” He pretended to study the ceiling, as if heavenly insights might be coming his way, and Justine laughed softly. “Maybe three days. Your people aren’t gonna be pleased with you, darlin’, regardless of the tale you spin.”

  And there it was. The real reason he’d stayed. This was his ask to her, to share what the repercussions might be for what Wildman had requested. Might as well put him out of his misery.

  “One call will have an extraction team here within maximum couple of hours.” She admitted to her ignorance of the exact location. “Baton Rouge if we’re west of the Mississippi, Jackson if we’re east of it. Tossup between NOLO and Mobile, depending on the southerly range.”

  “Red Stick, then,” he said, using the born-and-bread Louisianians’ nickname for the state’s capital. “You got any personal contacts there? Need me to try to pass any information along official channels back to your folks faster than might otherwise happen?”

  “Oh, it’ll happen fast enough. Debrief won’t be anywhere except Adken, unless it’s in Jacksonville or Tampa. My story starts and ends with the human trafficking aspect. It would help if I knew what happened to the women left at the clubhouse.” She tried to think of other important details. “And where the shipping yard was, exactly. Cartel’s minions had us bagged when they took us there, and the IMC extracted us in cargo vans. I have a sense, but no real idea of the location.”

  Mason pulled out his phone and tapped an icon, using facial recognition to access the application. She angled her body to the side, trying to get a better look, but he huffed out yet another laugh and turned it away so all she got was the back of the phone. “Oh, fuck no, woman. I gotta keep some of the mysteries hidden.”

  A tinny voice said, “Boss, the loc puts you where you ain’t supposed to be anymore. The fuck”—Mason’s hands moved, and the volume soared, a clearly irate male voice filling the air around them—“do you think you’re doing?”

  “Got you on speaker, brother.” Silence, broken only by a sudden and rapid tapping of keyboard keys. “Yeah, yeah, I know you could do all kinds of terrible things to me if you wanted to. Turn on the camera if you want to know who’s here. I’ll do a sweep for ya, show ya we’re alone.” He did as promised, still managing to keep the screen of the phone hidden. The phone paused longest aimed her direction, and another flurry of keystrokes sounded over the speaker. “You can fuckin’ talk, man. It’s all good.”

  “Boss. You’re supposed to be pullin’ up at the goddamned BR IMC house right fuckin’ now.” Mason’s brows lifted, and Justine nodded, able to make the distance estimation based on timeframe. Made it clear why he’d thought Baton Rouge was the likely launch for rescue. “What the fuck are you still doin’ there, and from the looks of things, alone except for your sister? Hell, just her and not a goddamned brother in sight? Really, Mason? This is how you decide to play this?”

  Lips spread wide in a grin, Mason waited a beat but no more questions came through from whoever was on the other end of the video call. Gaze flicking between the screen and Justine’s face, he chuckled loudly. “Damn, Myron, that’s a load of cussin’ for you. Mouse gonna need to take you over his knee, you keep that shit up.”

  Myron, otherwise known as Ronald Lyons, partner of Andrus Kasmouski, aka Mouse. Myron is blood brother to Bones’ woman. Justine was pleased with herself at being able to quickly place both names. Once she’d known the relationship between herself and Mason, the casual, professional interest she’d had in the Rebel Wayfarers MC as one of the largest and most stable motorcycle gangs in northern America, expanding out into other countries including Germany, Netherlands, Spain, Brazil, and Australia, had shifted. Once it became personal, she had wanted to know everything, every single scrap of info she could dig up on Davis Mason, stunned by the direction his MC life had taken him but not surprised at all he’d been smart enough to surround himself with true brothers, not sycophants hanging around for the benefit the association could bring to them.

  Myron was one of the most intelligent men he had, one she’d not met yet but who excelled in his role, based on rumors alone. A technical wizard who skipped standard schooling, learning as he went from everyone he met, and making up a shit ton of things along the way. All of it genius. Justine would bet good money the app Mason was using had been written entirely by Myron and was likely at least as secure as the most protected federal versions.

  “Boss.” Myron’s tone took on a tenor she associated with forced patience, dragging the ess sound out long. “You gonna explain?”

  “Mebbe.” Mason’s wink in Justine’s direction was clearly witnessed by the man on the video, because she heard his labored sigh, loud and clear. “Just messin’ with ya, My. I’m here for another ten, fifteen max, which means you can let the brothers know just when to expect me. And,” his mouth pulled to the side, humor thick in his voice, “I’ll even leave the loc tracker on for ya, so you can babysit my little green dot all the way back.”

  “Don’t make me launch a swarm, Mason. You know I will.”

  “That I do, I surely do. Wouldn’t want you to use up any of your banked drone hours just on little ole me.” Mason smiled, and under that expression, she saw the bones of their shared ancestry, another instant where she was off-center in an unpleasant way.

  Her final memory of their father was a picture of him lying in sprawled repose, across the uneven top of a shatter-legged table, head lolling to the side, the bullet that killed him having left no evidence of agony on his face. Mason had claimed the bodies quickly, release forms no doubt sped on their way with the slide of loaded palm against a greedy one. They’d both been cremated before she’d even known they were dead. With her being an active federal agent, the last thing she’d needed then was her family history on record, and any necessary restrictions were still the case. The gooseflesh was back with a vengeance, rippling up her arms and legs in harsh waves, leaving her shivering in their wake.

  Mason’s gaze sharpened, and he dropped the jocular act, if act it had been, instead adopting an on-guard posture, shifting to his feet in one smooth movement, his eyes angling through each window and door in turn, before falling back on her face. “What was that? Just now, what was that, Justine?”

  She hated him a little as she struggled to her feet, ignoring the helping hand he extended. “Nothing. I’m just tired.” Dusting off her palms, she pointed to the phone still in his grip. “Was this the request?”

  “Yeah.” Tongue tracing along the edges of his teeth, Mason stared at her then blinked, and when his eyes reopened, he was focused on the app. “Myron, need you to initiate a query with the Bastards. I’d go direct to Retro with this, but he’s prolly in transit. I want the info ASAP, and I suspect one of his officers would have access
to the info I need. You with me?”

  “Ya, boss. What’s the ask?” Myron’s voice had been stripped of all emotion or humor, flat, affectless, and his words to the point.

  “Who besides me has been askin’ around about Wildman? That’s it. Sum total. Got it?” Justine startled at the question, so much more than what they’d rehearsed moments before. Keystrokes sounded, Mason’s electronic wizard behind the curtain working his Kansas whirlwind magic. “Me leavin’ here depends on the rapidity with which you can locate the info, brother. Make it fast. Justine needs to make her calls and can’t with me in proximity.”

  “Ya, boss.” Less direct, Myron sounded distracted. “Retro just dismounted in the yard at IMC Motherhouse. You want him straight on this call, I can make it happen.”

  “Get him. It’s better to get the mainline source anyway.” Mason flicked a glance in Justine’s direction, a considering expression on his face. “I’m going to stand where all interested parties can have a voice in the call, brother. Hide anything you don’t want the lady to see.”

  “Jesus, Mason.” Something rattled across a wooden surface, and then there was an anonymous scraping that could be anything. “Let me just check one thing. Shit, I left the…” Justine ducked her head, trying to hide her smile, before Mason’s hand settled on her shoulder with a tiny shake. “Okay, I think we’re good. You’re a goddamned asshole, boss.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Mason’s fingers dug in a little as he adjusted their standing postures closer. “Myron, meet my sister Justine. She’s the pretty one in the picture.”

  “Evening, ma’am.” Wiry frame, dark hair in a cute tousle, Myron grinned at her through the video, and if she hadn’t heard his rushing around to hide whatever it was he thought might be in jeopardy by her very viewing, she wouldn’t have believed he’d been doing anything other than sitting in front of a computer. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “I’ve heard good things about you, Myron.” Justine inclined her head slightly, gaze never leaving the screen as she mapped every inch of what she could see. The playground scene out the back window told her it wasn’t the clubhouse, which meant Mason had reached out to him at home. “Thanks for taking Mason’s call. I’m sorry he interrupted family time.”

  “As if I had a choice.” He bent to put an elbow on the desk, propping his chin in his palm. “We’re waiting on confirmation Retro’s gotten private; then I can patch him in.” She watched his eyes move side to side and knew he was cataloging the likenesses she and Mason shared. “She’s definitely the pretty one.”

  “I know.” Mason’s arm tightened around her shoulders, and she let herself sag into his embrace a little. “Tough as nails. You hear she took down the guy here all by herself?”

  “I heard something along those lines.” Justine wasn’t surprised the rumor mill already had hold of the story, but the idea of it getting as far as Fort Wayne, Indiana, was startling. “Finger always on the pulse, ma’am.”

  “Justine, please. You’re not my subordinate, and I don’t even allow them to call me ma’am.” She gave him a smile she hoped edged into gracious. “Justine will do me fine.”

  Myron opened his mouth, then clamped it shut as he leaned forwards, hands disappearing somewhere underneath the camera as the clicking of his keyboard sounded again. “Okay, he’s ready now. Give me half a minute—” His bottom lip rolled between his teeth, and he bit down. “—and he’s here.”

  Retro’s camera view slid in from the side, like a fancy special effect. He was in front of a blamelessly white wall, nothing in sight other than him. He stared at the screen in front of him and pursed his lips before smiling broadly, showing off his white, straight teeth. “Mason, brother. Thought we were lackin’ a wad of hot wind at our backs. You hangin’ out for a reason, man?” His gaze settled a little to the right, where Justine supposed her image was projected. “Justine LaPorte, well met, lady. Glad to see you’re in such good company still.”

  She let the tiny dig about her job pass without comment. “Retro, good to see you.”

  “Brother, got an ask. You up for it? In a place where you can take it and respond as you need?” That would be Mason’s only demand—that no one profit from what would cost him either money or favors.

  “Mudd’s behind the camera, as you might expect. We’re alone and in a room I did not know the IMC had in their Motherhouse. Love it when I learn me somethin’ new every single day.” Retro made a show of looking around whatever room they were in.

  She could only assume it was a tech-blocking isolation room, where the elite of the club could have truly private conversations without the worry of listeners-in, whether they were local club competition or the legal branches of the local, state, or national governments.

  “Makes me homesick in a kind of way.” He pretended to wipe a tear. “Gotta get rollin’ soon, hie my own ass home. You already know why.” The jovial lines of his features morphed, turning into a hardened version of the same face, but this a formidable man, not approachable as he normally appeared. “I don’t mind layin’ out a little here, because we may be able to do a tit-for-tat, depending on the ask.” His eyes danced to the side again, so she knew he was looking at her. “Russian mafia in my goddamned backyard, playin’ hopscotch with my goddamned kids. They’re about to go to war with the Mexicans, and we’re in the fuckin’ middle, you get me?” Justine tried her best to hold onto her version of the family Morgan-face, a pitch-perfect deflection of any information leakage. She failed, and knew it when his chin came up, lips clamped tight as he cut his words off abruptly. “I see this is not news to you.”

  “It is not.” She swallowed and coughed, ribs hurting not only from the beatings she’d endured but with however her body had been flung around while she was unconscious. She was also suddenly aware that although her legs were out of view, she would appear vulnerable, nearly naked from the waist down. The image in the video showed a disheveled woman, hair a rat’s nest on her head, streaks of dirt across her cheek and chin. Jesus. Straightening, she lifted her chin as she elaborated, “I may have information you would want.”

  “Tell me what you need then, woman.” His voice had dropped to a growl, and she knew it was because what was a growing issue along the coast had rocketed to the top of his displeasure list by involving his family. Retro was known by all to be a straight shooter, keeping his end of any bargain while still able to command men who would kill for him, and thus able to back up a demand of bargain-keeping from those he did business with. For him to be so visibly upset meant something, and the tension of Mason’s arm across her upper back said his friend’s discomfort was hard to see.

  “I want—”

  “We want to know who other than me has been askin’ about Wildman.” Mason’s finger darted down to her side, where he gave her a hard pinch, telling her without words that him overriding her direct ask wasn’t something he’d budge about.

  “I find myself interested in what the lady would have asked on her own.” Retro flicked his hair over one shoulder, intuitive gaze intent on the screen. “I was told it was an RWMC ask, which I’ll entertain all day long. This though, is cloudy, given who signs her paychecks.”

  “You were just fuckin’ willin’ to barter with her about intel.” Mason’s barked response was loud, his body nearly vibrating with tension at her side.

  “Rethinkin’ that.” Retro shrugged fluidly, a toned-back grin crossing and dropping from his lips. “My prerogative.”

  “Goddamn it, Retro. That’s not how this is supposed to go.”

  “Supposed to go and actually goes. Those can be each end of the satisfaction spectrum, my friend.” Mason cleared his throat noisily at Retro’s words. “Brother,” Retro amended, with a tiny, royal nod. “I’d like to hear the ask directly from Justine LaPorte, if I may. Mason, you don’t have a marker large enough to offer for this. Not right now, man. Give me a minute to sort this out, and I suspect you’ll be happy as a lamb in clover.”

  “I understand there
has been more than one request for information on Wildman. One was Mason, when he heard I’d picked someone—Wildman—as a partner.” Justine leaned closer. “Who else was asking about him?”

  “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Retro leaned back, face angled up as he addressed the ceiling of the room where he stood. “Let me think a minute.”

  “Goddammit, Retro.”

  “Oh, hush, you. Man’s gotta find his humor where he can.” Retro dropped his chin and stared into the camera. “This I know to be true. Three requests for information came my way. Two have been responded to, one to you, Mason, and one to Twisted, for reasons of his own that if you put your mind to what’s happened in the IMC lately, you’ll fully understand. The third was a tangled request, relayed just before we jumped on this video call. Silent Deaths offered a hell of a marker for info on Wildman and the woman in his bed.” He leveled a finger at the camera, thumb cocked back like a gun’s hammer. What the hell? “That woman would be you, pretty lady. So now the question is what do I do with that final request? Smoke and his boys are friendly with IMC, from what I understand. Why would they be interested in a man who may become a key officer, stepping up from the role he fills now? More to the point, what the hell would it matter to them who he’s fuckin’?” He dipped a nod at the camera, uncocking his thumb as he lowered his hand. “No offense intended.”

  “None taken.” Justine dropped her gaze as she ran over the information he’d provided. Silent Deaths were known to have solid ties down to Mexico, well beyond the Machos MC. Their request could be in response to my recent trade-interrupting activities. Or it could be about Wildman. Either way, it wasn’t something she could afford to ignore. Justine realized she was staring at the floor again, seemingly for the hundredth time today. At least they were in the front room, and she didn’t have to see her own vomit again. “I’m not on that task force any longer. Took myself off via request months ago. I’m purely trafficking, not on anything RICO-tinged. Anything to do with any outlaw clubs is strictly need-to-know in the bureau, and I’m no longer on that list. I have no idea why they’d be interested in me. Weren’t they a club Tucker sought refuge with after he killed that little Texas girl?” In a split-second decision, she decided to downplay her knowledge of the SDMC. All the better to get info with, my dear.