“The other places are good. Muerto said someone tried to deliver a pizza, but Brandy knew something was off. The guy left it at the front and took off but Muerto got him. He said the place was packed tonight.” Diablo clenched his fists. “The fuckin’ Pistons are gonna pay for this.”
“What’d he do with the box?” Army asked. A sideways glance confirmed Medico had just arrived. The forty-four-year-old man had his medical bag in one hand, and he lifted his chin at Army and the others then knelt down beside Paul.
“He said he took it over a few blocks and left it behind a trash bin in an alley. The dude he caught is at the clubhouse. He’s going back to the pool hall when Goldie gets there, then he’ll call the badges.”
“How he is?” Steel asked Medico.
“He’s got some pretty bad burns. He needs to get to the hospital stat.” Medico had been on the Night Rebels payroll since the club had started. Many times he was called in to patch up the brothers after a rumble, and he never opened his mouth about what he’d seen or did—a trait that was priceless to the outlaw club. Steel took off his jacket and gave it to the physician, who placed it around a trembling Paul.
“I’ll call it in,” Steel said somberly.
By now, many partygoers had filtered out of the club, and Steel went over to them in an attempt to put them at ease. Eagle and Crow returned without any luck in finding the person who’d delivered the bomb. They joined Army and Paco, who talked in hushed whispers, calm and low, but their words were of hate and retribution.
The flashing red and blue lights signaled that the badges had arrived. Army looked over his shoulder and saw three police cars and an ambulance. Paco walked over to the sheriff, and Army saw that the VP’s jaw was working overtime.
Soon the paramedics had Paul on a stretcher, wheeling him to the ambulance. Sangre stood next to Army and watched the vehicle drive away.
“Fuck,” Sangre said.
Army gripped his shoulder. Paul was one of Sangre’s employees, and he felt for him. “Yeah … fuck.”
“The women are good. Ink told me no one’s come near the house,” Diablo said as he came up to them.
“That’s something,” Army answered. “Anything happen at Get Inked?”
“Nope.” Diablo folded his arms over his chest.
“That doesn’t make sense. I wonder how long the damn badges are gonna keep us,” Sangre said.
“I heard Wexler say they’ve got some badges coming down from Durango to disarm the bombs,” Diablo said.
At the mention of Durango, an overwhelming desire to hear Mia’s voice seized him. “I’ll check on the dancers,” Army said. He walked past the deputies and went back into the club. The women sat with patrons, and when he entered, the barrage of questions made him sorry he hadn’t just gone around back. After fielding their inquiries, he made his way to the back area and slipped into the office, shutting the door behind him.
For some reason he had it in his head that Mia could be in danger, and that Satan’s Pistons could go after her to get back at him. He had no indication that the damn Pistons even knew he dated Mia, and his rational mind told him that his reasoning was askew, but he needed to make sure she’d turned her alarm on and was safe. Army tapped in her number and glanced at the clock: 1:00 a.m.
“Hi Army,” she said groggily.
Her voice was thick and sweet like slow pouring honey. “It sounds like I woke you up.”
“You did, but I don’t mind.”
“Did you remember to put your alarm on?”
“You’re obsessed with that.” She chuckled. “Is that the reason you called me?”
Her voice was clearer now that she was awake. He pictured her pushing up and maybe leaning back against the headboard. “I wanted to hear your voice.”
“That’s nice to know,” she said softly.
“What did you do tonight?” He wondered what she was wearing.Is it something sheer and nasty or cozy and flannel?His dick twitched.
“I went out with some of my friends for a drink after the gym.” She yawned. “What about you?”
“I worked, remember?”
A small pause. “That’s right. Was everything okay with your club business?”
“Can’t say. What’re you wearing?”