The second, Mo, also appearing out of nowhere, was suddenly standing at the hood of my Tucson, beefy hands on muscular hips, Oakleys over his eyes, his bald pate shining in the sun, his massive shoulders blocking it out, a look on his face that would make small children burst into tears (though, this was his normal look, Mo was scary—albeit a sweetie, however, in this moment, I could tell he wasn’t feeling sweet).
And the last, my door was abruptly pulled open.
I looked that way in time to see Auggie leaning in.
He undid my seatbelt, and I cried out as it zipped back into place.
And then my ass was no longer in the driver’s seat because he’d dragged me out.
It took me a second to get my feet coordinated.
It took me another second to fully comprehend what was happening.
And in the next second, I demanded, “What the hell?”
He turned, stopped and used my hand in his to yank me hard so I slammed into his chest.
I looked up and noted two things immediately.
One, he also was wearing sunglasses—polarized, tactical wraparounds, and he looked good in them.
Two, so much was happening during his visit last Sunday, I had not completely processed the fact that his thick stubble on Thursday had become thicker stubble that day. But I was right then processing that two days further of non-shaving meant his black stubble had gone from a significantly shadowed jaw, to what could only be described as a beard, and that was hot.
“Shut your mouth, we’ll talk in a second,” he growled.
Then he was off again, and I was too, considering he still had hold of my hand.
At that time, I noticed my Tucson driving by me, Mo’s huge body wedged in behind the wheel, Lottie glaring at Mo, Ryn grinning and waving out the passenger window at me.
What in the—?
Auggie tugged me around a corner. I fumed down half a block. And then we went off the sidewalk toward the cars parked on the side of the street. Here, he pulled me in front of him, let me go, but only so he could put a hand on my belly and press my back against a very shiny, black Hummer.
In other words, his and the boys’ ride. As I’d seen the guys in them before, I knew it was their company vehicle.
Before I could say a word, he demanded, “You wanna tell me why you’re here?”
I opened my mouth to do precisely that, and then go on to ask him why he was manhandling me and acting like a big jerk.
“No,” he went on before a single noise escaped my lips. “I don’t care why you’re here. What the fuck, Pepper? Do you not think we’re on this?”
Okay, now I wasn’t seriously miffed he and his bros had horned in on me and the girls activating my master plan and Mo had stolen my car and Auggie had dragged me down a sidewalk.
Now I was confused.
“You’re on what…exactly?”
“That mess your family is wrapped up in.”
Hang on a second.
“What?” I asked.
“Your entire family’s finances are tied up in that church. Which only makes sense in the aspect your dad and his wives live in that building, the same with the other eleven deacons, and their wives, as well as their children, including your sister. But she actually works for the church, in admin, also doing what we’re referring to as acquisitions, but they refer to as missionary work.”
My God.
Well, that explained why the building was so big.
“You left that part out on Sunday,” I informed him.
“This is because I didn’t know it on Sunday,” he informed me. “This information came in this morning. Which is why we’re right now doing shit to keep an eye on shit and be able to find out more shit, because everything we discover is more fucked up than what we’ve already learned.”
Obviously, none of this made me happy.
“Now I’ve changed my mind,” he continued. “I wanna know. What the fuck are you doing here?”
“I sense, somewhat the same thing you are,” I replied.
“Explain,” he bit off.
Um.
Hell no.
“No,” I snapped, then poked him in his chest. “You explain times two. First, explain why you’re being so cranky and bossy. And second, explain why you think I owe you an explanation. No, wait, times three. Also explain what you’re doing here.”
“Have you heard of the Branch Davidians?”
I made a scoffing noise and said, “Reverend Clyde is a creep, but that’s hardly a remote compound filled with weapons. So, it’s on the outer outskirts of Littleton, it’s still a Denver suburb.”
“Pepper, every single deacon in that church has a bank account in their own name. An account that Clyde Higgins has access to and is a signatory on. He has his own, no other signatories on that, not even his legal wife. The church has three. And in the last twenty years, this church and its leaders have gone from barely scraping by to drifting just under an income that will jump them into a significantly higher tax bracket. Your father sells insurance and has for the last fifteen years. And he’s hovered around making one hundred and sixty thousand dollars a year for the last nine years. The same exact income as all the other deacons.”