Deadline to Damnation (Sons of Templar MC 7)

I thought on the intel I’d gotten from my contact. The details that had disturbed me when I thought I couldn’t be shocked anymore.

“He’s brought down people before,” I said. “Using the various tools at his disposal. Some of them disappear. Some appear drugged, naked and for sale. Some get put behind bars for charges real or made up. Some of those people are guilty of crimes. It’s easier to frame someone when they’re guilty.” I shrugged. “It could be coincidence that the long arm of the law has finally gotten hold of you around the same time a man who owns half of the world’s leaders has decided to take you down. But I don’t think so.”

“No, there’s no such thing in coincidence in this world,” Hansen muttered. “Fuck,” he hissed.

I swallowed, the weight of what I was doing finally landing. I wasn’t proving myself exactly wrong about what I’d said to the detective—I was no longer an observer, I was taking sides.

Shit.

I looked to Liam.

Then my mind spoke of its own volition. Or maybe my heart.

“I’ve got sources in the DEA,” I said. “I can press them, see if they’ve actually got an ongoing investigation on the books or if this agent is going rogue.”

Hansen looked stunned for about half a minute and then he nodded once. He looked to Liam. “I want you calling Wire, see if he can find out who this piece of shit is—”

“Wire doesn’t need to do that,” I interrupted. Eyes on me again. “Detective David Rickens—45628, the first five letters of his Agent Number.”

Hansen’s mouth twitched and he looked to Liam. “Well, get him to look that fucker up, check his finances. See if he’s dirty.”

Liam nodded once, eyes on me.

Hansen focused on me. “Appreciate this, Caroline,” he said, voice genuine. “Club appreciates it.”

I nodded once. “Don’t mention it.” And I really didn’t want anyone to. Because it was a reminder of how far I was falling.

Right into the underworld.

Liam found me later, after he’d presumably called Wire and found out whether the detective was dirty.

Claw and I were playing poker again.

Regular poker, not strip poker like he’d been so intent on.

And I was beating him.

Bad.

“Again,” he grumbled as I raked in a stake of ones.

I raised my brow. “Seriously? What are you going to do when you don’t have any singles to tuck into thongs later on?”

He scowled.

But he was beaten by another man advancing on me, not just scowling, but glowering.

Liam didn’t even speak, he just grabbed my upper arm roughly and yanked me up.

“Hey!” I protested as he didn’t seem to be perturbed by the tightness of his grip.

I didn’t fight because it was useless, and Liam was obviously determined to yell at me about something.

Liam never yelled before.

Now it was his default.

I folded my arms as he slammed the door shut. “I’ll have you know that you just interrupted a really fucking great winning streak, so this better be good.”

His features were contorted in fury. “Good?” he repeated quietly. “No, I’d say this was not fucking good. You were approached by the law today, fuckin’ threatened. Threatened because you were protecting the club. Then you came back here, into church, not only told us everything about this fucker down to his badge number, you went and played fuckin’ poker with Claw.”

I frowned at him. “How is this something for you to drag me across the room about?” I demanded. “If this is some crazy protective stuff, you’re stopping that right now, I’m allowed to play fricking poker with another man, Liam. Macy is busy, I didn’t feel like watching a movie and I can’t exactly go on a walk.”

“It’s not about the fucking poker,” he hissed. “It’s about the fact you protected the club and you lied to the law, you went over the line.”

I frowned. “What line?”

“The line that separates you from us,” he yelled. “The line that keeps you safe, keeps you out of this fucking shit.”

I scowled back at him. “If you hadn’t noticed lately, I’m about knee deep in this fucking shit.”

“No. You were here for your story. Now—”

“No Liam!” I was yelling now. “It was never about the story. Even when it was about the story. You need to stop fucking demonizing yourself and this club. Trying to tell me how bad you all are. I’ve seen bad. And you’re not good, but you’re not as bad as you pretend to be either.

“Look at our backs,” he hissed. “Look at our fucking patch.”

I did as he asked because the authority, the danger in his tone overruled any strong rational thought.

“You see wings on those cuts, babe?”

He didn’t wait for me to answer.

“No, you see the reaper. We’re not fucking angels. We’re death. You’re so fucking familiar with death, you treat it like some old friend.”