Desolation Road (Torpedo Ink 4)

Pierce led the others. Absinthe recognized a few. Judge, one of Plank’s closest friends. Another called Trade, who always seemed to be near Pierce. The others he’d seen before but didn’t really know well.

“Steele,” Pierce said and let his gaze shift around the entire area. “Looks like you have things well under control.” He let his gaze rest on Destroyer for a moment. “You have something for me?”

“Transporter picked up a package for you.”

Steele held out his hand behind him without taking his eyes from Pierce. Absinthe stepped forward and placed a brown paper bag in Steele’s hand. Steele didn’t look at it but held it out to Pierce.

Pierce opened the bag, pulled the six patches out, dropped them back inside and closed the bag. “Got pretty creative on that stage. Want to tell me whose work that was?”

Steele just looked at him.

Pierce shrugged. “Only two clubs went down.”

“Only two clubs were owned by Venomous. That was the contract.”

Pierce sighed. “Can’t argue with that. One last thing. Scarlet Foley. She’s worth five million to a man named Holden. He sent word to Plank that you’ve got her here. Plank isn’t okay with you taking the reward on this one. You’re going to have to hand her over.”

“She’s Absinthe’s old lady,” Steele said, his tone mild. “She’s not going anywhere.”

“That certainly changes things.” Pierce looked past Steele to Absinthe. “Plank will send the Diamondbacks to have a word with Holden.”

Steele shook his head. “We appreciate the support, Pierce, but you tell him not to go to the trouble. Holden tried to kill her. That was a very big mistake on his part. Then he put a fuckin’ price on her head. Just sayin’. You and I both know he won’t be payin’ out that five mil to anyone.”

Pierce sent them a little half smile and salute, rolled up the paper bag with the patches and put it into a compartment in his Harley and signaled the others back onto their bikes. Until the sound of the pipes were just a faint memory in the distance, none of the Torpedo Ink members broke from cover.NINETEENJudge Benedict Calloway’s home was modest on the outside. The house rose up between two other homes like a green environmental beacon with plants climbing up the sides of the three-story brick building. A wrought-iron fence and locked gate were the only things that might have given anyone pause to think that the inside could be a hidden treasure, but most of the neighboring homes also were behind very similar wrought-iron fences.

Calloway loved art. His weakness was art. He didn’t collect art to brag or show off, he collected it because it was his obsession and he had to have it. He had to sit in a room by himself with a glass of the very best wine, listening to his favorite opera, surrounded by the most magnificent paintings others couldn’t possibly appreciate the way he did, knowing nothing in the world would ever compare to them.

It was a thrill to be able to acquire a painting. It required a great deal of money, patience and knowing the right people. He had, over time, managed to put together all three components and then he’d built his private, temperature-controlled room where he housed his collection of stolen art. For him, the fact that he had acquired the paintings that way, targeted them and hired the right people to pull off a daring robbery of a museum to take the original painting from masses of people with no real concept of what they were looking at, or real appreciation of the masterpiece they were privileged to behold, made his collection all the sweeter.

He despised those who claimed they loved art when they had no real knowledge of the subject. They stared at some drawing and pretended to know the meaning because a teacher in school had quoted from a book and now they were parroting him or her. They couldn’t think for themselves. Or have any real impression.

Calloway wandered through his home, admiring what he had done with the place. When he’d first moved into the house, he had seen the potential immediately. He had a good eye for space, and he wanted an upscale neighborhood, but not one that would stand out like that braggart Holden. He didn’t need everyone to think he was a multimillionaire. He didn’t want the aggravation of trying to explain where money had come from. Fortunately, he’d inherited a little bit from his wife, who’d died very early in their marriage, and he’d never remarried. He’d invested the money and doubled it and then doubled that. He’d been careful and cautious. That had paid off.

He moved through his house the way he did every evening. Walking slowly. Savoring the Bay Area setting sun pouring through the stained-glass windows set at just the right height to catch the rays and send them shooting through the rooms like stars to shine on the walls, giving him the feeling of walking in galaxies, he moved toward his hidden collector’s room as he did most nights. He took his time, admiring the sculptures and modern art he had acquired and showed off to visitors who dropped by.