Maverick (Hell's Handlers MC 2)

“Can’t they?” Shell propped her head on her hand. “There are quite a few reasons to leave the law out of it, actually. First is that in the eyes of the cops, or even FBI, the Handlers are no different than the Gray Dragons. Now you and I know what crap that is, but the authorities don’t give a shit.”

Well, Steph couldn’t argue with her on that point. Wasn’t that the whole reason she was there? Because the FBI thought the Handlers were no better than the Dragons? Of course there was the whole her-boss-was-an-ass-who-wanted-to-run-the-FBI thing.

“And,” Toni chimed in, “the cops are bound by so many rules and regulations, by the time they cut through all the red tape, who the hell knows what would happen to this girl? Consider this, the cops have to get a warrant, get evidence, make arrests, interrogate, then hope they’ll get accurate information as to where this girl is. After that, it goes to a trial where the Dragons put the fear of God in the jurors or, hell, make them disappear altogether. Next thing you know there’s a mistrial or hung jury and they’re back out there to start again.”

Shell was nodding along as Toni spoke. “She’s right. So instead, our boys go and rough up some Dragons, get the necessary information, save the girl, and go after Lefty. It may not be legal, it may not technically even be right, but you ask that girl who’s rotting away somewhere, terrified and waiting to be sold to the highest bidder, and I’ll tell you which option she’d pick.”

Fascinated by the women’s staunch support of the Handlers, Steph rubbernecked back and forth between them. What did it say about her that she understood where they were coming from? That she actually agreed with them? Because they were right about a few key things. It would take law enforcement too long to secure all the necessary evidence. And they would have to play by the rules. If they found the woman, who the hell knew what would be left of her? And that was a big “if” because women were lost to the horrors of human trafficking every day while investigators worked to bring down the ringleaders.

If the Handlers could bypass all that, save the victim, and eliminate the source, was it really that wrong?

Yes! It was wrong. What the hell was happening to her? She shouldn’t have come to Townsend. It was a huge mistake. But as she looked into the determined eyes of both Shell and Toni, she found herself saying, “Is there anything I can do to help Maverick?”

“Just be there for him.” Toni’s green eyes were windows to her love for her man. “This stuff is hard on all of them. Sure, they aren’t saints, but they are nothing like Shark or any of the Dragons. Trust me. I have very first-hand knowledge of that.”

Stephanie knew none of the Handlers had anything in common with Shark. Had never even questioned it, but the girls were right, in the eyes of the law, the Handlers were no different than the Dragons. Illegal was illegal, wrong was wrong, killing was murder. Even when it saved the lives of others and rid the world of evil.

Suddenly, her breakfast threatened to make a reappearance. She was the one who thought that way, who’d refused to see the complicated nature of the world. Who wouldn’t listen when others told her there was no such thing as black and white. Now she had no idea what to think, how to act. She had all these conflicting feelings and emotions tying her stomach in knots.

Toni must have sensed Stephanie’s inner turmoil because she smiled and lightly smacked her palm against the table. “Okay,” she said. “That’s enough heavy for the morning. We’ve got three minutes of break left, and I want to hear about the good stuff.”

When both women focused their attention and curious stares back on Stephanie, her face heated. It had to be as red as the bottle of ketchup at the rear of the table. “What do you want to know?” she squeaked.

“Well,” Shell said, “for starters, does Maverick really have a pierced dick?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

MAV WAITED ASTRIDE his bike for Copper to do his thing. About a minute ago, they’d rolled up to the small warehouse Lefty had claimed as his headquarters, and so far, nothing had happened but a staring match between Copper and some punk kid with an AR-15 who thought the assault rifle was a representation of his dick. With his hair shaved down to stubble that contained some kind of symbol on each side, the kid couldn’t have been a day over eighteen. Little did he know, the Handlers could wipe the floor with this crew of pissants and Gray Dragon rejects.