Guns: The Spencer Book (Rook and Ronin Spinoff 4)

Until the bullshit came back in full force. Again.

It’s like these mistakes we made will never end. It’s like the past has me by the balls and it has no intention of letting go.

This trial is our last chance to put this that Boulder shit to rest.

Rook. Rook is our last chance to put this shit to rest. Rook needs to just get up on that stand and lie her ass off. She needs to stick to the story she told last year. That’s the only way this will end and Ron and I can be together.

If we can just get past the trial…

Chapter Twenty-Seven

VERONICA

My phone vibrates in my pocket as I take the stairs down to the garage where my bike is. Rook. We’re having coffee at Shrike Bikes today, park in back and the crew will let you in.

OK.

Yeah. Today has nothing in common with yesterday. I thought this week and last week were totally different, but today and yesterday are like two different dimensions. Yesterday I was Veronica Vaughn, tattoo artist. Today I’m Bombshell the Assassin’s Assistant.

I still don’t know who Bobby—Tet, or whatever the f**k his name is—will be killing. And actually, he never said he was killing anyone, but he never denied it either. And he left me with the impression that silence is a valid answer for a reason. It means the question is important, he’s just not giving me an answer.

What he did tell me was that he’s part of a secret organization—aren’t they all?—and he’s here to complete a job that somehow involves Ashleigh and Kate.

And Spencer, I remind myself. Bobby didn’t elaborate on the whole you’ll-help-me-or-your-boyfriend-will-die thing, either. And I’m too chicken shit to ask outright. Because I’m not sure I want to know the truth.

What if Spencer is part of this guy’s business? Spencer told me he was guilty that night last week. But he never said of what—just everything they said about him on the news that year we met was true. But that’s ludicrous. They said a lot of shit that I know for a fact wasn’t true. Like he came from an abusive home. That was said once. I looked up all the reports after he left that night. That’s definitely not true. And they said he knew Ronin since they were six, but that was Ford. They got that wrong too. So Spencer is exaggerating. He’s not guilty of everything.

But some of the stuff rings true to me. I know they’ve conned people. I’m not sure who it was, but Spencer and I were out once with some friends of his from Ronin’s old neighborhood in Denver, and I heard mention of con jobs. Drug dealers, they said. But I’m not sure conning drug dealers is a bad thing. Spencer does not do drugs. We’ve never smoked a joint or anything. We drink beers when we’re out together. But he’s not a partier and neither am I.

Spencer is all business. His life pretty much revolves around his work. Be it painting, or bikes, or the show.

So murder? Yeah, they said it on TV. And yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s what Spencer was referring to the other night when he said he was guilty. But murder? I just can’t see it.

Spencer is a calculating guy. He’s a thinker. He’s calm and rational and he plans everything. He makes lists and keeps spreadsheets. He’s not a guy who just goes off and murders someone.

He’s a gun fanatic, sure. He’s got guns stashed everywhere in the house. And whenever I asked him why he needed so many guns, it was always the same answer. ‘You might only get one chance to save your life with a gun. Keep one on you and keep one next to you.’

I’ve been packing heat since the first day I met him and went to his shop to see the ’56 Blackbird. After our very first dirty f**k, Spencer loaded me up, set me on the back of his dirt bike and took me out to the gully he uses as a shooting range on his property so he could show me the basics.

But even though on the surface he looks like he’s half-crazed about these weapons, he’s not. He’s very disciplined. We’ve been in several confrontations while traveling and even though I know he’s always got a gun on him, he’s never, ever pulled it out. Ever.

The gun doesn’t make the man. That’s what he always said. The gun doesn’t make the man.

I palm the FN Five-SeveN through my jacket, just to quadruple-check that it’s there. It’s not big, and it’s not heavy, not even when it’s fully loaded, so it fits nicely in my inside pocket.

I straddle the bike, snap on my helmet, and start her up. I ease back out of the parking space, then give her a little gas on the throttle and stop at the gate. I don’t have an opener, or the code to get back in here, but the gate must be on an automatic trigger, because it opens for me after a slight pause.

I pull out on Mason Street and barely have time to shift into third gear before turning on Maple and pulling into the lot behind Shrike Bikes. There’s a lot of cars and bikes here, but the door opens before I even shut the engine down. I get off and walk over to the open door, taking off my helmet.

“Rook and Ashleigh are in the front.”

I don’t really know Spencer’s mechanics since they were never part of the biz when I was around, but I have seen Ryan enough to know his name. I smile and walk past as he lets the door close behind me. “To the right,” he says, pointing.

I walk down the hallway, go through a steel door, then come out in the showroom. I can hear Rook and Ashleigh talking in a room behind the counter, and the whole place smells like coffee.

I really need some coffee.

“… so I have to piss on the stick tonight.”