“You go, I go. That’s the deal,” Storm insisted.
“Why do you have to be so damn fuckin’ stubborn?” Ice asked, keeping his voice low.
“I’ve always followed your lead, and that’s what you’d do,” Storm answered with a careless shrug of his shoulders.
Ice couldn’t argue with that. He would have done the same. “Don’t know, Storm, I’m getting to the point I could be dangerous to everyone.”
“Savage is dangerous to everyone, not you. You always choose the right thing to do whether or not you want to do it. Dying isn’t the right thing. We’ve had this conversation multiple times now. You’re in a bad patch. We both get them. Fortunately, not at the same time.”
That much was true, but damn it to hell, he didn’t want to go out hurting innocents, and he thought more and more about just killing a bunch of fucking pedophiles in public. Lining them up and mowing them down. Sometimes he dreamt about it. He couldn’t seem to get any relief anymore. Not from booze. Not from women and not from hunting the bastards who stole and violated children.
Mostly, he detested that the men in front of him were upstanding citizens. They had money and prestige, just like the others in the ring Code had discovered online. Auctioning children. They were accepted in society, but he wasn’t. He never would be. Never. He was a biker. In a club. Those riding with him were his family, and he would fight and die for them. For his colors. He would never be accepted by society, but they invited monsters into their homes and allowed them around their children because they were dressed properly and they didn’t say fuck in front of anyone. They just did it behind everyone’s back—with children.
One was a doctor. Dr. Hank Bernard. Married with three girls of his own. The problem was, he preferred little boys, the younger the better. Then there was George Durango. He owned a string of spas and retreats for celebrities. He ran in big circles. Bill Churchill was a prominent judge, one with an eye toward moving up in political circles. Paul Bitters was a very respected fire chief. He knew every policeman in his district by name. When he spoke, everyone listened to him. Russ Jarvis and Billy Kent owned a chain of grocery stores together. They’d been boyhood friends and continued to be partners. Most people thought they were a couple. It suited them to let others think that.
Code, with his mad computer skills, had stumbled across the online auction of a little six-year-old boy. It was Paul Bitters who had him up for auction. He had offered the child to what appeared to be a large ring of pedophiles. Torpedo Ink had anonymously bid on the boy, and at first it seemed as if they might get him. They would have been given an address and the exchange would have been made. Unfortunately, law enforcement had gotten wind of the auction, and Bitters had shut it down instantly.
Bitters didn’t come back online for nearly three weeks. He sent out an encrypted message: this event was by private invitation only. It was clear the man was nervous and wanted only those he knew and trusted implicitly to show up. He wanted them there in person so he could visually identify each man. Code had managed to break the encryption.
Torpedo Ink hadn’t had a lot of time to put together a rescue operation. They didn’t just want a smash and grab. They wanted more names. This was no small operation: the original auction had been open to multiple bidders over several states. They wanted to permanently shut it down.
The club and their women were in Vegas for a very good reason. Their vice president, Steele, was marrying his woman, putting a ring on her finger and making that shit real. Naturally, all members of Torpedo Ink would come to celebrate, to witness the event. No one would question their presence in Las Vegas.
Ice and Storm flowed with the little group of tourists, fitting in the way they did, so if the two men happened to glance back, which they did occasionally, they would see them as part of the group. Storm had been wearing a ball cap but when he crossed the street, he switched to a panama hat. It covered his distinctive hair. He walked with a bit of a slump to shorten his height.
Their quarry suddenly turned abruptly and walked straight back toward them. Ice kept walking straight, keeping his head down, while his brother crossed the street with the light. A motorcycle roared past, keeping up with traffic on the street. Transporter had Alena, Ice and Storm’s younger sister, on the back of his bike. Her very distinctive platinum hair was tucked up in a helmet. Neither wore their colors.