"Always," he agreed, nodding. "I owe you."
"You don't owe me shit," I told him, like I'd been telling him since he was a kid in the gutter that I literally stumbled over on my way home from a bar one night.
He acted like I'd become a father figure to him. I'd taken him home, cleaned him up, and pretty much pawned him off on my sister to deal with. Sure, I'd been the one to buy him his equipment, to force myself to let him work some jobs for me to make some ends meet, so he could get his life going, but he'd more than paid back the favor a dozen times over the years.
"Anyone you want me to check into first?" Arty asked, reaching for a notepad.
"I guess the Chechens. This doesn't seem like their style, but they're the most recent beef we've had."
"Alright. That's it?"
"I mean, we're making moves, Art," I said, shrugging. "Half of the crews in the state want to take us out."
"Okay. I will see what I can do. Which direction did they leave from your place—back this way, or deeper into the swamps?"
"This way."
"Good. might be able to pick them up on a traffic cam. Then I can get the plate and go from there."
"We appreciate it. We are going to do some footwork around here for the day, so if you come across anything, call me."
"Will do. How's the new place?"
"It's nice. You should come see it sometime," I suggested, glancing around his apartment, knowing he almost never left the walls, save to go buy more coffee and cans of energy drinks in bulk.
"Yeah, yeah. When business calms down," Arty agreed, which I knew was code for never.
"Alright. It was nice seeing you, man," I said, clamping a hand on his shoulder before leading the crew out.
"That man needs to get laid," Remy decided, sighing, as we moved out onto the street.
"Hey, his hermit ways work in our favor," I defended, even if a large part of me agreed. "If anyone can find out who it was, he can. We can't just sit and wait for them to strike again. We might not get that lucky a second time. Alright. Teams of two. Hit up our contacts, see if anyone has been talking."
With that, we split up, digging up old friends, and old competitors who were happy to talk now that we were out of the chopping business, and they got all the good cars for a change.
But with so little to go on, when we all gathered for lunch, we came back empty-handed.
"Maybe that's Arty," I said, reaching for my ringing phone with one hand as I brought a slice of pizza up to my mouth with the other. But it was an unfamiliar number on my phone. "Yeah?" I asked.
"Huck?" a low, whispered female voice asked.
"Ah, yeah. Who's this?"
"There was a noise outside," she said, and the pieces were clicking together. "Seeley went out to look into it, and I haven't heard from him in like ten minutes."
"Lock yourself in a room. I'm on my way," I said, dropping the pizza, rushing out before even telling the guys what was going on.
I'd always been calm in the face of chaos. It was one of the reasons I'd been successful in my previous career, why I was able to keep a group of often hot-headed men under control while we fought and shot our way to the top.
I wasn't sure I truly understood what panic felt like.
But as I ran down the street, not even pausing to apologize as I rammed through a group of tourists, one of them slamming back into a building, my heart was hammering in my chest, my mind was racing in a dozen different directions.
Like where the fuck was Seeley?
Was he okay?
How long would it take me to get back to Golden Glades if I pushed my bike as hard as it would go?
Could I cut the time in half? A third?
Did Harmon think to grab something to defend herself with, in case Seeley was out of commission, and someone decided to try to breach?
If some bastard had something out for us, would they take it out on her?
I was vaguely aware of the other bikes rumbling to life behind me as I shot off, my jaw clenched so tight that the pain shot up to my temples.
I answered one of my questions when I got back to Golden Glades in half the usual time, nearly missing the fucking turn off to Harmon's driveway, I was so amped up.
Cutting the engine, I ripped off my helmet, reached for my gun, and ran around the house, looking for Seeley.
"Harmon!" I called, slamming my fist on the front door. "Harmon! Open the fuck up!" I demanded again, taking a step back, ready to kick the door in when it suddenly flew open, revealing a wide-eyed Harmon with a frying pan in one hand and an impressive-looking knife in the other.