McCoy (Golden Glades Henchmen MC 3)

And there was McCoy.

Chapter Four

McCoy

As far as methods for taking out your enemies went, it was convoluted to go to such lengths to get it done. A simple drive-by could usually do the trick. Or even a quick invasion.

I guess, in those instances, you did risk losing some of your own. Or getting locked up.

By putting in a little extra legwork to make some random person carry out a hit, you all but ensured no one would be able to point a finger at you. And they would be willing to do something so uncharacteristic because you held the person they loved most as a bargaining chip.

Which, for Shy, was her little sister Belle.

"When's the last time anyone cleaned up in here?" I asked, nose wrinkling as I walked into Arty's apartment with its overflowing garbage and collection of old coffee cups and energy cans tossed all around.

Back before Huck's sister married a guy from the Henchmen mother chapter, Gus would always make sure to drop by and check on Arty. After that, it was Harmon and Sass.

But, I guess, since they had their hands full of kids, it didn't leave them as much time to come over and coddle a grown-ass man who was capable of taking care of himself. At least in theory.

"It's not that bad," Arty said.

"You only say that because in the past, there were times you had so much garbage in here that you tripped over piles of it on the way to the bathroom," I said, nudging some protein bar wrappers back toward the overflowing trash can.

"I thought you wanted to talk about Shyanna and Belle, not my apartment," Arty grumbled, spinning around in his chair to look at me. "I had to move back other clients for this," he added.

"I know. And we appreciate it," I assured him.

"You said Booker is working on this too?" he asked, brightening. Arty had a bit of hero-worship when it came to Booker, our local private security expert and friend.

"He is."

That seemed to motivate him.

My morning and afternoon consisted of keeping Arty caffeinated and motivated while I kept in touch with the club, sharing information back and forth.

"So, yeah," Huck said a couple hours later, about half an hour before it was quitting time for Shy. "We don't have shit," he concluded.

Arty had been able to hack into the security system at Lily's only to find that the footage got erased after forty-eight hours without a forced manual save.

We had no picture of the guy. And only a vague description from Shy.

When Seeley put his ear to the ground to ask about organizations that might use civilians to carry out hits, he'd learned that not only did cartels do it, but so did several Eastern European organizations as well.

"Great," I sighed, leaning against the wall on the outside of Arty's apartment. "And we only have about a day to figure out who they are, where they are, and how to get Belle out of there."

"I was talking to the guys," Huck said, sounding tentative. And I'd known him long enough to know it wasn't characteristic for him. "We have a convoluted idea. A Hail Mary, if you will," he said.

"I'm listening," I told him.

Not long after that, I was letting myself into Shy's apartment, knowing this was not the sort of conversation that worked well over the phone.

I don't know what I was expecting since I'd just met the woman, but given the rough neighborhood and the shitty building she lived in, I guess I figured the inside of her apartment would be bare bones and ugly.

I guess I should have figured that someone who made a living trying to put some pretty in the world wouldn't settle for peeling paint and hand-me-down furniture.

But I couldn't have anticipated walking into a place that felt like it belonged in a penthouse at some swanky-ass high-rise.

The walls that would have likely come in an awful cream that had aged to yellow were painted a soft, barely-there pink. It was something like a blush, like a rosé wine. The couch in the small living room was thick and tufted, something that looked like you could sink into it with its pink and white faux fur pillows. If you looked closely at the white fabric, you could see evidence of the cat she'd mentioned before in the form of stray hairs in orange and black.

Her coffee table was glass with a decorative tray on top with a candle, a small vase with a few white roses that were steadily dropping their petals, and what looked like a sketch pad and a set of gel pens.

Directly opposite to the sitting area where you might expect to find a TV was, instead, a double desk in white with brushed gold legs. Each side of the desk had a lower shelf and drawers where you would likely find nail polish and files and all that shit. The one desk had an assortment of small rectangular nail polishes in a rainbow of colors. The other had some sort of foot soaking contraption. Two chairs sat on each side of each desk with a pink velvet heart-shaped back cushion framed in the same brushed gold as the legs of the desks.