Surviving Ice (Burying Water 4)

Do I want to tell him that? Do I trust him? I don’t know.

“Ivy,” he barks. “It’s important that I know. Did you ID them?”

“Yes. They were two ex-Marines that knew Ned’s client.” How the hell is Ned involved with this? Was he just in the wrong place at the wrong time? Did his gambling debt have anything to do with this after all? There are still far too many unanswered questions.

But I’m focused on one in particular for now. “Who’s Gregory White?”

“An alias.” He didn’t even hesitate.

“Why do you have an alias?”

“I’ll explain later. Stay with Bobby. He’ll take care of you.”

“Fine. But when this is over, you’re telling me everything, and I’m not asking.”

“Okay, Ivy.” There’s resignation in his voice.

The phone goes dead. I close it and hand it back to Bobby, who is shooting daggers at me, a ball of tissue in his fist. “Ned always said you were as fucking stubborn as a mule.”

“Stop sulking.”

I eye the giant metal warehouselike building ahead and the chain-link fence surrounding the property. The rows of motorcycles along the far side mark this place for what it is. “Seriously?” It took almost an hour to get to their clubhouse, in a remote neighborhood south of San Francisco. They haven’t told me a goddamn thing. Bobby swears he doesn’t know anything.

I think he’s a big fat fucking liar.

“It’s safe here. Fences, security . . .” Bobby says, pointing out the cameras in the corners.

“To keep the bad guys in?”

He chuckles, like that’s so funny.

A woman’s giggle carries across the parking lot. Probably a hooker. Ned said these guys throw some wild parties. Though tonight it seems pretty quiet.

I spot my kit in Carl’s hand and dive to snatch it out of his grip. “Why do you have this?”

“It was at Dakota’s. I swung by to pick it up,” Bobby answers with a smile.

“Why?” I already know exactly why.

Moe steps in behind me, settling a hand on my back. I bristle and speed up to walk ahead of him. “Oh, don’t be like that with me, girl. Slow down!”

I don’t, pushing my way through the solid front doors. The inside of their clubhouse is much more lively than the outside. I count eighteen members sitting around in the makeshift living room/bar, some looking every bit the stereotypical biker with their leather vests and beards, others looking like normal young guys in faded T-shirts and ripped jeans. Open beer bottles are scattered throughout, and the buzz of a radio playing old rock carries through the air. Three scantily clad women float around, cackling at whatever the men are saying.

A few at a time, heads turn at our entrance, and I feel them sizing me up. I don’t recognize any of them, but Ned did say this club had over two hundred members.

I wonder how many of them are truly “just bikers.” They can’t all be into the kinds of things that Bobby, Moe, and the others have their hands in.

“How long am I stuck here for?” I ask Moe. I’ve cycled through panic and anger and have settled into exhaustion. I just want to go home.

“Until Bobby hears otherwise,” Moe murmurs, leaving us to chat with the other guys.

“And until then, he promised me you’d do a shoulder piece I was thinking about gettin’ done, seeing as he owes me for this and we have time to kill.”

“You want me to give you a tattoo now?” I grit my teeth in a smile that can’t be pleasant. “Sure, I’ll do that for you.”

Doubt flickers over his face. “Maybe we’ll wait until you’ve cooled off a bit.”

“Probably a good idea.” Taking a deep breath, I march farther into the clubhouse, putting on my best tough-girl gaze, even though inside I’m feeling anything but.

FORTY-FOUR

SEBASTIAN

“How long ago did the APBs go out?” I speed past a slow driver.

“A good hour,” Bobby says.

I knew these guys would have someone in the SFPD in their pockets. “She’s safe?”

“Yep. Mad as a snake, but nothing we can’t handle,” Bobby promises. “What are you up to?”

“This and that.”

“Right. Well, if you can get ‘this and that’ done before she bites me again, that’d be great.”

Despite everything, I smile. “Thanks, man.” It’s been a long time since I’ve relied on anyone but myself, and here I am relying on a bunch of criminals. “Just . . . take care of her.” I hang up and toss the phone into the console in time to pull up to my parents’ house.

And take a deep breath. I had a feeling I’d be visiting again, sooner rather than later.

My dad answers the door with a frown. “Twice in two days.”

“I know.” I lock eyes with him, swallowing my fear that he’ll say he won’t help me. Besides Ivy, he’s the only one I trust. “I need your help and I don’t have a lot of time to explain.”

He looks over his shoulder and then steps out, shutting the door behind him.

I pull a phone and a slip of paper out of my pocket. “There is a sensitive video on this phone that I want you to have a copy of. Don’t watch it. And on the paper is the information for a safety-deposit box in Zurich. It has you marked as next of kin, should anything ever happen to me.” I hand it to him. “I need you to make sure these two things are safe. And use the contents, if something happens to me.”

His frown turns to understanding. “I don’t want to know what this is about, do I?” His voice has taken on that stern, no-nonsense tone that has given me both comfort and fear all my life.

I shake my head. “Not unless you don’t hear back from me.”

He nods and, with a moment’s hesitation, adds, “Be safe.”

“I will be,” I promise, though I can’t be sure that my next stop won’t guarantee a bullet in my head.

“You found me.” Bentley fingers a vine, empty of fruit and ready for winter’s slumber. “I didn’t expect you here so soon.”

“Your wife gave me directions.” With a smile and a bat of her eyelashes, all while the cold metal of my gun pressed against my back and I considered using her as leverage.

Bentley doesn’t seem at all concerned by my presence. He doesn’t seem intent on anything but the grapes, and the western skies, where the sun is slow to set. “There’s something therapeutic about this place after it’s been harvested. Have you ever seen grapevines in the winter?”

“No. Not that I’ve noticed, anyway.”

“Well, I guess they’re like any plant. They look dead, incapable of ever coming back to life. Of ever producing anything again. And yet they do, year after year, as long as you protect their roots.”

It seems like such a casual conversation. If I weren’t on edge, I might enjoy it.

But I don’t have time to waste here. “Why’d you lie to me?”

He pauses, a dried leaf against his palm. “What was I going to tell you? That I lost control of some of my operatives? That the last boy scout was going to sink Alliance because of it?” He sounds defeated.