A Dream of Summer (Bleeding Angels MC Book 3) (9 page)

Ryan grunts a sound of satisfaction and abruptly gets up from the table, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.

“Now that’s all settled, it’s time to get you
initiated!
” The last word is a shout and it raises whistles and noises of appreciation throughout Wheels.

As I follow Ryan’s lead through the crowd I get slapped on the back and words of encouragement flow as easily as the beer.

“Go get ‘em, Summers!”

“One step away from being an Angel!”

“Yeah, brother, yeah!”

The shouts from the bikers follow us out into the dark night. It’s not hard to understand the attraction of the MC, the feeling of belonging to something, the feeling of family. I have to remind myself it’s this so-called family that has been terrorizing Painted Rock for the past decade. I had never appreciated how easy it would be to get sucked in to the life.

I’d been allocated a bike when we headed to the tattoo place and I had to admit that there was something exciting about racing around on it. It was a feeling of danger mixed with a sense of freedom--a combination I’d never really experienced before. I liked it, but I knew that was dangerous—it was one of the ways that they pulled you in and convinced you this is what you wanted.

“After this, there’s no going back. You’ll officially be an Angel.” Ryan seems inordinately pleased, like the entire conversation we’d had back in the bar hadn’t even happened.

“Looks that way,” I agree, trying to come up with the most neutral response that I can muster. Right now, I don’t know where I belong. I feel more lost than I ever have.

I swing my leg over the bike and gun the engine, following Ryan towards the diner. I have that feeling of nervous excitement that I used to get whenever I knew I was going to see Aimee. It’s strange for me. I want to see her, want to see her so bad it hurts, but at the same time I know that seeing her might hurt even more—especially with Ryan there. It’ll bring everything between us back into plain sight.

It would be easier if she weren’t at the diner tonight. That way she wouldn’t see what it is I have to do. She’ll think that I’m one of them, one of the people that she hates. And wouldn’t she be right?

The moment the Feds walk in, I’m on high alert. My body feels like it’s been flooded with adrenaline and I have to stop myself from running straight over to them and blurting out everything that’s happened since we last spoke.

Agent Warner and the man that I still only know as Mr. Tall head straight to the booth they’d sat at the last time and act as if they haven’t even seen me.

George hands me two menus and nods in their direction. “Go get ‘em, girl,” he mutters before disappearing back inside the kitchen to give us some privacy.

As I approach the men, the conversation they’d been having dies down. I hand them their menus and although they still don’t make eye contact with me, I get straight down to business.

“I got your message,” I tell them, not even bothering to lower my voice as we’re the only ones in the place.

“I’ll have the cheese omelet, mixed salad on the side.” Agent Warner, still dressed in his trucker’s outfit orders first. He hands me back the menu, still not looking at me.

“I’ll have the same,” Mr.Tall mimics his boss’s movements.

I can feel the anger start to boil up in my blood. After all, they’re the ones that left me a message to meet them here and now they were playing secret squirrels.

“That’s great, but why don’t we stop wasting time and talk about what you came here for? The Bleeding Angels.” I look from one man to the other, waiting for them to say something, and the longer they remain in silence, the angrier I can feel myself getting.

“You shouldn’t be looking directly at us, Ms. Winters,” Warner points out, focusing on re-arranging his napkin and cutlery on the table. “When we think it’s safe for us to talk we’ll let you know.” His words don’t brook any kind of opposition, but I’m not in the mood for games.

“Bullshit.” The word sounds even harsher in the empty diner and both men look up at me in shock. “We talk now or we don’t talk at all.” I cross my arms and stare the men down. My last shred of patience has officially just been used up.

“Ms. Winters, you have to understand that this is a delicate situation and we’re trying to keep a low profile while we conduct our investigations.” Mr. Tall is making soothing motions with his hands as he tries to placate me.

“Don’t you ‘Ms. Winters’ me. And in terms of keeping a low profile, you guys couldn’t stick out anymore if you tried. Don’t they teach you how to blend in at Spy School?” I shake my head in despair and count to ten, trying to calm myself down. “We don’t have any time to be playing, and you guys have already come late to the party—the Angels have been running this town for the better part of the last ten years and you’ve only just arrived. We need to move forward with whatever you’re working on against them now. There isn’t any time to waste. So if you’re serious about wanting to get things done then we talk now, and if not, then I guess I’ll just have to give the Angels what they’ve got coming to them on my own.”

The two men look back at each other and something passes between them in silence. Agent Warner turns to me with a blank expression on his face. “What’s got you all worked up? Something’s changed since the last time we saw you.”

I take a deep breath. There’s no point in lying to them, because they need to know how seriously invested I am in this. “They’ve taken someone that’s important to me. The most important person to me.” I
almost
manage to keep my voice from wavering, but no cigar.

“Pull up a chair, Ms. Winters.” It’s an order, not a request, and I have to stop myself from sighing in relief.

“Let me just ring your orders up and I’ll be right with you both.” My legs feel like jelly but I’m proud of myself for being able to walk straight and tall back to the kitchen. I don’t answer George’s questioning gaze—I just drop off the ticket and head straight back out again. I grab the coffee pot as I walk back and pour each of us a drink before I take them up on their offer and pull up a chair so I’m sitting with each man to my side.

“Tell us what you know.” Agent Warner folds his fingers into a steeple position, fixing me with an intense gaze.

It’s funny—you spend so long thinking everyone knows what’s going on in Painted Rock that when someone actually asks you to tell your story, it feels like it’s harder than it should be. There’s so much to say that I don’t even know where to start. It takes me a few moments to arrange my thoughts.

Then it all comes pouring out.

I start talking about my father and how he was one of the only people that stood up to the Angels. That he and Scar had been friends before they’d found themselves on opposite sides of a war. I tell them about how my dear dad was gunned down in the street like a dog by that very man. I talk about the protection money that they demand from each business in the town and the measures they take to make sure no one shorts them or tries to get out of paying their dues. I talk about how the law in this town was bought off by the bikers, one cop at a time, and now no one dares to stand up to them. I tell them about the initiations that the Angels make their Patches go through and how they’ve become more and more violent as time has gone on.

Finally, I get to the exchange that I’d heard that night in the diner between the two bikers who I’d nicknamed Blondie and Baldy. I tell the agents about their conversation surrounding the army truck and how they’d openly talked about ripping it off. The men make notes at some points and at others they just listen quietly, sometimes looking at each other to communicate some quiet, private signal

“…And I think that pretty much brings us right up to date.” I finish and take a sip of my coffee, which is now stone cold. I figure I’ve been talking for over an hour and my mouth feels drier than the Nevada desert.

The two men remain in silence, swapping notebooks presumably so that they can verify they’ve recorded the information correctly.

“So...what happens now?” I ask when it becomes clear that I’m not going to get a response.

“Now we take this information back to base and we take things from there,” Agent Warner explains as he closes his notebook firmly and slips it into the back pocket of his jeans.

I stare at them in mute rage. “So you’re telling me that after everything I’ve just told you, you’re still planning on
waiting around
until the Angels just drop into your lap all wrapped and tied in a bow?” My voice is getting louder again but I don’t care—the diner is empty, and I’m so far past worrying what people might be thinking about me that it wouldn’t have made a difference if the place had been full. “What is it that you need? You’re the
Feds
. Aren’t you supposed to be doing something instead of just sitting here with your dicks in your hands?” I look between the two men, who shift uncomfortably in their seats.

“We need someone on the inside to give us information about the drug trafficking and dealing that you mentioned. We need testimony that’s more than just rumors and hearsay. We need facts.” Agent Warner keeps his voice level, but it’s clear that I haven’t endeared myself to him by essentially calling him and his partner useless.

Before I’ve even really considered the ramifications of what it is that I’m saying I open my mouth. “I can do that. I can get you what you need.” I have no idea
how
I’m going to deliver on that promise. But I’m convinced that I will find a way and I’m hoping I look as serious about what I’m saying as I sound.

“You have someone on the inside?” Agent Warner’s attention is immediately piqued.

“I’ll get you whatever it is that you need. You let me worry about the how and the when.” As I say the words I have something close to an out-of-body experience. I look down at myself and wonder at the person that I’ve become, sitting here talking to, even
challenging
, the Feds like I’ve got a pair of steel balls.

“We need proof that these guys are engaging in illegal activity and that they’re dangerous. How are you going to do that?” The way that Mr. Tall looks at me makes it plain that he doesn’t have any faith that I’m able to deliver on what I’ve just promised them.

“By any means necessary. I’m prepared to take this as far as I have to.” My voice is as cold as my stare, and Mr. Tall seems to shrink into his seat. “Are you able to say the same?” He doesn’t have to respond—the point I’m making is clear. “Taking the Bleeding Angels down is more important for me than it ever will be to you. You want a pat on the back from your superiors and nice corner office, but I want my town back and my life back. You don’t have to worry about me being able to deliver on what I’m saying, you just have to worry about being ready to make your move when the time comes.”

“We can’t just take you at your word,” Mr. Tall insists. “You may have the best of intentions but you’re not experienced—”

“We’ll arrange for a wire to be delivered to the body shop in the next twenty-four hours. Keep it in a safe place until you need it.” Agent Warner rides rough-shod over whatever it is that Mr. Tall is trying to say.

“But, sir, she’s had no training. She doesn’t know what she’s doing.” I wonder if Mr. Tall’s protests sound as whiny to him as they clearly do to both Warner and me.

Warner doesn’t even look at his colleague and instead focuses his attentions on me. “If you don’t want to get involved, if you’re having any second thoughts, then now is the moment to speak up. Once you’re in, there’s no getting out.” His words are ominous but they don’t scare me. I think it would take a hell of a lot to scare me any more than I already am. Next to the Bleeding Angels and everything they’ve thrown at me in the past few months, the Feds are puppy dogs.

“I don’t have any plans to get out. I couldn’t even if I wanted to.” I make eye contact with Warner and hope that he sees how serious I am.

Then, right on cue, the very reason that I couldn’t possibly back out walks through the door. It couldn’t have been any more perfectly-timed if we’d planned it.