Protect (33 page)

“Like what?”

He swallowed again and shoved his phone in
his back pocket. He was fighting back on fury, like her, but
barely. “Nothing. Just rude. And kinda scary.”

She swallowed a stomach heave. “Like.
What?”

The way she said it left him no choices.
“Talking about getting a group together to show up to each take a
turn tonight. One put your address on there.”

“That’s public knowledge, honey.”

“I know. But it still pissed me off that he
said ‘Gang rape at 7,’ then put your house number out there for
everyone to see.”

Now she just felt
pale
. “They said
that
?”

“I deleted it, I deleted everything. But
first I screen captured every comment with their fucking names to
use against them. Then I had to delete my own Facebook account
because people were saying that shit on my own damn Timeline.”

Her hand went to her chest. She might
actually be sick. “I am so sorry, baby.”

“Don’t fucking apologize, Mom. It’s these
fucking animals who should be apologizing to you. I haven’t even
tried to look and see where else this video has been posted.”

It was on the internet. Her getting fucked by
a Red Rebel, in his
kutte
to make sure there could be no
doubt, on the internet. For all to see, condemn, and revel in.

She was done for.

In a move so fast she couldn’t remember
making it she was bent over the garbage can, evacuating her mostly
digested breakfast into the black liner.

“Jesus, Mom!”

“It’s okay,” she groaned, waving him off.
That actually
did
feel a bit better. “I’m ... fuck. I’m not
okay. I’m finished.”

“You don’t know that.”

She laughed, setting the can down and
circling back behind her desk to grab a Kleenex. “No, I am. Trust
me. There are many things a sheriff can and can’t do if she happens
to be female. Sex out of wedlock is one in most small towns, and
with an outlaw, most certainly not.” Sinking into her chair she
lamented the loss of her office. She’d finally gotten it arranged
the way she wanted it. Not an easy feat given the fifty-year-old
furniture.

“Mom, don’t give up.”

“I won’t be laughed at, carrying on like
nothing happened.” Even in here, this small room, she could sense
the shit storm heading her way. “I have to drop out of the
election.”

“But then they get what they want, and they
get it with
that
bullshit!”

With a small, sad smile she nodded at her
son. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure everyone knows where the video
came from. It could only be Archie Turnbull behind all this. He
likely didn’t
get
the video, but it was his idea. I know
it.”

“You think he had you followed? Waiting for
dirt to smear you with?” Brayden kicked a chair out to sit in, and
the noise it made was loud and angry.

“Yes I do,” she replied wearily, rubbing her
temple. Great, here came the headache. She always got headaches
right after throwing up.

“There’s gotta be a way to charge him.”

“Yeah, we can. Invasion of privacy,
trespassing. We might win. But it won’t keep me in this office,
Bray.” She leaned forward. “What do we do now? Fuck, I’m lost for
ideas.”

“Well, you just found out about this, Mom.
Hardly enough time to come up with a plan.” He stared at the front
of her desk, jaw set and to the side. Pissed off mode. That’s
exactly what
she
did when she was mad.

“I think it might be a good idea to get out
of town,” she mused, thinking out loud, mostly to herself.

“Grandma and Grandpa’s?”

She nodded. “Although, explaining all this to
them might be the worst experience of my life.”

“Couldn’t be worse than how I found out,
Mom.”

“I’ve apologized for that a lot.”

“I know.” Bless his heart, he tried to smile
for her. “We can go see Grandma and Grandpa, but I don’t think we
should
stay
at their house. That’d be too much. I agree with
out of town, but keep them as the home base. We go to a hotel or
something.”

She nodded. “Good idea.” Then she pushed her
chair back, and as she stood the room spun again but she nearly
went over.

“Mom!” She heard Brayden shout it from far
away, and the world was glowing golden for a minute before she got
it together.

Shaking her head she noted that her son was
next to her, holding her arm. “Sorry, Bray. Throwing up doesn’t
agree with me.”

“You sure you don’t want to sit again?”

She shook her head, then took a deep,
steadying breath. “I gotta get rid of that garbage bag. And I have
to explain to Troy when I’m dropping out of the Sheriff’s race.
Then I have to go home and start packing. Can you go online and
book a place? You know where the credit card is.”

He was nodding, concern making his forehead
crinkle up. “Yeah, I can do that. I’ll start packing, too.”

“You mean you’ve
unpacked
?” she
teased, and then she got a full smile.

“Yeah yeah, just ‘cause you got sick doesn’t
mean you get to nag.”

“It does, actually. But go ahead, get out of
here. I’ll try to avoid people until I get home.”

After a pause for thinking Brayden dropped
his long, lanky arms around her shoulders and pulled her in for a
big hug. “We’ll be okay, Mom.”

She rubbed his back but already she was
contemplating having to sell her house, move out of Markham County,
change her name, and the lovely logistics all that would
entail.

“Okay,
go
,” she instructed, stepping
out of his comfort. “I’ve got shit to do, and I don’t want to be
here longer than I have to be.”

He nodded, then turned and left her in her
empty office, blinking at the walls and wondering what the
fuck
to do next.

Troy knew how to finish up everything she was
leaving half done. She meant what she’d told him; he was the best
fucking deputy she had. She’d rather have him in charge than anyone
else.

Her face was likely red—it felt as hot as a
torch—as she told him what had happened. They didn’t get along, but
his indignation at her news made her feel a little better. He was
pissed, vowed to look into it, and she smiled her thanks right
before dropping the whole bomb that meant she was resigning.

“You can’t. Don’t do that.”

She gave him
a look
. “Think about what
you’re saying. You want me continue to make appearances, shake
hands and meet people when everyone’s at least heard about—if not
seen—
this video? No. Not going to do it.”

“Sharon—”

“I
can’t
. I’m humiliated beyond belief
and I’ve only talked to two people about it—you and my
son
.
I need to not do this. I’ll take leave immediately, come back to
tender my resignation. He won. He fought really fucking dirty but
he won.”

Troy’s jaw got that rock-hard tension to it
as well. “This is such bullshit.”

“You’ll notice I’m not denying this
relationship, Troy. This video I mentioned? This happened. I am
that
person. It’s all over the place. Everyone knows how the
sheriff got her rocks off. It won’t matter at all for Fritter—the
club likely knows. They’re probably high-fiving him.” Jesus, she
felt so stupid. And the worst part is, the part that made her want
to slam her head down on her desk, was that she liked the guy. She
had started to really let him in. Why? There was no conceivable way
that could work out for either of them.

She deserved this.

“Sharon, it doesn’t matter. This is an
invasion of privacy—”

“And I
still
won’t keep my job. You’re
right. I did nothing wrong. I’m an adult, in a consenting
relationship. But it doesn’t fucking matter, does it?”

That made him drop it. Of course he knew she
was right.

“I’m going home. My phone will be unplugged.
I’m heading out of town. If you need me, text me. I’m putting the
cell on silent and taking off with Bray. Anything comes up you
think I need to know, you pass it along that way. I’ll check for
texts regularly.”

Troy nodded, still pissed. “Okay. I
understand that.” He turned to leave, then spun at the door to look
at her again. “What the fuck is that smell?”

“Sorry. I threw up. I’ll get rid of the
bag.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll get Marge to
handle it.”

“No, she doesn’t need to do that. I’ll clean
up after myself. Believe me, I love Marge too much for that.”

“If you’re sure—”

“I’m sure. Let me tidy this shit up then I’m
gone.”

With another nod he turned sharply on his
heel and left, then she distracted herself by doing what she said
she would, emptying the trash in a bin out back and tidying all the
files on her desk. Then, without a word or look to anyone else she
darted for her car and sped all the way home.

The tight, painful feeling in her chest
didn’t let up when she to the one place that was usually welcoming
enough to relax her. Maybe that tension would be gone once she was
out of Markham town limits.

The sun wasn’t as ruthless as it had been in
the past, and a strong wind threatened to toss even a few hundred
pounds of motorcycle off the highway on the road to Markham. It
felt good though, and it made Fritter calm down a little bit before
they arrived at the address Spaz provided. Sure enough there were
strings of police tape marking off a street, and as they parked in
formation they drew plenty of stares from locals and law
enforcement alike.

“Shit, it’s a stand-off?” Jayce muttered,
removing his helmet. “I thought they’d been taken in.”

Sure enough, there were barricades blocking
the street on both sides of a small, two-level motel that squatted
close to the sidewalk. Black sedans and SUVs were parked out front
with people in formal office attire walking around in bullet proof
vests. Those vests all had white lettering that read FBI.

“What do we do?” Tank asked. None of them
dismounted, they just sat comfortably watching the show like the
civvies gathered at the wooden sawhorses on the road.

“Don’t know.” Jayce cast his eyes both ways
up the street.

“Maybe they’ll just get shot.”

“That would suck. I’d rather have a
conversation with them first,” Tiny said, giving a cold, maniacal
grin. “See what we can find out.”

“Ain’t no way that’s happening now.” Fritter
jerked his head at the suits. “Look at them. The Feds know about
the Mazaris. They take ‘em alive and they’re protected real
quiet-like. They’re not coming out upright.”

“I hate to agree.” Jayce squinted at the
line-ups of people. “Just want to make sure.”

“Wouldn’t it be nuts if they faked their
fucking deaths like they did for that DEA nark, Bark?” Spaz started
tittering. “Bark the Nark.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Tiny and Fritter said it
in perfect unison, Tank just chuckled.

“If it stays boring we’ll—”

Jayce didn’t get to finish because it got
very
not boring really fast. There was the popping sound of
gunfire, and a trained ear knew it was inside a building somewhere
close. All the FBI agents had already been in positions of cover,
and there were words being shouted but nothing discernable. The
spectator gallery dropped to the ground and a few shrieks could be
heard. The Rebels stayed on their bikes, growing quiet.

One word was understood, and it was repeated
about ten times. “Clear!” Then two paramedics were rushing forward
while another readied a gurney and dragged it out of the
ambulance.

“Well shit,” Tank drawled, pulling his helmet
back on.

“Fuck,” Jayce added, doing the same. “All
right. Let’s head home, guys. I think we have a stop to make in
Markham?”

“Where?” Fritter asked, tightening his chin
strap.

“The offices of the Markham Marker,” Jayce
answered lightly, firing up his Dyna.

Fritter felt a smile, but didn’t let it get
too big. He might actually not lose his patch here, and that was
enough to keep him buzzing as they fell into formation and hit the
pavement back to Markham.

-oOo-

The Markham Marker was in the middle of a
sad-looking strip mall, which was a great indicator of how
legitimate it was as a source of news. Between an adult video store
and a twenty-four hour, delivery only pizza parlor.

The bell jingled over the door, and the
reception desk was abandoned when they strolled inside. The blinds
were drawn over the front windows, rendering the lobby dim with a
grayish light slipping in around the edges. No other lights on.

“What the hell?” Tank mumbled as he slipped
off his shades. Fritter did the same.

There was a voice trailing out of an office
behind reception, the door standing open next to the decal on the
wall that read
Markham Marker
in stately lettering. The
lights in
that
room were on, and there was the sound of a
phone being hung up before the door filled with the portly shadow
of Dylan Prescott as he stumbled out, a napkin tucked into the neck
of his golf shirt.

“Sorry about that, the receptionist is sick
today. I’m here alone—” he stupidly shared too much, then realized
who was standing in his lobby. “Shit,” he said before turning and
darting back into his office, slamming his door shut.

Fritter was already moving. Before the latch
could catch on the lock he shoved his way in, bouncing Prescott in
the process. The chubby fuck bounced off the wall behind the door
then stumbled sideways, scrambling on hands and knees away from
Fritter.

“You probably know why we’re here?” Fritter
asked, reaching for the neck of the bastard’s shirt and pulling him
to his feet. A quick look at the desk in the room proved Prescott
had been enjoying a late lunch. Fritter yanked the napkin out of
Prescott’s collar and tossed it down.