Tack growled.
His wife shot him a bright smile.
He growled again even if his dick twitched at the smile.
“Now that we’re done filming, maybe I can get some time,” Rebel noted. “It’s been hectic. I had no idea how much the, uh . . . past management saw to now that I have to do it.”
None of her team left her.
All of Valenzuela’s team vaporized.
Their Rebel had been a busy girl.
And Tyra had shown him some dailies. Tack had never been into porn. The real deal was a far better use of a man’s time.
But he could see her talent and the pride she took in her work. It wasn’t hidden at all.
And it was impressive.
Even being porn.
“I can’t believe I can’t watch Rebel’s movie,” Rider grumbled.
“You are absolutely not ever fuckin’ watching Rebel’s movie,” Tack declared.
“F-bomb one of the night,” Tyra whispered to Shy on her right. “All I can say is thank God it’s not a drinking game.”
“Why not?” Rider hollered at his father, ignoring his mother.
“Ask me when you got a nine-year-old son,” Tack returned.
“That’ll be next century,” Rider complained.
“We can only hope,” Tyra said under her breath.
He shot his wife a grin.
Her eyes closed a little as she watched his mouth do it.
Yep.
Felt that in his cock too.
His phone on the kitchen bar rang.
His eyes on her meant he did not miss his wife looking to it or her face falling even if she covered that shit up almost immediately.
Knife through the heart.
Every damned time.
Tack dumped his napkin and pushed out of his chair.
“Can I take calls at dinner?” Cutter asked.
“Sure, when you’re payin’ for your own phone plan,” Tack told him.
“And you got a phone, bud,” Rush added.
“Which will happen when you’re sixteen and I can activate the GPS and stalk you,” Tyra declared.
“Dad says eleven!” Rider shouted.
“If you can talk your father into waltzing his badass self into a phone store, I’ll let that happen,” Tyra replied.
Since he told his sons they could have phones at eleven, but he had no fucking intention of entering a goddamned phone store so they could suck three hours of his life away doing shit to a five by three-inch piece of glass and plastic, he felt mildly bad they’d have to wait until sixteen and their mother would get them a phone.
That was his last thought before he saw who was calling him on his.
He took it up, connected the call and was taking long strides down the hall back to his and Red’s room when he answered, “Yo, Raid.”
“Hey, Tack. Sucks to say, but from what we could find out, he left his latest flophouse this morning,” Raid said.
Tack turned into his room, got two steps in and stopped.
The day after Carissa had her baby, Lee Nightingale called with the news that his computer genius, Brody, had tracked the sale of a gun registered to Arthur Lannigan to a pawn shop in Cheyenne.
Four days later, another gun sale in Reno.
Four days ago, a Rolex that was reported stolen twenty years ago turned up at a pawn shop in Vegas.
On the Cheyenne run, Rush, Snap, High and Hound went up.
They got the Reno news, Knight stepped in, sending Deacon, Raid and Nick with Rush and Snap joining them (half the reason Rebel hadn’t been able to cook for her man yet).
Knight’s men followed him to Vegas, but Knight and Tack had a chat and decided the writing was on the wall with Chew’s activities, so Chaos needed to see to business at home.
This meant Rush and Snap headed home.
They’d clipped through three motels and missed him by hours each time.
“He’s gotta have an MO with his choices,” Tack noted. “You got a guess as to where he’ll turn up next?”
“No, considering management didn’t get it when the cleaning staff saw it, but we did, seeing as he wrote in soap on the bathroom mirror, ‘Fuck Chaos.’”
Tack closed his eyes and dropped his head.
“Doing the rounds,” Raid kept up in his ear. “He’s dropped some silver, some jewelry, and a local fence took some designer shoes and purses off him.” His voice dropped. “Sorry, Tack, but Nick’s out. Olivia’s in Tennessee by herself and he’s not a fan of that. And Deacon is getting antsy. He wants back home to Cassidy. And probably goes without saying, I wanna get home to Hanna. We don’t like the news he knows someone’s on his ass. His message, not sure he made us. But our women home alone, none of us wanna take that chance.”
Tack opened his eyes.
“Understandable. You think he shot his wad and is heading back?” he asked.
“My guess, yeah.”
“His take?”
“Maybe thirty, thirty-five K.”
“Enough for a hit,” Tack muttered.
“An amateur one.”
“Got seventeen large from his last robberies in Denver.”
“And I can’t say we tracked everything he unloaded across two states,” Raid added. “Which sucks, and makes us feel like dicks, we’re pullin’ out. But we got women and kids—”
“Not your fight,” Tack muttered.
“We dropped our names, numbers and some cash on people. On our way back, we’ll drop more and his picture at motels and pawn shops he might hit. He pops, we’ll get calls then you’ll get calls. But just to say, from soap on a mirror to you, I wouldn’t waste resources sending brothers to Vegas. Gut tells me he’s heading home.”
Tack turned and saw Shy stepping in, Rush leaning against his doorjamb.
He shook his head.
Shy’s mouth went tight, the skin around Rush’s eyes did the same.
Playboy could be heard shouting, “Da, Da, Da!”
Tack looked at his son-in-law.
His mouth was no longer tight.
Playboy talking wasn’t new. His grandson had been picking words up for months.
But that particularly never failed to put his father in a good mood no matter what shit was going down.
“Family dinner, Raid. I gotta get back to it. We owe you men. You got call to do it, you come to us.”
“Just feed us at a hog roast, we’re in town, Tack. This is for you. This is for Knight. But mostly this is for five dead women and one dead guy.”
“Yeah,” Tack grunted.
“Later, and hope this is over soon for you, man.”
“I do too, Raid. I fuckin’ do too,” Tack replied.
They hung up.
“Let me guess, he was one step ahead of fuckin’ Raid Miller, Nick Sebring and Deacon Gates,” Rush bit out. “Again.”
“He’s a man on the run with cops and heat on his ass. He’s not gonna take time to sit by the pool. It isn’t their fault,” Tack returned.
“I’m not saying it is.” Rush yanked his hand through his hair. It went back, fell again into his eyes, then he scrubbed his fingers along his bearded cheek and muttered, “Just way done with this jackhole.”
“I hear that.”
“Da, Da, Da, DaDaDa!” Playboy shrieked.
“Best get back to my son,” Shy said, and Rush moved out of his way so he could leave the room.
Father and son looked at each other.
“You want me to grab Snap, head to Vegas?” Rush offered.
“I want every brother packin’ and on guard. That asshole’s heading home. It’s showtime, Rush. We just don’t got the playbill.”
Rush was not happy about that.
He still nodded, turned and disappeared from the doorway.
Tack drew in a heavy breath.
Then he followed his son.
Snapper
Six twenty-seven, Monday evening . . .
Leaving the Compound, on his way home to Rosalie, Snapper pulled to the curb, cut power to his bike, slammed the heel of his boot on the stand, swung his leg over the saddle and prowled to the bike that had just parked behind him.
Jesus, the fucker didn’t even try to hide the tail.
“You’re shittin’ me, right?” he clipped.