A Measure of Truth
The insanity could only be cured by more insanity, apparently.
Lead the cops to preacher's body; give them just enough evidence to arrest August Marks for the twisted bastard's murder.
And some measure of justice for Bobby.
Chibs had suggested making sure Althea Jarry was close by.
"Not too close, brother," Jax said. And Chibs knew he knew.
"Not too close," he agreed, thinking of her dark hair and eyes and the sweet, smoky taste of her mouth.
It wasn't exactly a lie.
This was never going to work, she told herself again, even while he was still inside her, even as she captured his tongue with her own and pulled him closer, not willing to let go just yet. She had demanded it, after all.
He had feelings for her, and here they were screwing themselves silly on top of her squad car while his friend looked on, seemingly unimpressed.
So much for discretion. Really, she thought, as Chibs gave one last great shudder and her own climax faded to a slow tingle, this had to end. It was too dangerous, for both of them.
"This is dangerous," he said, when he could speak again. They were both busy zipping and buttoning and putting themselves back together.
She paused long enough to pull him into a kiss. "I like dangerous."
It was, in its own fashion, some version of the truth.
Jarry warned Chibs that the DA would want more information on where the tip to find the preacher's body had come from. But Patterson seemed to like the idea of being able to charge somebody with something when a body turned up, even in pieces.
And she and Unser had warned each other that the whole case against Lin's organization for Tara Knowles's murder could fall apart at any second. But the feds had a serious hard-on for Lin and the guns and drugs they'd found on him were making the suits stiff all over.
But at some point, someone was going to ask why Lin would want the doctor dead. And at some point, someone in the sheriff's department or the DA's office was going to hear whispers about her trysts with Chibs.
And then they'd start sniffing around and find the stacks of cash she had tucked away, proof of the trust she'd built up with countless thugs she'd put away over the years. And the Scot, well, he was adorable.
But she couldn't believe for a second that he'd put her before the MC, feelings or no feelings.
Questions were dangerous. Loose ends were dangerous.
Chibs, her beautiful, scarred, bitter Scottie, was dangerous.
She met Chibs on a lonely stretch of highway, not far from where Ortiz had been taken into custody.
She'd lured him there with the promise of news about Ortiz. "Not the garage," she'd said. "It's not safe."
Ortiz wasn't really safe, either. He was still in solitary, still stewing. Her sources at the jail were placing bets on whether he'd kill himself before somebody else, the AB, the Chinese, someone beefing with the Sons, could spare him the effort.
Ortiz could be dealt with later, if necessary. He wasn't going anywhere. With the right touch, with the right incentives, she thought, he could be flipped. If he didn't hang himself in his cell.
It was her day off. She and Chibs met about a hundred yards off the side of the highway, sheltered from view by scrub trees.
"The feds want Lin," she told him. "And they're sniffing around your friend, Ortiz. Patterson's convinced they're going to turn him. He could hand them a nice package of intel on the club."
He spat and swore, anger making his words almost unintelligible. He looked away for a second and when he turned back, she fired, twice, catching him right between his startled eyes. She watched him fade away, then left the gun, a .50-caliber Desert Eagle registered to one of Lin's men, beside the body.
"Sorry, Scottie," she murmured over his body.
It was almost the truth.