Chapter Eight

The next morning dawned bright and early, and Merrie had a hard time not bouncing around in her excitement to start work. Leo had left before dawn on an emergency call but he was expected back soon to show her around the office. As she was in the kitchen brewing coffee, a knock sounded at the door. Braden told her to stay out of sight and opened the door.

“Hello,” the man said. “I’m Detective Clark Christianson from Cheyenne. I’m looking for Mr. Braden McClintock.”

“That’s me,” Braden answered.

“Hello, Mr. McClintock. I work in organized crimes and my captain brought your report of a biker gang related attack to my attention. May I come in so we can talk?”

“Of course,” Braden said.

Merrie moved into the kitchen archway to look at the man. He didn’t look like a cop. He certainly didn’t look like a cop who could handle the biker, Axe, either. He was of average height and build, balding. Bags drooped under his eyes, giving him a tired look, and the brackets by his mouth hinted that he clenched his teeth a lot.

“It’s okay, Merrie,” Leo gestured for her to come and sit next to him. “He’s from Cheyenne.”

While she and Braden settled on the couch, Detective Christianson sat on the recliner. He pulled out a notebook and pen.

“Why don’t you start from the beginning?” the detective offered.

Braden took her hand in his and gave her an encouraging nod. She took a deep breath.

“I was lost and didn’t have a signal on my cell phone,” she said. “I saw a bar and figured I’d call the police for help, so I circled around back where I found a payphone. When I got out of my car, two men were talking and shaking hands. Then…the man with the goatee, whom the other man called Axe, attacked me. He…hit me. When I told them I was lost and was only going to call the police for help, the other man—the one with a long gray beard—said Axe had to clean up his mess and make sure no one found my body.”

Braden tightened his fingers around hers. When she glanced at him, fury blanketed his face. She used her thumb to sooth the back of his hand.

“Please, go on,” Detective Christianson murmured.

“He punched me and I blacked out. Sometime later, I came to and realized I was in the back of my car, heading somewhere. I got out of my bindings, jumped from the car, and I ran into the woods.”

The detective arched both eyebrows.

“I found her on the dirt road south of here, the one separating my land from the Hamilton’s,” Braden said.

“Are you usually out on that road?”

“Sometimes. The Hamilton’s buy horses from me.”

“Did you go to the hospital, Miss Walden?”

She shook her head. “The man—Axe—said the cops were in his pocket. I didn’t want to chance going to the hospital in case the police were looking for me.”

“So no one knows you’re here? Who put the cast on your wrist?”

“My brother,” Braden answered. “He’s a veterinarian. Hold on. We took photos.”

He got up and headed toward his office then came back out a moment later with his digital camera. He turned it on and brought up the pictures of Merrie. He handed it over for Detective Christianson to look at them.

The detective scrolled through each frame slowly. Occasionally he’d flick his gaze to her as if he were comparing the photo from then to how she looked now. His mouth flattened in to a grim line. When he was done, he turned off the camera and sat it on the coffee table.

“Is it possible to have those pictures?”

“I can email you a copy,” Braden offered.

The detective nodded. “I’d appreciate that. Was Axe driving your car?”

“No. It was some other man. I didn’t get a look at his face but he had a snake tattoo on his right forearm.” She drew in a shaky breath.

Braden slipped his arm around her and she relaxed into his warmth.

“Snake tattoo?” Christianson looked at the two men. “Have you seen a man with a tattoo like that?”

Braden shook his head. “We don’t really associate with that crowd.”

Christianson nodded. “It was a brave thing you did, Miss Walden, jumping out of that car.”

“If I’d stayed in it, I’d be in an unmarked grave right now. Braden and his brother Leo rescued me.”

He leaned forward and looked her straight in the eye. “The way I see it, you rescued yourself. Do you have any clue why they targeted you?”

She shook her head. “None. Although Braden and Leo think it might be some type of initiation to get into their club.”

“The club on Route 18, right? The Demon Devils?”

“Yes,” Braden confirmed.

“I know the club well. They’ve been on our radar for some time. Unfortunately, they’re very good at evading the law.” Detective Christianson stood. He pulled out two cards and handed one to her and the other to Braden. “I’ll start my own investigation into this Axe character, as well as the local police. Just stay here out of sight and don’t talk to anyone until I say otherwise. Understood?”

Braden stood as well and held out his hand. The two men shook firmly then Braden escorted him out of the door.

* * * *

When Clark Christianson slid behind the wheel of his rental car, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number to his brother’s burner phone.

“Did you find her?” Axe asked, forgoing a greeting.

“Yes. You did a fucking number on her, you shit.”

“Obviously not enough. She’s still alive.”

“They have pictures and there’s more than enough to arrest your sorry ass.”

“You’re not going to arrest me. Otherwise, I’ll be singing how you’ve always looked the other way when it comes to your baby brother. Now, where is she?”

“Like I’m going to fucking tell you. I’m still a cop, Axe.”

“Don’t screw around, Clark!” Axe yelled over the line. “Tell me where the girl is so I can get back to business.”

“And what business is that, Axe? Unlike the clueless girl I just interviewed, I happen to know why your panties are in a twist. I work in organized crimes, remember? And outlaw motorcycles clubs fall under that jurisdiction. What’s the angle?”

“None of your business. And if the cops come snooping around or if I get fucking arrested for this petty shit, then I’m not the only one going down in flames. Got it, brother?”

Clark clicked off the call and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. Two weeks. Two fucking weeks and he got saddled with his brother’s fucking mess. He started up the car and wondered how he could string this along until his retirement day arrived. Then he could write this off as a bogus investigation and go fishing.