Biker's Claim The Broken Angel is Mine (Cora and Jake) novel Chapter 42

Chapter 42

Gunner POV

Leaving Cora was difficult because I wanted to be the one to settle her back into the club family. I took a deep sigh; it was probably better this way, letting the girls show her how much they missed her. I thought of her all the time as I worked on the bike, and then, coming inside to talk to Oddball, I tried to keep my head in the game, but it kept straying back to that scared, red, blotched face I wanted to protect.

Now we are sitting in Oddball’s office, facing two police officers with our findings, and the test of my willpower is about to begin because I can’t drop the ball in front of the police. Cora has to stay out of my head, while we deal with this, it’s important, I need my A game on. I listen to what the police say, the tone of their voice, their body language, and the things they don’t ask. Iam good at reading people, which is part of why I am a good enforcer. I have thought this before, and each time we have a meeting like this, it reinforces that belief. I don’t get all puffed up over it, but do what I do best, to benefit the club.

“Two bullets.” The police chief said, almost in disbelief, he looked at the photos I had taken, both the engine and the tyre, it was obvious now, you know what you are looking for.

“We missed this,” the other officer, who I now know was a detective assigned to this case, or should I say the shootings, Oddball had called them to come here and see for themselves that it was murder; they had searched for all the complaints about suddenly blown tyres, and suggestions of a shooter. There were a lot of complaints, going back two months, and that was before my tyre was blown out. They didn’t want to alarm the public, so they kept it to themselves, which doesn’t make me feel any better or bring our brother

back.

“If we could join forces, share information, like we are now, I know that we can get information from people in ways we can’t with intimidation styles and have a higher level of success.” The Chief sort of suggested, I get what he meant, but didn’t say a word. I don’t trust them.

“How’s that?” Dozer asked; I wished he hadn’t. It could only reinforce my low opinion of the police and could make it even lower than it already was.

“As law enforcement officers, our hands are tied in ways that you might not be, not that I am suggesting you capture a guy and torture him, but some persuasion, that might get better results, the criminal element in our society is well–versed in the law, and to some extent, how far we can go legally, when we can question them.” I can’t believe what I am hearing. This detective is not from our town, and he is a newbie to being a detective, with a bee in his bonnet, and a stick up his arzz and something to prove, and it sounds like he was not afraid to use other means to get results. The chief said nothing and let the detective do all the talking about how we should cooperate to stop these shooters and bring them to justice, which more or less gave us the green light to do more than what’s legal. Wonder what he would think if he knew we had a shooter in our cells right now. Each time that detective opened his gob, I wanted to fill it with my fist.

They stayed another hour, going in circles, looking at the photos we had taken, not just of the bike, but the

arca that Skink had fallen, and some of where I had fallen, they put the two together, and thought it was a biker related issue, till I reminded him of all the complaints, and that two bike related ones against hundreds not, doesn’t equate to a bike feud of some kind. This detective was nuts, his mind jumping all over the place, and making the worst possible ideas, none of which were really plausible.

At last, we got rid of the jerk; I was ready to throw him in the cells. How the heck did he make detective?

Glad we got rid of them, I was still in Oddball’s office as he walked them out, and returned with two

coffees.

“What do you think?” Oddball started as he sat at his desk looking at the photos on his desk. The police took the two bullets and some of the photos that they considered relevant.

“At first I wondered how he became a detective, but then I remembered old movies and cop shows, where the detective acted all stupid, and mixed up all his questions, when really he was trying to get us to give information in a different way, like that old series Columbo, that detective acted like he was confused all the time, but had a quick mind. With that thought, he was fishing, suggesting we rough someone up to see how we would react and to share information, but I am already thinking that would be all one–sided or drip–feed us the bare minimum. I don’t trust him; he never asked to talk to our guys, which should have been standard procedure in my book. He took only a few photos and didn’t write anything down. Do you think he had a recorder on him, or his phone on record?”

“Won’t matter if he did, I had the silencer on.” We call our signal interrupter the silencer. If that cop did have a recorder on, it would be garbled; it was our IT brothers‘ own invention.

“Dinner time, come on, we have done enough today, and I think we both need an early night. Hopefully nothing interrupts us tonight.” Oddball slapped me on the back as he moved towards the door. I stood and

followed.

“Scones, where’s my girl?” Our lovely Scones was in the kitchen, as expected, and dinner was smelling fantastic. My stomach took that moment to remind me it needs filling.

“Bed, that girl was walking dead, poor thing. Why don’t you make up a tray, and the two of you eat upstairs? I bet once she eats, that girl will fall straight back to sleep.” Scones has already prepared a tray, and I took

two stairs at a time.

I slowly opened the door and stepped inside. My girl had her back to me, lying on the bed.

I placed the tray on the table and moved to check on her. She looked so peaceful, her face relaxed, and I felt bad waking her. But Scones said it was better to wake her and get some food inside her stomach. She would rest easier with a full stomach. I was not one to argue when it came to Scones; her advice was

never bad.

“Babe, hey, wake up.” I leaned in and kissed her cheek. Cora’s eyes flickered open and stared, confused at first, as she looked at my face. I was glad she didn’t have a bad reaction. I know waking someone can be dangerous; some scream, some hit out.

“There she is, I brought dinner, you need to eat and change.” I coaxed softly.

Cora sits up, rubs her eyes, and stretches before throwing her legs over the edge of the bed and heading to the bathroom. She returns a few minutes later, sits at the table and awaits the food.

“Thank you.” Cora grasped the mug of coffee, took a long sip, then set it down, picked up a knife and fork, and dug in. She still looks tired, I guess a lot like what I must look like, beyond tired, and hungry.

“That’s what friends are for.” I didn’t want to push Cora too much; she must still be feeling a little fragile. It’s been a full six weeks since she left that triangle of mess behind her, and it tried to follow her here. Well, we won’t let that happen if we can avoid it.

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