Blood Lines by Mel Odom Page A

the photographs across the desktop in a move so smooth it would have done a riverboat gambler proud. “Got you a six-pack here, Thumper. Isn’t that what the cops call mug shots?”
    â€œDon’t know.”
    â€œIf you’ve been arrested and held for questioning, you’d know that.” Victor delighted in turning the knife a little, letting Thumper know he wasn’t thinking straight enough to keep himself out of trouble.
    â€œOkay. Maybe I heard it called that.” Thumper’s eyes never went to the photographs.
    â€œTake a look,” Victor said in a soft voice. “See what I see.”
    â€œI ain’t here to play games,” Thumper said. “I got people who are gonna be all up in my grill if I don’t hook them up with the meth I promised them.”
    â€œThe meth won’t be a problem,” Victor stated. “Like I said, I know a guy who knows a guy.” Passing on information about someone selling drugs wasn’t illegal. Not as long as he didn’t ask for money. “Look at the pictures.”
    After a moment, Thumper did. As soon as he recognized the people in the pictures, he froze. Then he called Victor a vile name.
    Victor knew that the undercover cop had recognized the people immediately. They were his ex-wife, son, and sister.
    â€œWhere did you get those?” Thumper demanded in a hoarse voice.
    â€œChill, dude. They’re just pictures.” Victor turned the photographs over, then spread them again.
    â€œThey’re of my family,” Thumper said.
    Victor knew the name Thumper had called him was a tell. He’d known it as soon as Thumper had said it, and he knew they weren’t going to finish their conversation alone.
    Victor left the photographs lying facedown on the table. He passed a magazine he’d brought with him to Fat Mike, who got up and walked away without a word. From here everything was a gamble, a desperate roll of the dice. The kicker was that the club had an excellent attorney on retainer, and Thumper had recognized his family.
    Quietly Victor sipped his beer and waited. Less than a minute later, FBI agents in black riot gear burst through the doors with guns drawn. They started shouting at once. There was a brief flurry of activity as some of the bikers tried to escape. The agents put them down with stun batons, then screwed the muzzles of their weapons into the base of those men’s skulls.
    Victor finished his last sip of beer and put his hands in the air. He didn’t resist when one of the men grabbed him out of the chair by his hair and made him drop to his knees.
    â€œHe had pictures of my family,” Thumper said to a grizzled guy wearing glasses. “I wouldn’t have blown cover if he hadn’t.”
    Victor just grinned.
    Without a word, the grizzled agent reached for the photographs on the table and flipped them over one by one. Victor laughed as he saw the surprised look on Thumper’s face. The pictures—each and every one of them—showed Thumper drunk and drugged out with other members of the Purple Royals. None of the pictures, though, were of Victor or Fat Mike.
    He’d made sure they weren’t compromised.
    Thumper picked up the photographs. “I don’t understand. I saw them! I swear I did!”
    The grizzled agent swung his attention to Victor. “Like to think you’re cute, don’t you?” the agent asked.
    â€œCute enough,” Victor responded. “And about to get cuter. Me and you, we gotta talk. Now that I got your attention.”

8

    >> Four-Mile Tavern
    >> Outside Fort Davis, Texas
    >> 1648 Hours (Central Time Zone)
    Seated at one of the small round tables that dotted the floor in the tavern’s TV room, Tyrel McHenry looked like he’d been carved from stone. He was sixty-three years old. Age and a lifetime of hard work had eroded the excess flesh from his lean body.
    He was not quite as tall and