Reckoning and Ruin by Tina Whittle Page B

the end of her rope physically and emotionally, but she had a wild card she wasn’t showing.
    â€œYou’re scared,” I said, “and not only because you think something has happened to John. You think you’re in danger too. That’s why you’re putting up with Trey. Because you think you might need him. Again.”
    Her phone rang. She snatched it up and stood at the same time. Without saying a word, she walked toward the hallway and turned her back on me. Her voice was a low murmur as she answered.
    In the parking area, Trey reached the car’s trunk. He stopped walking, dropping into a crouch, head cocked. He played the light back and forth across the bumper. Then he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket along with his phone. My guts went cold. Handkerchief plus phone could only mean one thing.
    He’d found something.

Chapter Eleven
    I shoved open the door and joined Trey at the back of the car. He had switched the light to UV and was examining the undercarriage now. He looked up when he saw me.
    â€œGo back inside,” he said.
    I caught a glimpse of what he’d discovered. I was no CSI, but I knew bullet holes when I saw them. Two of them punctured the trunk, joined by what appeared to be a graze running like a claw mark up the side.
    â€œBack inside, Tai. Now.”
    He was ice-cold polite, every sentence a command. Voice control, the second step on the use of force continuum. He also had his phone in hand, and I knew what he would be doing the second I went into the shop.
    I pointed. “I know what you think is in that trunk.”
    â€œTai—”
    â€œAnd if you’re right, then yes, I’ll be calling 911. But open it first.”
    He shook his head, a warning shot. “You shouldn’t—”
    â€œJust open the damn trunk.”
    He hesitated only a second, then inserted the key. One twist, and the trunk popped open. He lifted it the rest of the way with a handkerchief-covered hand.
    It was empty.
    I felt a knee-weakening wash of relief. Trey ran his flashlight into every corner of the space, but there was no sign of blood or body or foul play.
    I glanced back into the shop. Hope was still on the phone, her eyes on us. Trey had his phone out too. I couldn’t watch both of them at the same time. If Hope ran, the alarms would let us know, but she’d make like a rabbit and we’d never catch her. If Trey finished his call, we’d be swarmed with uniforms within minutes.
    I put a hand on his elbow. “Listen. I know that every neuron in your cranium is screaming that you need to call this in, but you need to hold off until we’ve talked to her some more.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause she’s hiding something, and whatever it is, I am on the verge of getting it out of her. But if the cops come, she’ll bolt. Or clam up.” I looked him in the eye. “And because you promised me you wouldn’t.”
    His expression changed, a mixture of contrition and determination. “Circumstances often require a change of strategy.”
    And then I heard it, from several blocks away, the unmistakable growl of a motorcycle. For a wild second I thought it was John’s Harley, but then, from the other side of the square, I heard an almost identical rumble. And then several more, from behind the shop.
    I glared at Trey. “You son of a bitch. You already called 911, didn’t you?”
    Something flickered in his expression. “No.”
    â€œThen who is that surrounding the place as we speak?”
    â€œThe Blue Line.”
    â€œThe what?”
    â€œIt’s a law enforcement motorcycle club.”
    I stared at him. “You called a motorcycle gang to surround my shop?”
    â€œMotorcycle club , mostly retired APD. They agreed to provide…non-official protection and support. At least until I could assess the situation.”
    The night grew quiet again, but in my imagination, I could hear