“What I do off the record is of no concern to the bureau,” I countered.
“It is if it interferes with a mission.”
“The case is closed—you said so yourself.”
“No, the undercover aspect is closed. We will still be monitoring and collecting evidence on the Raiders.” Peterson leaned forward to place his hand on my shoulder. “Once again, I have to ask you to forget whatever plans you’re concocting in your head. You have a bright future at the ATF, Vargas. I want to be able to promote you in a year or two. The last thing I want to do is stand beside you as you clean out your desk because you’ve been fired.” He grimaced painfully. “Or worse, to stand beside your casket.”
With a roll of my eyes, I demanded, “How many times are you going to give me the fired-or-dead scenario?”
“As many as it takes to get it through your thick skull,” Peterson growled.
I had opened my mouth to argue some more when the door opened. An agent I’d never seen before poked his head in. “The McTavishes’ flight is about thirty minutes out. We have a car waiting to take you to meet them.”
“Thank you, Agent Sunderland.”
After nodding, Agent Sunderland closed the door.
“Would you like to come with me?”
Seeing Gavin’s grief-stricken parents was the last thing I wanted to do. On the other hand, my only other option was to sit alone in the room with my thoughts. With a humorless smile, I asked, “You got anything left in that flask to help fortify me for the trip?”
“If I don’t, we can make a pit stop.”
My eyebrows rose in surprise. “What would the bureau think about that one?”
Peterson rose out of his chair and offered me his hand. “On this one occasion, I would tell them to fuck off.”
I couldn’t help being surprised when a laugh escaped my lips. “I never imagined you to be a rebel.”
“Desperate times call for desperate measures.”
After momentarily weighing his words, I slipped my hand into his. “Yes. I do believe they do.”
NINE
BISHOP
Hours turned into days and then the days into a week. It was as if all record of Marley vanished the night he was killed. All the contact numbers the garage had on file were disconnected. The apartment complex where he was supposed to live had no idea who I was talking about when I went by there. There was no obituary in the paper, nor was he listed at any of the local funeral homes. I didn’t know Samantha’s number, or I would have tried her. It was the strangest fucking thing I had ever seen or heard of.
It was hell not being able to be a part of his funeral. Of course, as a hang-around, he wouldn’t have been afforded any Raiders’ burial rites. But at the same time, I wanted my chance to say good-bye. More than anything, I wanted to be able to tell him that I was sorry.
That was the God’s honest truth—the feeling of dread kept me up at night. I was really fucking sorry. I was sorry that I invited him on the run when I should have known it could be dangerous. I was sorry that I hadn’t been able to protect him better that day. More than anything, I was sorry I ever mentioned anything to him about the Raiders. It wasn’t just that Marley would have been a whole lot fucking better off if he had never met me—he would have been alive.
Besides searching for Marley, that first week after the funeral was spent in mourning for the fallen Raiders. Funerals were spread out so all the chapters could attend. East Tennessee had lost two guys; North Carolina had lost a guy and another member’s old lady. The funeral that haunted me the most and sent me into a drunken stupor was Alabama’s, where we attended one for a member’s twelve-year-old son.
Among the grief and guilt, the need for revenge plagued us. While Rev wanted to put together the pieces for a legitimate case to send the murdering fuckers to rot in prison, the other chapters wouldn’t hear of it. They set out to take care of it with the old vigilante justice that we had once taken part in as well. Part of me wanted to get involved, thinking that if I could have the killers’ blood on my hands, then I could somehow atone for what had happened with Marley.
Oh yeah, I felt nothing but guilt twenty-four/seven, and it was fucking eating me alive. To make matters worse, the usual methods of coping weren’t helping. I’d banged two new girls who had been hanging around the clubhouse, but it still didn’t get Marley off my mind. Even after I knocked out my opponent in the third round, the usual Friday-night fight did nothing for me, either. Finally, I’d turned my attention to working nonstop. As if by keeping my mind on transmissions and carburetors, I would somehow not go crazy.
I was lying on a creeper underneath a classic Impala when I felt someone nudge my leg. I slid out to see my boss standing over me with a concerned frown. “Something wrong, Rick?”
He scratched the back of his neck and shifted the wad of chewing tobacco in his mouth. “I think you need to shove off for today.”
“I was gonna finish this one up.”
Rick shook his head. “I usually don’t complain when one of my workers is busting his ass, but in this case, I think you need to head home. Have a beer and get some tail.”
After fighting the urge to throw my wrench at Rick in frustration, I hopped to my feet. “I just wanted to help. We’re short now because of . . .” I couldn’t bring myself to say Marley’s name.
“That may be true, but if you keep overworking yourself, my ass will really be in a bind when you’re laid in up in bed with a torn muscle or the flu.”