Spark of Hope (MacKenny Brothers #3) - Kathleen Kelly Page 0,10

turn right, head down the hallway. The last door on the left is mine. Go shower, put on some of my clothes, and wait for me there.”

Logan nods—probably still in shock—and like a robot, he mechanically walks into the clubhouse and does what he’s told.

“Who the fuck is that?”

“Lola’s brother, I think.”

“You think?”

Shaking my head, I shrug. “You tell me. Did we do a fucking background check on Lola or what? ‘Cause the kid believes she’s his mother.”

Wheels’ mouth drops open, and he quickly closes it. “I had Diesel do a fucking background check. There was nothing.”

“Well, maybe he didn’t dig hard enough.”

“Or maybe he isn’t hers.”

“Well, Wheels, that’s what we need to find out. It was a piss poor background check if we missed a brother or a child, wasn’t it?” I’m tired, but I know I can’t sleep. I am so agitated.

He opens his mouth to speak and quickly shuts it in a hard line. Without another word, I take the steps two at a time, and walk into the clubhouse. Angus is in the meeting room, so I turn and sit at the long table. He has his cell to his ear, and when I peg him with a scowl, he hangs up.

“Lola’s got some explaining to do,” he says in his best accent. “You okay, brother?”

Wheels isn’t within earshot, so I say, “Smokey’s dead.”

“I know, I’ve been talking to Sean.” Angus stares past me to Wheels. “You wanna get him a drink and something to eat?”

Wheels opens his mouth to say something, glances at me, then does an about-face, and heads for the kitchen.

“You’re not one of us, brother. Don’t talk to my men like that.”

“And who’s fault is it that I’m not one of you? Fuck you, Kyle, I’ve been around this club my whole life.”

“You’re my brother, and I love you, but don’t be telling my men what to do. If they decide to put you on your ass, I’m not going to help.” Scrubbing my hands over my face. I ask, “What have you found out?”

“It’s taken a little longer than I thought to track the van’s movements.” Angus frowns and turns his laptop toward me, then moves his seat closer to mine and sits. “I lose them when they head out west… no cameras out that way. I’ve got an algorithm set up, so if they pass any cameras, and it captures the plate, I’ll be pinged, and we’ll know about it. I’ve been retracing their steps.” He points to the screen. “They were here for a long time. It’s a garage on the other side of town, and I did some digging. It’s a front for the Rocha family.”

Fuck.

The Rocha family is a Columbian drug cartel that has branches in most major cities in the US, but our town is small. We shouldn’t even register on their radar. I’ve kept the Loyal Rebels out of the drug trade. We’ve carved out a niche for ourselves selling reconditioned motorcycles and cars—mostly Harleys and muscle cars— but sometimes you’ll get a collector who wants an old Chevy refurbished. We have a name in the business and sell to customers all over the country. Occasionally, we acquire cars on the down-low to chop up and sell but never in our hometown. They are always from out of state.

“Why is the Rocha family here?”

Angus shrugs and turns his laptop toward himself and types. “I think they use this as sort of a mid-point to other destinations. I’ve done a little digging, and from what I can gather, they are the main suppliers for the area but compared to the rest of the country, we’re small change.”

“Did Lola’s cell give us anything?”

Angus taps his chin, then leans forward as he bangs his fingers a little harder than he should on his laptop. Turning the screen around, he points to what I assume is Lola’s call history.

“She makes multiple calls a day to her mother. Most are short, under five minutes. The last phone conversation was yesterday morning, and it went for over thirty minutes. That’s unusual. Do you think her mother knows something?”

Wheels comes in with a hot cup of coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs and puts it in front of me.

“Thanks, man.” I take a sip of coffee. “Her mother has either been taken or has made a run for it. She definitely knows something.” I nod toward the sleeping quarters in the clubhouse. “So does the kid, but he’s not talking. What