concerned, eight years behind bars wasn’t enough for a murderer, and I just knew Cunningham, that disgusting pig, would try something again. He’d target some other poor soul or find some other way to make the money he would have made if he’d actually absconded with the paintings. I didn’t know if he planned to ask ransom for their return or to sell them anonymously at auction, but he would have been a good $400 million richer. That was a lot of money to lose, and I didn’t doubt he still wanted it.
I’d done a little research of my own, and I knew that prison had strict schedules and routines that included getting up early. I had a feeling that Jasper Cunningham would continue that routine now, trained to do so for eight years. If I wanted to get on his tail, I’d have to be up and waiting outside his apartment even earlier.
I knew what he looked like. Even if I hadn’t seen a recent photo, that man’s face was burned into my mind from the trial. I checked the grandfather clock and winced. I hated going to bed early, but if I wanted to pull this off, I didn’t have a choice. I needed my rest. So, I set an alarm for 4:30 in the morning, hoping I wouldn’t be a complete zombie, and hauled myself into the bedroom. I had a plan for tomorrow. That was all I needed at the moment. Everything else would fall into place over time. I was sure of that.
Jasper
Sam Pendleton had put the gang together when we were just juniors in high school, and at the time, it hadn’t been serious. But as we grew older and took our turns enlisting and spending time overseas, we needed something we could come home to, a group of people who understood us. So, even as we’d started adulting – with jobs and families – the Wildcats had clung together, looking for all intents and purposes like a weekend warriors motorcycle club.
The truth was, we were smarter, tougher, and more emotionally involved than that.
So, my welcome home party when I’d been released was a big ordeal. Drunkenness, cards and pool, and a lot of clapping each other on the back, mixed with friendly insults, lewd comments, and a couple of brawls. Two weeks later, it was over, and now, I sat at the ‘clubhouse’ – an annex onto the woodshop Rick Flannery ran – with the five other guys who had been part of the crew from the beginning.
“You got the guy off your tail, then?” Eric McVane asked, his dark brows furrowed as he slouched in the recliner, brooding.
“He won’t be back,” I assured him. Eric had a little PTSD, having been too close to too many explosions in the Middle East. It made him surly and paranoid on most days and antisocial to the point of agoraphobic on others. We tread lightly with him as much as we could, but we all had our trauma, including me, and we didn’t make excuses.
“So, we need to start putting together a plan.” Jake Rondo sat forward, tapping against the glass of his Coke bottle with an eager expression. “I mean, we’re all running low on cash now, so it’s time to get busy.”
“Speak for yourself,” Tyler Beatty scoffed. “It’s not our fault you spent it all on strippers and beer instead of investing. I’m not hurting for money, and I’m not in any hurry to be up to my neck in a scheme that’s going to get me locked up. I doubt Jasper’s in the mood to run an operation, either.”
I listened to the conversation and knew what I was expected to say. Apparently, none of them were all too grateful for me taking the fall last time around, or they would have gone on about their own business instead of trying to drag me back down that dark tunnel. I really had no interest in another art heist, and I definitely didn’t want to get into illegal trade like so many other MCs. But I shrugged, trying not to play my cards just yet. “Look, I don’t know. I might be up for it, if the plan and execution are solid. But I have to fly straight for a while to make sure my parole officer doesn’t get suspicious.”
“How long is a while?” Jake asked, ever the impatient one.
I scrubbed a hand down my face, wincing at how fast the stubble had grown.