His Loyal Rebel - Debra Kayn Page 0,69

at him. No surprise showed on his face at having a Tarkio member in his house.

"Let me guess." Big's eyes flickered, looking for more members. "You're pissed off that your old lady is seeing me behind your back."

"She belongs to me." He stepped to the left, making sure the bullet that would go through Big's body wouldn't also go through the thin, cheap garage door.

There was no doubt Big contacting Twyla was one-sided. He trusted her. For Big to bullshit his way out of trouble only pissed him off.

Whip reached into his vest pocket with his free hand and pulled out the bullet he'd removed from the gun in his hand. He tossed it in the air.

Big caught it on instinct.

"Take a look." He adjusted the end of the pistol, making sure he aimed at Big's face. "You'll probably recognize it."

Big glanced down, turning the bullet between his thumb and finger.

"That's right. It's marked." Whip's chest tightened. "You'll be familiar with it, considering it came from the pistol that belonged to you. I got curious when I unloaded the weapon my woman stole from you and found each bullet had the same mark. I almost missed the imperfection when I peered into the barrel, but nothing a little sunshine wouldn't pick up if you know what you're looking for."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"I thought the same thing, at first. To prove I was right, I'd need to have access to rifles sold by Cusclan." He tilted his head. "Tarkio made some phone calls to your customers and had them check their weapons. Do you know what we found in common?"

Big's gaze narrowed, and he closed his mouth.

"Interesting how each rifle that came from Cusclan hands and was sold illegally on the market also had the same mark in the barrel."

The large vein at Big's forehead throbbed. "You motherfuck—"

Bang.

Big hit the concrete floor. Whip lowered his arm and stared down at the body. Big's reaction to the marked bullet confirmed what he'd already figured out. Cusclan Motorcycle Club dirtied the playing field by spreading their filth to every corner of the underground.

If allowed to continue, they could easily use their contacts within every police department in the United States and set up their enemies to fall for crimes Cusclan committed.

He used the edge of his leather vest to unscrew the suppressor. The aroma of scorched leather wafted into his nostrils. He bounced the piece in his hand until it cooled enough to pocket.

Then, he used his flannel shirt to wipe down the pistol. He squatted beside the body and used Big's hand to put prints all over the weapon before he placed it down on the concrete beside him.

If the police and courts wanted to follow the autopsy evidence, they could follow the trail back to Cusclan's clubhouse.

Stepping over the blood pooling at his feet, he left the garage. Making his way through the house, he wiped down doorknobs, corners, and the sliding glass door. Then, he retraced his steps, staying out of the view of the neighbors on the other side of the house.

Once he was clear, he picked up his pace and jogged.

Priest spotted him and got on his motorcycle. Whip kept going until he reached his Harley. They started the bikes simultaneously and rode off together, going in the opposite direction of Big's house.

Nobody would see them leave.

Twenty minutes later, they were on the highway, headed toward Missoula. Whip tried to calm the paranoia to look behind him as he rode away.

Killing Big never made him blink. Only the fear of going back to prison kept him hyperaware.

Priest kept watch for him.

Every half-mile, he'd catch Priest's gaze in his side mirror. Whip would lift a finger off the handlebar in answer.

Twyla's troubles were over.

She'd gained her freedom to live her life, and he would spend every minute loving her.

He sped up, anxious to get back to her. Priest lowered his hand, slowing him down. He looked in his side mirror.

In the distance, Montana State Patrol dogged him.

His hand tightened on the throttle. He could outrun the cops. Take the next exit, stay on the backroads, and lose himself in the mountains.

Red and blue lights flashed behind him, reflecting off the mirror. He tensed, looking straight ahead and ready to take whatever signal Priest threw his way.

The blast of a siren permeated the helmet on his head. And, still, the noise was quieter than the pounding of his heart.

The patrol officer caught up beside him in the