The shamrock on the side of his neck seemed to glow in the red neon lights as his throat moved up and down.
“Weaver had him killed,” Digger said, setting the bottle back on the table.
“He didn’t do the job himself?”
“Can’t. He’s in prison.”
Probably should have seen that one coming, but he hadn’t. “Which one?”
“Federal Correctional Institution, Florence. It’s about forty miles southwest of here.”
“Why does that name ring a bell?” Bran asked.
“ADX Florence,” Jessie said, her voice so soft his gaze shot to her face, which looked paler than it had before.
“ADMAX,” she continued. “They call it the Alcatraz of the Rockies. I wrote a series of articles about it. The most hardened criminals in the country are locked up in there, or people who pose a threat to national security. Remember Zacarias Moussaoui? He helped plot the September 11 attacks. Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, the Boston Bomber, is also an inmate at ADMAX.”
Her gaze swung to Graves. “Leaders of violent gangs are sent there—men who continue to issue orders to their members even after they’re put in prison.”
Bran looked at Graves. “That what’s going on here? Weaver is issuing orders from inside?”
Digger shifted uneasily in his chair. “Pretty much.” He made a visual sweep of the room, on the lookout for any threat. “Weaver murdered three black cops in Georgia, got sentenced to life without parole. Slowed him down a little but didn’t stop him. He just kept running the Brotherhood from his cell. When they found out he’d ordered hits on two more men, they moved him to ADMAX.”
“So he’s there now?” Bran asked.
“He’s there, but two years ago, he got transferred out of maximum security for good behavior. He’s in a medium security facility in the same complex, which means he’s able to give orders again. Weaver says jump, the Brotherhood says how high.”
“Nobody’s figured it out?”
Graves took a swig of beer. “Big money in looking the other way. Bribes, threats, payoffs. Whatever works.”
“And you can’t go to the cops because talking’s a death sentence for sure.”
Graves nodded.
Jessie leaned toward him. “So the reason you’re giving us Weaver’s location is because you want us to intercede. Find a way to prove Weaver was involved in Petrov’s murder and maybe get him moved back to ADMAX maximum security where he’s locked up twenty-three hours a day and no longer able to communicate outside the walls of his cell.”
Digger looked at her as if she were the smartest person in the room. “That’s the idea.”
“If you want Weaver off your back,” Bran said, “tell us who paid him to order the hit on Colonel Kegan.”
Graves shook his head. “I don’t know anything about any colonel. You want to know who hired him, get the goods on Weaver. Maybe you can get him to tell you.”
Bran ignored a trickle of irritation. “If you want Weaver taken down, we’re going to need something to go on.”
Digger swallowed the entire second half of his beer in a few long swallows. Bran figured he was trying to work up his courage. Being a rat in the Brotherhood wasn’t the recipe for a long healthy life.
Digger set his empty bottle down on the table. “The way the hit on Petrov went down—a .45-caliber bullet dead center between the eyes—I’d look for a guy named Tank. Rides with the A-BOYZ out of Denver. That’s Tank’s signature, and it’s all I know.”
Graves set down his empty bottle, dug money out of his pocket for his drinks, and started to rise from the table.
Bran caught his arm as he walked past. “I don’t know how this is going to come down, but my advice is you get as far from Colorado as you can.”
Graves nodded. “I hear you, man.” Turning, he strode out the door without looking back.
Bran tossed down a few more bills, waited a couple of minutes, then he and Jessie followed. Unfortunately, two of the guys who’d been eyeing her earlier rose and followed them outside. The bastards had decided to try him on, find out how serious he was about protecting her.
His jaw went iron-hard. Leading her farther away, he handed her the keys to the Expedition. “Get in the car and lock the doors.”
Her glance went from him to the men lining up outside the front door, three of them now, big and ugly. Perfect. He needed to work off a little stress.
“No way,” Jessie said. “I’m not abandoning you.”
A muscle jumped in his cheek. “Go on, Jessie. Dammit, do what I tell you.”