Sean aka Diesel (Cocker Brothers Book 14), стр. 24

Mounting my bike with more sensuality than I’ve ever used before I interrupt, “Hiring a cop would have put more distance between him and his dad. Because what if he was wrong? There would have been a big stink. Hard to get past that.”

Atlas mounts his bike, adjusts himself. “And you really don’t want to say goodbye like that, right?”

My gaze slides to Sean as he climbs Scratch’s Harley like it was waiting for him to claim it. His snug blue jeans look damn good. The sneakers on steel footrests are just plain wrong. “You’ve gotta get rid of those.”

Revving his engine he smirks, “Sofia Sol said the same thing.”

Giving my engine some gas, too, I cock an eyebrow. “And you didn’t listen? Here I thought you were smart!”

We take off in protocoled order with me stifling a smile, loving the vibration of my powerful Harley a little more than usual. With the wind blowing through our hair and massaging our skin, we ride together through the suburban town until we arrive in its best neighborhood. A Black Widow wouldn’t target poverty. The street this old man retired on is quiet, charming, deceptively peaceful. In a place like this the neighbors would never guess what’s going on in the house right next to them. People give busy-bodies a bad rap, but the Neighborhood Watch program is a good thing in my opinion. It takes a village to keep a family safe.

But there’s no way anyone would detect something suspicious in this situation. See a nurse coming out of old man Russo’s house and you’d think everything was peachy. If anything, as she waved to you and got into her car, you’d smile that it was nice Russo was being taken care of. It’s also perfectly understandable that the old guy would tell his son to leave him alone with the nurse, choose her over him. Most kids don’t visit their parents when they’re old. Jett told us the son admitted to being too busy with work to spend time with his dad. If he had been, the old man wouldn’t have been susceptible to an evil bitch like her. We need an overhaul of how we treat the elderly in America. Change the younger people’s mindset, help them understand that older people are just us but with a hell of a lot more life experience. And just like us, they need a little love and company.

Since we found those drivers licenses, this isn’t a job where we need to be discreet. Atlas rides up the short driveway with me at his side and Sean behind us. Parked in front of a closed garage, we turn our engines off at the last second. Shaking the house was our intention to give the woman a jolt, throw her off kilter.

Atlas leads the way up a neatly landscaped path, shoulders relaxed and ready for anything. I check on Sean, behind me. He’s staring at the door, lips tight. He locks eyes with me. I raise my eyebrows to silently ask if he’s prepared. He gives me a quick nod, and we focus on Atlas ringing the doorbell. Bells ring out and fade away. Muffled heels tick-tock their way to us and a woman in her mid-thirties appears in an ensemble of slacks, pumps, and a low-cut cream blouse, but she’s got fake boobs. If I were an elderly man’s caregiver I probably wouldn’t wear my cleavage that promoted. But hey, I’m not evil.

“Corinne Holt?” Atlas asks.

She frowns at our patches, “Yes,” uneasy eyes darting to Sean who’s even more confusing. The Hispanic bikers are one thing, but why do they have a bruised and battered white guy with them who’s wearing normal-people clothing. She stammers, “Can I help you?”

Atlas walks right into the house. “You can’t help anyone,” he mysteriously says. Like a shot I enter behind him, and Sean instinctively becomes a shield, swooping in and then as Atlas backs Corinne against the wall and closes the door, Sean flashes in front of me in case someone else is inside the home who isn’t over ninety. An accomplice, maybe. Impressed I take note of his actions because we didn’t teach him that.

“Who’re you?!” Corinne demands.

“Friend of Mr. Russo’s.” He motions to instruct Sean, “Your instincts are good. Check to see if this bitch is alone, nobody here other than the old man.” Atlas locks onto me to add, “After you know it’s clear, find her purse. I’ll keep her company.”

“If you’re here to rob me…”

“We don’t need your blood money, thanks.”

Her jaw clamps shut, eyes hardening.

Quick strides take Sean and I into the man’s tidy home. We search and find she’s alone except for our victim. In a cozy, sunlit master bedroom Mr. Russo is so pale that despite the faint pulse on his heart-rate monitor I check his wrist to make sure he’s still with us. Swearing under my breath, I snatch the Black Widow’s purse from a table set between two chairs. It hits me that Mr. Russo probably enjoyed his morning coffee here, during better days. We didn’t get the whole story, just what we needed to know, so I don’t know what happened to his wife. She might be alive, just divorced. The house is well decorated but masculine, like he could have lived here on his own for a long time.

I start to head back, but Sean is frozen by the bed, staring at Mr. Russo with this disturbed look. “I know it’s terrible, but Atlas needs backup. Come on!”

Sean’s brain is catching up, comprehending fully now what we Ciphers do. It’s one thing to hear that we fight the battles of the innocent, but to see it in person is altogether more upsetting. Like someone punched him in the heart, he follows me out.

We find Atlas has Corinne cornered in the kitchen. At our footsteps he calls out, “She tried to make a break for it. I gave her a running start, for fun.”

The woman snarls