California Bust (Rip Lane Book 3) by Unknown

Author:Unknown
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2016-09-26T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 27

FOUR A.M.

The clubhouse. Front door locked. Of course.

No problem: I can pick any lock. I can break into any home. Just call me Surelock Homes.

I walked down the porch steps. I stopped. I scanned the street.

No drivers. No pedestrians. No witnesses.

I stood for a moment. Listening. My senses on high alert.

When I turned back around I took a moment to examine the roof where I had patched it. My work looked good. Rip Lane, the handyman.

Then I spotted the ladder. It still leaned against the clubhouse where I had left it the previous day. It gave me an idea.

A slight change of plans.

I moved the ladder. Then I climbed it. It squeaked a little.

Windows are the most fragile point of entry in most homes. They often have weak locks and sometimes they are left unlocked.

I checked a window on the second floor. Locked. Of course.

I took out my screwdriver and jimmied the window. I opened it and crawled in and shut it behind me. I stood leaning against the wall with my gun in both hands. Listening. Breathing.

Should I take off my boots? On the one hand I would make less noise with only socks on my feet. On the other hand I might need to kick somebody. I decided it would be better to leave them on.

The white beam of my pocket flashlight sprayed the room. A storage room. Machine guns. Hand grenades. Explosives. The air smelled of gunpowder.

I crossed the room and opened the door and shut it behind me. My boots moved soundlessly down the hallway. I knew where the floorboards creaked and I avoided those areas.

I also knew where I wanted to go. The room was located at the end of the hallway. Last door on the right.

When I got there I reached for the doorknob.

A noise.

It came from downstairs.

Somebody was awake.

Who?

Nine Tarantulas and six of their girlfriends lived in the clubhouse. They would question me if they saw me: What are you doing here in the middle of the night? You aren’t supposed to be here. How did you get in?

Noise again.

Footsteps.

Coming up the stairs.

I opened the door and stepped inside and left it open a crack. I put my eye to the crack and scanned the dark hallway.

The footsteps stopped.

So did my breathing.

I waited.

The footsteps started again.

I shut the door and flattened against the wall and gripped my gun. I pictured myself shooting a Tarantula and then scrambling down the stairs and out the front door with bullets zipping overhead.

Ten seconds ticked by.

Movement on the other side of the door.

Then sniffing.

Sniffing?

The dog.

“Bandit,” I whispered when I opened the door.

He licked my hand.

“Want some beef jerky?”

He came in and sat down and smacked his lips.

“Guess that means yes.”

I shut the door.

“Here you go, boy.”

He took it swiftly and chewed it vigorously.

I played the flashlight over the office of the treasurer. Metal chair. Metal desk. Metal filing cabinets. Metalhead poster.

Good thing I had no magnets in my pockets.

Outlaw motorcycle clubs often have elected officers. There are usually five officers—President, Vice President, Secretary, Treasurer, Road Captain.

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