They let her speak without interrupting, Slider right by her side, a silent wall of strength and support. And then Caine traded looks with the other men that made her ask, “Do you know something about this dogfighting ring or these men?”
Caine nodded. “There’s a gang up north of the county. Worst of the worst. I’d heard rumors the past few months that they’d gotten into it. Earlier today, I confirmed it.” He nodded to a sheet of paper on the corner of Dare’s desk, and Cora picked it up.
It was an invitation to something called the Crew’s Cross. The details were sparse. Just a town’s name, a date, and a time for next Saturday night. “How do you know this is for a dogfight?” she asked.
Dare gave a troubled sigh where he sat in the chair behind his cluttered desk. “Because dogfights aren’t widely publicized. No one just happens upon one. You have to seek it out, earn the organizers’ trust or be referred, and then get invited. Sometimes they don’t even share the location information until the day of because they move around.” Cora guessed that’s why no street address appeared on the sheet.
Caine nodded. “I found a guy who got me an in, plus two.” No doubt there was a very interesting story there, but in typical Caine style, that was all he said.
“You mentioned hearing about this the past few months,” Cora said, musing out loud. “My director said the increased incidences of finding these injured dogs has been the past few months, too.”
“That’s no coincidence,” Slider said, and all the other men agreed.
“Cora,” Caine said. “Slider said you took pictures. Can I see them?”
She handed over her phone. “I’m sorry they’re not that great. I was . . . kinda shaking.” She felt a little pitiful admitting that in front of all these big, tough guys. Slider put his hand on her lower back as if to soothe her, and it worked.
Eyeing the images one by one, Caine didn’t look up and he didn’t miss a beat. “Given that the Crew was involved, that just proves that your fight-or-flight instincts were working.”
Coming from a man who seemed scared by absolutely nothing, that felt like some pretty high praise.
“Anything useful?” Maverick asked, leaning against a file cabinet with his arms crossed over his big chest.
Caine gave a single shake. “We’re going to need them enhanced.”
“Shit,” Slider said on a frustrated sigh that was almost a growl. “With a fight coming up next weekend, we’re going to need that work done fast.”
“Marz?” Phoenix asked, looking at Dare. Now there was a name Cora hadn’t heard in months, but it was one she recalled fondly. Derek “Marz” DiMarzio had been one of the first friendly faces Cora really remembered after she and Haven had been rescued from a gang in Baltimore that had intended to sell them to God only knew who. The car they’d fled Georgia in had broken down, and the repair service that’d shown up hadn’t been legit. Not that she and Haven had realized in time . . .
But Marz was part of a small, elite ex-military team that had rescued them and taken them back to their headquarters—a seedy-looking warehouse that housed Baltimore’s Hard Ink Tattoo. He’d been kind and compassionate and careful with them, letting them know that they were safe and that no one would hurt them. It was almost hard to believe all that had happened less than six months ago.
Dare nodded at Phoenix’s suggestion. “Probably too late tonight, but shoot me copies and I’ll call him first thing in the morning.”
“You mind me forwarding these?” Caine asked Cora, gesturing to her phone.
“No. Of course not. Whatever I can do I want to do,” she said, leaning back into Slider’s touch. She was so glad he was at her side.
Phoenix shifted in the chair where he sat, his gaze settling on Dare. “Why don’t you see if Marz can also scan some of the traffic cameras around that industrial park? Maybe he can pick up the vehicle Cora saw.”
“That’s smart,” Maverick said, deep blue eyes flashing. “In fact, if we’re getting the Hard Ink team involved again, maybe it’s time we brought them in on our other situation, too. Maybe Marz can access information about some of Slater’s people that the PI has been investigating and help him piece together relationships and associations. We gotta get our guy some help if we’re gonna crack this. Slater was too fucking dirty, which means our investigator is going to get lost in the weeds of all his corruption looking for the one thing we want—the names of who dumped the shit that framed the club and put Jagger in jail.”
Frustration rolled off of Mav in a nearly physical wave, and Cora knew exactly why. Alexa. Grant had framed the Ravens to try to blackmail Alexa into marrying him when she’d left him a few weeks before their wedding day. He’d promised that the longer she delayed obeying him, the worse the consequences would be.