He thinks I’m going soft. Time to shut that shit down.
I lean forward. “Have I ever taken my eye off the endgame, Prez?”
Dragon puts up his hand and nods. “As long as you keep doing what you’re doing, we’re good. Just don’t let her get under your skin.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“Good to hear. All right, get the fuck out.”
I snort and go to the door.
“Spider.”
I turn. “Yeah, Prez.”
“Watch your back with Gunner.”
“Always.”
Closing his office door, I shake my head. Dragon may think I’m losing my edge, but I meant what I said. No woman has ever gotten under my skin, and the little thief waiting in my bedroom won’t change that.
I pull up in front of Ricky’s almost an hour later. It’s almost seven, and grey early morning light cuts across the back-alley street. Gunner gains a point for setting the exchange up when it’s already getting light out. Darkness would make it easier to take us by surprise if he was looking to make trouble.
There are only three motorcycles parked in the front lot, but I’m not letting down my guard. Ricky’s has a rear lot. There could be a dozen bikes back there, with an army of Satan’s Bastards waiting inside to ambush us. And it getting light out doesn’t mean he’s going to play nice.
See, that’s the thing about The Red Crow. Not only do I know a lot of the people who hang out there, and I’ve scoped out all the entrances, but I have an arrangement with the owner. Any of his bartenders will tell me if anyone’s showed who might cause a problem. I have no such advantages here.
The four men I’ve taken with me, Striker, Reaper, Cap and Pip, pull up at my left and right. Striker pulls up in a black van that has more than enough room in the back for the guns we’re here to collect.
We cut the engines and dismount, and Striker hops out of the van. I put Pip on the front door and have Cap watching the rest of the place while Striker and Reaper follow me inside.
Pip isn’t assigned to the door only to watch for cops. He might be a prospect, but after two years, he’s been with the MC long enough to know the authorities aren’t the only risk when dealing with the Bastards. Even if Gunner doesn’t have men lying in wait here, he could be planning to call in more of his pals the minute we’re inside.
One look around Ricky’s barroom, and I’m reminded why I hate dealing in this place. There’s more window than wall, leaving the place wide open and exposed. There’s a back door, but there’s also a bouncer posted there. The guy gives me a respectful enough nod, and doesn’t look twitchy when he sees my cut or the men at my back, but I don’t know him from Jack.
At this early hour, most of the tables are empty. A tired looking couple sits at one table, and a few men sit at others. In Vegas, most joints are open twenty-four hours, so it’s almost impossible to find a place that’s empty of patrons. But at least there’s no sign of anyone with a Bastard’s patch.
Through one of the windows near the back, Cap’s head swivels as he surveys the rear lot. He catches my eye and gives a nod.
It’s safe, but that still doesn’t mean we’re in the clear. Another bouncer, with a goatee and lip piercing, is standing at the double doors I know lead to a kitchen. Since it’s the only area of the bar that isn’t wall to wall windows, that has to be where Gunner is waiting.
Three bikes outside, and one of them is Gunner’s. As long as he doesn’t have more men waiting somewhere, this’ll be a good day.
“Spidy.” Striker nods to the bouncer in warning.
I put out my hand, a silent command for him and Reaper to take it easy.
When I catch the bartender’s eye, he gives the smallest inclination of his head toward the kitchen doors.
So Gunner must have a similar arrangement with the staff here as what I have at The Crow.
So far, so good.
I make my way to the kitchen door, Reaper and Striker close behind. The bouncer there puffs out his chest, trying to look important. I shake my head. He’s one of those guys. One of those jerkoffs who thinks that getting close to a biker is going to make him look cool. He probably thinks that guarding the door for us will give him something to brag about with his pals and turn him into a pussy magnet.
“Beat it, dickwad,” I tell him, pushing past him for the door.
His face goes white and he scurries for the bar.
Wouldn’t want him thinking we’re gonna be pals.
Striker claps me on the back. “I think he was hoping you two would be sharing war stories over a brew by tonight.”
I laugh and walk into the kitchen.
My laughter cuts off when I hear a click beside my ear.
“No sudden moves, Spiderman,” an unfamiliar voice warns.
Fuck.
7
Lighting the Match
“Son of a bitch. This is going to a shitty-ass day.” Reaper’s voice filters through the rush of blood in my ears.
He’s always had a gift for understatement.
This is hardly the first time I’ve had a gun pointed at my head. When I was fourteen, I made the mistake of trying to stop my dad from laying into my mom. My dad chose to settle the matter by putting his revolver to my forehead.
The asswipe turned it into a game. One bullet, six chambers. If he fired and the chamber was empty, my mother got a pass.
I remember shaking with terror and squeezing my eyes shut. I remember the way the click of the chamber sounded, like a firecracker in my ears.
The chamber was empty. Didn’t get shot. Instead, I ended up with a black eye, not because I tried to save her, but because, as my father had put it, I’d acted like a pussy while his gun was in my face.
I learned a lesson that day. A man never ever shows fear to the enemy.
I wouldn’t show these men I was afraid, but anyone who tells you they aren’t scared shitless with a gun pointed at their head is either a fucking liar or a damn fool.
My heart bangs against my ribs as if it’s trying to beat its way out of my chest. Every drop of moisture leaves my mouth.
In the precious seconds after the voice speaks, I take stock.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the owner of that voice; he’s got his gun raised, trained at my head. With him standing to the left of the door, there was no way I could have seen the fucker until I was in the room.
Gunner stands on the far side of a stainless steel island in the middle of the kitchen. Assfuck has one of his men standing at his shoulder. Two heavy wooden crates sit on the island, both padlocked. I assume our guns are inside them.
The only entrance to the kitchen is the door behind me, where Striker and Reaper are standing.
One exit, and if any of us try to make a run for it, I’ll end up with a bullet in my skull. If I go for my gun, same result. I can draw fast, but not fast enough to beat a bullet.
Keeping my face deadpan, I raise my hands slowly, locking my eyes on Gunner. “So this is how you wanna play it? Five years of good business between us, and you’re gonna throw it all away?”
Gunner cocks his head. His teeth flash inside his thick black beard. “You think that’s what this is? We’re going to walk away without giving you what you paid for?”