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“I won’t waste my time or yours asking if it’s true. But I will say this, my people expect our business to be the focus ofyourbusiness. The drug trade is perilous. When you put yourself at risk, you put us at risk. We have no interest in being at risk. Let me be clear. If the rumors are true—if you are endangering our operation—stop it now.” His voice echoed in the warehouse, cold and vaguely menacing. “We can overlook a misunderstanding, but our position is known now, and we expect you to behave accordingly. Is there any part of this you don’t understand?”
Sergei had never said that many words to him in every conversation they’d had combined. And Kane couldn’t miss the message. He couldn’t blame the icy winds for putting a chill in his bones. “I understand.”
Sergei nodded. “Good. Take it back to your father.”
Frank returned. “Everything’s in order. Let’s load it up.” Together, they crated the guns in the false bottoms of boxes filled with bags of coffee, then loaded them into the back of the SUV.
He pulled an envelope full of cash from his back pocket and handed it to their Russian contact.
Sergei tucked it into the inside breast pocket of his coat, then walked away without another word.
Frank chuckled. “A man of few words. If only they made women who can be as quiet.”
He forced a smile. “Let’s get back on the road, brother. We need to get the merchandise back to A-T-L.”
Oblivious to his churning stomach, Frank got behind the wheel and cranked up the old Bronco’s engine. They road side-by-side, headed back to the interstate.
The Skulls had been in partnership with Sergei’s syndicate for the past five years. They’d never had an ounce of trouble, but they’d never made trouble either. The Russians only ever demanded two things: discretion and fidelity. Sergei had been crystal clear. Working with Ace violated the terms.
But would Malcolm take the warning seriously? Probably not. Unfortunately, his father was a narcissist and a stubborn one to boot. He’d end up dead or in jail before he bent to the wishes of another man, if he even believed the warning at all.
You could walk away from the club and be done with the whole thing.The traitorous voice in the back of his head definitely had a point. It would also go a long way in getting his life back on track, but on track to where? Back to school? He never got his degree. Back to Mandy? What kind of man would he be to turn his back on his brothers for a woman who dumped him a decade ago? But she wasn’t just some woman, was she? She was everything.
Round and round he went, arguing with himself. Five hours later, he’d gotten no closer to an answer, at least about his future with the club.
He thought about the way Scott had refused to let him wallow in his misery the first year after Mandy pushed him away. His brother took him everywhere he went, so he’d never feel alone. They went to hard rock concerts together, bowling alleys, bars. Scott taught him the basics of bike mechanics over the course of dozens of beers. Stayed up with him all night when he needed it, watchingAmerican Pieand telling bad jokes.
He thought about Cue Ball and the dozens of lap dances he’d paid for. Frank and his sage advice about how to hustle college kids on a pool table.
Then he thought about Uncle Wes, whose face he only sort of remembered. He could no longer recall the sound of his voice, what kind of food he liked, or what he did to earn a living.
Hell, he could have a passel of first cousins out there for all he knew. He’d probablyneverknow because that’s what patching out meant. Wes was cut off, now and forever.
One thing he did know: he had to tell his brothers about Sergei’s warning.
Frank followed him inside the clubhouse, leaving the guns in the Bronco for now. They’d move them to the storage place where they stashed the meth later.
The inside of the house still stunk to high heaven, the chemical aroma so thick, it made his eyes water. He found his father and Cue Ball out back, smoking in the carport, the small space heater glowing orange next to the folding chairs where they sat.
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. His fingers were numb from his hours on the road. “I have a message from Sergei. You’re not going to like it.” He filled in his father on the conversation at the warehouse.
“Fuck that commie-bastard.” Classic Malcolm. “He doesn’t get to tell me how to run my club.”
Technically, it wasn’t supposed to be Malcolm’s club. Yes, he was president, but they decided everything by a majority vote. Still, his father founded the club, and his proprietary vein ran deep.
“I think we need to put it in front of the table,” Kane warned. “The Russians have been our partners for a long time. It’s a mistake to dismiss what he said without even talking about it.”
His father tossed his cigarette butt on the ground. “We did talk about it. Just now.” He stood, and Cue Ball followed suit. “Now, let’s get the merchandise to the storage place. Don’t want to have a bunch of weaponry around if a raid ever comes about.”
The dismissal couldn’t have been clearer, which made his blood boil. Malcolm shouldered past his son, forgoing the shortcut through the house, to walk around the outside.
Cue Ball stopped beside him. “You coming with? Scott and me, we’re going out for a drink tonight. We can head out after the drop-off.”
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He shook his head. “Nah, man. Maybe I’ll catch up with you later.” He waited until his friend rounded the house before he checked his display.
Amanda: Can I see you tonight?
Mandy.
