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“Which means they ain't cooking the drugs they’re selling,” Jules adds.
“Ah, where’s Pops?” Tav asks, staring at the lone sled with no rider.
We’re all on swivel looking for goddamn Sidney Tombs. I’m almost hoping the little shit wandered off somewhere for a leak, but that’s dashed when I catch him waving from inside the compound gates.
“How in the hell did he get in there?” Fox says.
“Niko?” Wire growls.
“Don’t look at me. I was parking the SUV.” Niko says, hands in the air.
Pops waves again, points to the side and then disappears again.
“Ah shit,” Savage says, swinging his leg over his sled. “He’s gonna get himself shot.”
“Motherfucker is gonna get me shot trying to save his geriatric ass,” I mutter.
“Like you can talk,” Rider teases, coming to stand beside me and our brothers. “You ain’t no spring chicken either.”
“But I’m younger than that old asshole.”
We follow Savage’s lead as he crosses the road, veering left rather than walking directly to the gates. He follows the fenceline to the very corner, then shoves at a plank of wood. The thing pops out leaving a decent man sized hole.
“Thank God it ain’t a tiny little mouse hole.” Tank breathes.
He and Judge are the biggest men in the club. Tank also fucking hates small spaces but he shimmies through the hole with the rest of us.
“Where is he?” Wire asks, eyeing the compound.
I spot Pops’ head peeking out from behind the warehouse. He raises his fingers to his lips then disappears.
“Did he just shush us?” Fox asks, bewildered.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll kick his ass on behalf of the club later,” Tav promises.
We make our way through the compound, and it’s silent as hell. Not a scout or a lookout to be seen. Nor are there any cameras until we reach the building that looks in much better condition than the rest of the compound.
“How good of you all to make it!” Pops says in a hoity toity accent, cackling when I flip him the bird. “Anyway assholes, we got trucks coming in round the back.”
“Now?” Judge growls.
“What? Oh no. Just…at some stage. There’s huge doors round the back, fresh tire marks, big ones too. Oh, and no one is living here.”
“Then they’re moving shit through here.”
“Bingo.” Pops finger guns me. Then blows me a kiss and skips back around the back.
“How is he so spry?” Savage asks, eyes glued to where Pops was just standing.
“Right?” I agree, “One afternoon of hobby horsing and my legs are so stiff I can barely sit to shit.”
“Awwwww.” Rider says in a highpitched voice his hands clasped under his chin while he swishes around.
“You didn’t hear anything.” I jab a finger in his direction.
“Didn’t I?” Rider grins before following the rest of the brothers into the unlocked side door.
I don’t know whether it’s sloppy work by the Quarter Mile MC, or if Pops really is just good at everything involved in breaking and entering. We all file in and I know something is up when Savage lets out a long, low whistle.
