And this is a big deal.
Viper’s in a truck with a bag of cash about a half mile away, waiting for our signal. The Hellfires are the only club in Florida that can get what we need at a cost that won’t make our asses bleed. I can see why, with that kind of cash on the line, nobody risked scaring us off by getting in touch. Showing up today was aboutthe only option they had under the circumstances. Still, I don’t like it. I don’t like how it looks, feels, or smells.
“We in or we out?” The question comes from Shadow. He’s looking from my face to Phantom’s, no doubt trying to figure out whether my skeptical side or Phantom’s practical side is going to win out.
“We need that product,” Phantom says. “And they have it on lock. If we walk now…” He shakes his head.
I clench my hands into fists. If I second-guess Phantom’s call, I’m second-guessing the man himself. I trust my brothers with my life. I don’t like any of this, but if Phantom’s in, I’m not going to insult him by backing out.
“New plan,” I say. “I want to run surveillance.” I want eyes on everything that happens. Every movement these assholes make. I trust my hand, my weapon, and my finger on the trigger to protect my brothers.
“Done.” Phantom nods at Shadow, and they walk together toward the front of the warehouse.
I follow behind, scanning the perimeter. I swallow against the dryness in my throat, wishing like hell I had time to drink the water I stowed on my bike. But as soon as we reach the warehouse door, I forget the sticky heat and laser-focus on the man with the teeth and the filthy cowboy hat.
“You Savage?” He’s looking at me, his arms tanned as leather and covered in prison-style faded tattoos.
I nod but don’t say anything else.
“I’m your new contact now.” The name on his patchreads Mad Dog, and he sure as hell looks like one. Thick, scraggly whiskers graze the collar of his white wifebeater tank. His nasty gray curls are tied back in a low ponytail under the cowboy hat. He extends a hand to me, and I just look at it while he introduces himself. “Mad Dog.”
I nod again, not happy about this little meet-cute, but I extend my hand. “Sorry to hear about Anthony.”
Mad Dog snarls, but he doesn’t say any actual words. Then he turns to Phantom and motions him inside.
Savage and I trade looks.
This is the part I hate most. We’re not going to do this kind of a deal out in the open, so the level of trust that’s required at this stage in the negotiation makes the ulcer I’ve been fighting for the better part of my life turn my gut into a volcano. My stomach twists as I watch my brothers follow Mad Dog and two of his flunkies inside a warehouse where anything—and anyone—could be waiting. Cops. Feds. More assholes looking to shake us down and take us out.
I hold the air in my lungs until my chest burns and I’m literally pouring sweat, pacing outside the front of the building. I fire off a text to Viper to let him know Shadow and Phantom are inside, and then I set my sights on the faded pickup.
I’ve seen movement through the grime-coated windows but haven’t heard any sound. If things go to plan, the conversation inside that warehouse should last ten minutes, tops. Then Viper will roll in around theback with the cash, we’ll load the truck with guns, and we’ll get the fuck out of the Hellfires territory.
This isn’t the first deal we’ve done with them, but the location and the players always change.
The Hellfires ain’t like the Heat.
They’re ruthless, and they live up to their reputation. The Heat ain’t saints by any stretch, but we prefer to dabble in easy money and low body-count jobs. We’ll move drugs and money, but we don’t take people out unless we have to protect our own, and we don’t traffic humans. Dealing with this club is a necessary evil, part of the job. If we want to do what we do, we need what they sell, and they’re the best way to get what we need.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t hate doing deals with the devil.
I scan the perimeter of dead grass, overgrown weeds, and discarded trash. A shithole lot with a shithole warehouse, but the sight lines are long. Unless the Hellfires have guys down in the long grass, there’s nobody out here. I take a shaky breath and check my watch.
Times like these, I wonder what my other “brothers” are up to. I used to be a very different man. I’m sure some of the guys from my unit are overseas. Some are retired. Some didn’t survive their deployments. And then there’s me. Out here playing soldier in a leather vest with illegal guns in the wilds of Florida.
But I don’t have time for regrets. Not when I notice a sudden movement inside the truck that sets my teeth onedge. I check my watch again. Phantom and Shadow walked into that warehouse three minutes ago. I’ve got more than enough time to check out whoever the hell is playing lookout in that truck.
I approach from the rear, walking so fast my boots echo against the hot asphalt. The window on the driver’s side door is open a crack, and I’m about to pound my fist against the door when I see a brown bun—messy and knotted on the top of someone’s head. I squint through the crack in the window, but I can’t see shit.
I pound on the door. “Hey,” I call out. “Who’s inside?”
The person in the truck moves so fast it’s like she’s been tased. She peers at me through the crack in the window, and I can make out one brown eye and one enormous purple shiner.
It’s a woman and she’s hurt.
“Hey.” I rap gently on the window. “Open the door.”
The woman trembles and doesn’t say a word.