“And you’re not tempted to make a few bucks by selling some baggies?” Chains took a few steps toward him. “Do we look like fuckin’ idiots?”
Benny stepped back, his hands raised in front of his chest. “I don’t sell the shit in this county. If you heard anything—it’s bullshit. I sell in Pinon County and beyond—not in this county.” He held Chains’s gaze. “I swear on my dead brother’s grave, dude. I’m not fuckin’ stupid. Why the hell would I bullshit you guys—the Night Rebels?”
“If we find out you’re dealing in Alina, we’ll come for you,” Chains said.
“And it won’t be an easy death,” Scorpio added.
Benny’s small eyes bugged out. “I’m not dealing anything but weed.”
“Then you’re good.” Chains glanced over at Melinda as she walked down the stairs. Benny was in his late twenties, and he was pretty sure Melinda was around the dealer’s age but she looked like at least twenty years older due to her crank habit.
“Yeah, I’m good.” A smile spread across his face as his shoulders slumped forward.
“Here ya go,” Melinda said to Chains as she handed him a bottle of Coors.
“Thanks,” he replied as he twisted off the bottle cap. He took a long pull of the beer.
Melinda handed a bottle to Scorpio, then to Benny. “You need anything else, baby?” Benny shook his head, so she turned around and went back inside.
“So what’s the word on the streets of Pueblo?” Scorpio asked before bringing the beer to his mouth.
“Los Malos have worked with that dude Eric before.” Benny motioned the bikers to sit down at the picnic table.
“In Colorado?” Chains asked.
“No—in Kansas, Oklahoma and, I think, Missouri. The old man didn’t want them involved, so when he does a deal, he keeps them out. The old man and his son, Eric, have butted heads on this before. Eric likes the muscle Los Malos gives him because he’s fucked over a few buyers in the past.”
“Did Los Malos know this was a Night Rebels’ deal?” Scorpio said.
“My contact says the word is, they didn’t.”
“Fuckin’ bullshit. I don’t believe it for a minute.” Chains took another swig of beer.
Benny shrugged. “Maybe they’re just sayin’ that ’cause they don’t want no trouble with you guys. But that’s the word—Los Malos didn’t know.” Benny’s gaze went between Chains and Scorpio. “The word is that you iced Eric and a few of the Malos.” When he brought the beer bottle to his mouth, the bikers saw the dealer’s hand was trembling.
A tense silence fell between the trio. Benny drank the beer in a single gulp and proceeded to let out a long, sustained belch.
Pulling at the label on the amber bottle, he said, “Los Malos was promised a third of the weed.”
“Who the fuck did they think they were meeting up with?” Scorpio said.
“Some two-bit drug dealers?” Benny replied.
“Inourcounty? Bullshit—they knew. You got anything else?” Chains asked.
“They’re playing like bigwigs, but they’re scared as shit of you guys and the other biker club you’re affiliated with.”
“The Insurgents definitely will want to know what the fuck’s going on, especially since they were on our turf trying to fuck us over.” Scorpio tossed the bottle into a large metal drum near the porch.
“You bikers stick together, huh?” Benny said.
“Damn straight.” Chains stood up and threw his bottle into the drum, then nodded at Scorpio.
The well-built biker slipped a hand inside his cut and pulled out three hundred-dollar bills. “Thanks,” he said, handing them to Benny.
“If I hear anything else, I’ll let you know.” The dealer shoved the money into the front pocket of his shirt. “If you need anything, you know where to find me.”
Chains grunted, lifted his chin, then turned around and caught up with Scorpio.