patience. If there was any waiting to be done, Joaquim did it.
“Sorry I’m late,” Santos said. “Got a call at the last minute.”
“No problem.”
“Looks like Dos y Tres brought everyone in the chapter.” Santos peeled off his gloves and Joaquim nodded.
“How many?”
“Thirty, maybe forty.”
“Everybody already drunk?”
An expression of distaste crossed Joaquim’s patrician features. A second nod was his only answer.
Without another word, the sniper turned and headed back for the open-air dive. The cool, dry air was filled with the kind of tension only a bar full of testosterone-heavy men could produce. Santos wasn’t sure what he would have to handle inside. Despite Austin Wells’s assertion that his contact from a rival gang was interested in a joint protection run, cooperation between different clubs could be as tricky as Middle East negotiations. The Welcome Wagon ladies hadn’t damaged his bike; another gang had done that.
A blast of music assaulted his ears as he walked under the cover of the patio and headed for the bar. Austin was in the middle of what looked like a hot game of Texas Hold’em. When he saw Santos, he lifted his chin in acknowledgement. A man with a three-patch vest sat facing Austin, his back to Santos. At the same table, Bentley was playing, but he was paying more attention to the woman sitting on his lap than his cards. She must have been the blonde Austin had mentioned earlier. Bentley’s admiration for her was almost as obvious as the young lady’s charms. Santos turned to comment on it, but Joaquim had vanished. He did that frequently.
“A beer and a bump,” Santos called out to the man behind the bar as he walked up. The bartender’s name was Marion Langley, but no one wanted to risk his life by using his first name. He preferred Keeper, and that’s what they called him. Keeper brought him the two glasses, but didn’t linger; he was too busy to do anything but pour.
Santos surveyed the crowded room. All the ACES agents were present, as well as members from various other clubs. On one of the wooden picnic tables, five men stood around a pile of grease-covered engine parts that looked like they’d come straight from the bone yard. A lot of riders brought salvage parts to the bar hoping to trade for another piece of equipment they needed for their bikes but couldn’t find. A table with five women waited nearby, bored expressions on all their faces as they sipped their beer.
He emptied the shot glass first, then turned to the beer and took a long swallow, draining almost half. He’d been drinking enough on this assignment to make up for Joaquim’s abstinence, and then some. But when the job was over, the drinking had to be, too. The alcohol was going down way too smooth, and every time he thought for too long, he found himself thirsty. Rose’s confession hadn’t made things any easier. He was buried up to his neck in lies, half-truths, and dark secrets that wouldn’t stay dead.
His second round was sitting in front of him when Austin sidled up, the stranger in tow. “Hey, boss, I want you to meet Tony Barra,” he said. “This is the brother I’ve been telling you about.”
He’d seen the rider’s colors, the patches on the back of his vest, from across the room. Dos Y Tres, the top rocker had read, Refugio, the bottom one explained. The center pie showed three candles with two flames, each pillar held upright by a bony finger. Wings shaped like knives made up the background. As patches went, it was pretty tame unless you realized the image was actually a devil’s trident. Like the other men in the room, he was clearly a hardcore biker, one of the “one percenters” who supposedly gave the other 99 percent riders the bad reputation they didn’t deserve.
Santos greeted the man, then curled three fingers at Keeper with a nod. The drinks came, and they made their way to a quickly vacated table near the back of the room. Rank did indeed have its
“Sorry I’m late,” Santos said. “Got a call at the last minute.”
“No problem.”
“Looks like Dos y Tres brought everyone in the chapter.” Santos peeled off his gloves and Joaquim nodded.
“How many?”
“Thirty, maybe forty.”
“Everybody already drunk?”
An expression of distaste crossed Joaquim’s patrician features. A second nod was his only answer.
Without another word, the sniper turned and headed back for the open-air dive. The cool, dry air was filled with the kind of tension only a bar full of testosterone-heavy men could produce. Santos wasn’t sure what he would have to handle inside. Despite Austin Wells’s assertion that his contact from a rival gang was interested in a joint protection run, cooperation between different clubs could be as tricky as Middle East negotiations. The Welcome Wagon ladies hadn’t damaged his bike; another gang had done that.
A blast of music assaulted his ears as he walked under the cover of the patio and headed for the bar. Austin was in the middle of what looked like a hot game of Texas Hold’em. When he saw Santos, he lifted his chin in acknowledgement. A man with a three-patch vest sat facing Austin, his back to Santos. At the same table, Bentley was playing, but he was paying more attention to the woman sitting on his lap than his cards. She must have been the blonde Austin had mentioned earlier. Bentley’s admiration for her was almost as obvious as the young lady’s charms. Santos turned to comment on it, but Joaquim had vanished. He did that frequently.
“A beer and a bump,” Santos called out to the man behind the bar as he walked up. The bartender’s name was Marion Langley, but no one wanted to risk his life by using his first name. He preferred Keeper, and that’s what they called him. Keeper brought him the two glasses, but didn’t linger; he was too busy to do anything but pour.
Santos surveyed the crowded room. All the ACES agents were present, as well as members from various other clubs. On one of the wooden picnic tables, five men stood around a pile of grease-covered engine parts that looked like they’d come straight from the bone yard. A lot of riders brought salvage parts to the bar hoping to trade for another piece of equipment they needed for their bikes but couldn’t find. A table with five women waited nearby, bored expressions on all their faces as they sipped their beer.
He emptied the shot glass first, then turned to the beer and took a long swallow, draining almost half. He’d been drinking enough on this assignment to make up for Joaquim’s abstinence, and then some. But when the job was over, the drinking had to be, too. The alcohol was going down way too smooth, and every time he thought for too long, he found himself thirsty. Rose’s confession hadn’t made things any easier. He was buried up to his neck in lies, half-truths, and dark secrets that wouldn’t stay dead.
His second round was sitting in front of him when Austin sidled up, the stranger in tow. “Hey, boss, I want you to meet Tony Barra,” he said. “This is the brother I’ve been telling you about.”
He’d seen the rider’s colors, the patches on the back of his vest, from across the room. Dos Y Tres, the top rocker had read, Refugio, the bottom one explained. The center pie showed three candles with two flames, each pillar held upright by a bony finger. Wings shaped like knives made up the background. As patches went, it was pretty tame unless you realized the image was actually a devil’s trident. Like the other men in the room, he was clearly a hardcore biker, one of the “one percenters” who supposedly gave the other 99 percent riders the bad reputation they didn’t deserve.
Santos greeted the man, then curled three fingers at Keeper with a nod. The drinks came, and they made their way to a quickly vacated table near the back of the room. Rank did indeed have its
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