Rough Justice (Sinner's Tribe Motorcycle Club #1)(17)
“You know this world. Everything is a possibility.”
She weighed the risk of letting him know where she lived versus the risk of one of his men—Axle, most likely—coming after her on his own. Although the risks on both sides were considerable, part of her trusted Jagger. He’d acted with honor, a quality lacking in pretty much every Black Jack biker she knew. The situation could have gone an entirely different way if not for him.
She gave herself a mental slap. Was she really considering giving her personal details to a member of the Sinner’s Tribe? Rubbing her hand through her hair in distraction, she turned and walked down the sidewalk. “I’ll take the risk.”
“Arianne.” His deep, husky voice stopped her in her tracks, and she looked back over her shoulder. He hadn’t moved, and it was the hint that maybe there was more to his flirting that loosened her tongue.
“Banks Bar, west end of Villard Street.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them. “I work the bar Tuesday to Saturday. And Mondays if there’s a game on. If you’re in the neighborhood for reasons other than killing me or warning me about being killed, I’ll buy you a drink. Say thanks for saving me.” Should be safe enough. She’d be working at Banks Bar only a few more days, maybe a week or two at the most. Once she got her fake passport from Jeff, she’d be leaving Conundrum behind.
“Thought you were a mechanic.”
“I was … am. But I quit when I thought I was leaving and my boss hired my replacement before my last day so I could show him the ropes. Banks, my boss, wouldn’t accept my resignation. He didn’t believe I’d leave. Good thing, too. It means I can make some extra cash before I go.”
“Got it.”
When Jagger didn’t say anything else, she stared down at her hands. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Why had she invited him for a drink? He was being courteous, not coming on to her.
Cheeks burning, she cleared her throat and gave him a weak smile. “Okay, then. Well … say bye to Max for me.”
Then she turned and walked away.
FIVE
Respect must be shown, in order of importance, to your colors, bike, executive board, club members, clubhouse, other patch holders, prisoners, and chicks.
Flavio Fuentes screamed when Zane pointed the gun at his head.
He apologized for all the people he’d killed, the women he’d abused, and the children who’d suffered when their drug-addicted parents overdosed. He promised to go to church every Sunday, live clean, and give to charity. He would disband the cartel and leave Montana. Hell, he would even stop dealing with the Black Jacks. Anything but get into the trunk of Zane’s Chrysler 300C. He’d heard about trunking, and although he was confident someone would pay his ransom before he ran out of air, he had suffered from claustrophobia since childhood. Surely the Sinners had mercy. Maybe Jagger and his men would like a couple of lines of speed on the house instead? Good-quality stuff.
“I want the location of the Jacks’ icehouse.” Jagger tapped Fuentes on the head with the barrel of his gun to get the drug lord’s attention. The Black Jacks were making a fortune by producing their own crystal meth locally and avoiding the transport costs charged by the Mexican cartels. “Give me an address and you can steer clear of a cruise around the city in my trunk.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Fuentes trembled. “I meet with the Jacks. They give me the stuff. I don’t know where it comes from.”
Zane shook his head. “He’s lying.”
Jagger thought so, too. He also thought it odd that a grown man would hug himself as if overcome with remorse. Too late, he realized that T-Rex, the club’s most senior prospect, and Bandit, their newest full-patch, had missed a weapon the drug lord was hiding down the back of his pants.
Fuentes’s gun flashed in the moonlight. Jagger dodged to the side, and the bullet skimmed past him. Zane fired next. Fuentes screamed and dropped his gun, both hands flying to hold his leg.
“Fuck.” Cade rubbed his brow. “Why did you have to go and shoot him? He was worth at least two hundred grand alive, and now we have no lead on the location of the Black Jack icehouse.”
“I shot him in the leg.” Zane gave Cade an affronted glare. “And it’s just a flesh wound. If we bandage him right, and his people pay the price, he’ll live to deal drugs another day. You should be praising me for my accuracy, something you can never hope to achieve, since you shoot like a f*cking girl.”
“Like you need another pat on the back.” Cade shot Zane a scathing look as he reached for Fuentes’s arm and yanked him to his feet. “Your ego is so big, I have to step around it.”
“Look who’s talking.” Zane grabbed Fuentes’s other arm, and together he and Cade dragged the moaning drug lord to the vehicle. “You have women falling at your feet. We go out to a bar, and I know I’ll be drinking alone because thirty seconds in the door, you’ll have picked up some chick who can’t keep her hands off you.”
After bandaging Fuentes’s leg, they opened the trunk of the vehicle and heaved Fuentes into it, raising their voices to be heard over his screams. “What can I say?” Cade grinned. “Women love me for my pretty face and my huge—”
“Cade.” Jagger cut him off with a sharp bark. “How about a little professionalism? We’re trunking, not comparing dick sizes. Call Fuentes’s people and tell them he has only a few hours to live and the price just went up. I want five hundred grand and the location of the icehouse in a bag in the Dumpster outside Mountain Grill’s on Ferguson just off the 191—otherwise, the trunk becomes his permanent home.” He glared at Bandit and T-Rex, who were quivering in the shadows. “I should throw you in there with him. There’s no excuse for missing that weapon.”