Crash (Brazen Bulls MC #1)(86)
The Bulls had managed to deflect most of that kind of attention by not being greedy glory hounds—by staying as small-time as possible, giving their legit work its due, and keeping their local relationships healthy. Some one-percenter clubs wanted the notoriety to spread far and wide, reasoning that fear gave them space and power.
Delaney’s philosophy was different. He wanted the Bulls’ rep to be about relationships and results. They hadn’t become outlaws to swing their dicks. They were just trying to keep everybody fed and healthy.
Using Delaney’s own reasoning on him, Rad and Eight Ball had persuaded their president, and then their club, to take a chance on another tiny club. Delaney had persuaded Kirill, who, Rad supposed, had persuaded his mother.
And here they were, for the inaugural handoff. In his usual way, Kirill wanted to make an event out of it, so they’d all shared vodka and a Russian toast, and now he was standing in this dusty old barn in his custom suit and polished shoes, watching the Riders stow the guns the Bulls had delivered. The Volkovs had trailed the Bulls run, driving behind them, at an inconspicuous distance, in a big, black Ford Expedition—which was, Rad guessed, about as downscale as Kirill could bring himself to endure.
When the last of the guns was stowed, before Cooper, the Riders’ president, had settled the trap door in place, Kirill stepped forward. “I will see first,” he said and made his way down the ladder into the storage bunker.
The Bulls had already inspected the empty bunker—and come away with ideas for improving their own storage. Kirill had checked it when they’d arrived, but he was nothing if not careful and thorough. So the Bulls, Riders, and Volkov men stood, all of them silent, and waited for Kirill to return to the surface.
He did, brushing his hands. “Is good. Cooper, your work pleases me. I hope will please me next as well.”
“Yes, sir,” said Cooper. “Canadian contacts are set and waitin’ for your green light.”
“Excellent.” He turned to Delaney and gave him a small smile. “Brian, always your instincts are strong.”
Delaney tipped his head, accepting the compliment. Rad sensed a slight reaction from Eight—he’d wanted some recognition for the idea—but Rad was happy not have been called out. He didn’t need to be singled out for Kirill Volkov’s notice.
A couple of Riders closed the trap door and spread greying straw over the floor. No sign that a million dollars’ worth of illegal Russian weapons sat below.
“Come! We drink!”
oOo
It was a long-ass day, but they headed home that afternoon. It was always best to get clear of a job as quickly and cleanly as possible.
Their work was over, but the Volkovs trailed them back anyway. Kirill and his men never flew into or out of the nearest airport to the place he did business. In this case, they’d come from New York to Tulsa via DFW, so for most of the journey, they were going the same way the Bulls were. They’d split up around Oklahoma City.
The ride was smooth, and the traffic light almost to the point of nonexistence. Rad felt good. The new route looked sound, the new club seemed steady. The Volkovs were pleased. Willa was pregnant, and that, wonder of wonders, was a good thing. Jumping the gun a little, they’d spent some time last night up on her little, gabled second floor, which she’d been working on making a guest room. Now it was going to be a baby’s room.
Jesus. A father? Him? He’d have been lying if he’d said the thought didn’t freak him out. He could only hope Willa would balance his sure-to-be-terrible parenting out.
They weren’t telling anyone, mainly because he doubted he was ready to take the shit he’d get—and he would get a lot of it—calmly. Not yet. He needed to settle into the idea first.
He was in that long-ride place, paying attention to the road and his brothers with the top of his mind, but otherwise lost his in his thoughts, not really thinking about riding. With that top mind layer, he noticed a rest stop turnoff as they passed it and registered that they were about an hour north of Oklahoma City. About two and a half hours to home.
It was dusk; it would be well dark when they got home. Rad liked riding at night—it was more dangerous in populated areas, but the world quieted down and the sky got closer when the sun left, and he found riding country roads or empty highways even more calming in the dark.
All around him, all day, had been the unmistakable roar of Harley engines, but suddenly it took on a new, more riotous clamor—more bikes. Rad’s whole brain kicked in and he looked around—yeah, a cluster of bikes coming up on their ass, their headlights obscuring the view, but Rad counted at least six, probably more.
He turned to Eight Ball, riding at his side, and saw that he, too, had taken notice.
The new riders slid in behind the Bulls and ahead of the box truck Slick was driving. The Volkovs were back about a mile or more, keeping their inconspicuous distance, and Rad didn’t know if they’d detected anything amiss.
The new riders’ formation told Rad that they were trouble. Far too organized to be casual, which meant they had an agenda. Only one agenda they could possibly have: trouble for the Bulls.
At almost eighty miles an hour, he pulled his piece from its shoulder holster and gestured to Eight to do the same. Then he swung out of his lane and slowed, letting Ox pull up with him—he, too, had noticed. Becker, at Ox’s side, saw Rad and caught on, pulling his piece. Now Rad had all of his enforcers. He goosed the throttle and pulled up with Delaney and Dane, showing his piece, knowing they’d understand.