It Ain't Me, Babe (Hades Hangmen #1)(9)

Taking advantage of Ky’s pause in breath, I picked up my knife, pointing it along every brother at the table, meeting them eye to eye, before placing the blade between my teeth, signing, Fifty crates of AK47s, ten crates of M82A1 sniper rifles, and ten crates of top-grade semiautomatics—all now without a buyer. The Colombians ain’t gonna take that shit back. So this is what’s gonna happen, Ky said with rising anger, waiting for me to finish.

Licking along the tip of the blade, I smelled the sick stench of betrayal in the room. Intimidation always flushed out a rat. I was a shittin’ goddamn expert in intimidation—my old man taught me well. I ain’t got a soundproofed shed out back for carpentry, that’s for f*ckin’ sure.

I slowly slid the sharp blade back into the table before me, then signed, We’re gonna find a new buyer soon as… so our friends the ATF don’t come a’knockin’. Then we find out who dared f*ck with this club. My—Styx’s—suspicions are firmly on the Diablos, but right now anyone’s a goddamn possibility. Fuck knows our enemy list is as long as f*ckin’ Pennsylvania Avenue.

Ky cleared his throat. “Am I okay to speak freely, Prez?”

A sharp nod gave him permission.

“I know you got beef with the Diablos, brother. Hell, I want ’em gone to Hades as much as you, but they’re into snow. Never known ’em to trade guns. Just sayin’. My opinion, it don’t smell like Mexican to me.”

He had a point. Mexicans ’round this part of Texas shifted for the cartel—narcs through and through. Traded easily ’cross the border.

Cracking my knuckles while in thought, the leather from my cut creaked at the movement. Suddenly, I launched the KM2000 across the room. I watched as it slipped like butter into the back wall, right into the center of the club patch.

Flicking my chin at Ky, he watched me sign and translated. Who else could be a possibility? We good with the Austin Crew?

Viking—Secretary, mid-thirties, red hair, pale skin, long red beard, f*ckin’ giant of a man—nodded his head. “We’re good. Pay good coin to cross their turf. No beef with ’em.”

“Irish?” Ky asked.

“Laying low after the drug bust. Tommy O’Keefe shipped back to the Emerald Isle. Six brothers doing time,” drawled Tank—Treasurer, ex-white power, built, thirty-one, inked to all hell. He ran his hand along the prison shank scar on his closely shaved head.

I blew a long, drawn-out breath, took one huge swig of my liquor, and signed, Any idea who’ll want the guns? Ky shared my question.

AK—Sergeant-at-Arms, high-tower, long brown hair, goatee, late twenties, could hit any mark perfect, ex-marine sniper—lifted his chin.

“Got a contact within the Chechens. They may be interested. They’re at war with the Reds. Could be perfect revenge. We tell ’em what the Russians are packing. They’ll wanna match it. We supply it, sends a message to the red f*ckers never to undercut us again.”

I nodded, a sliver of relief settling in my bones.

Set it up, I ordered in ASL, and the brothers all around the table seemed to relax.

Flame—crazy faux-hawked motherf*cker, twenty-five, orange flame tattoos up his neck, with scars and piercings covering half his body—got to his feet, snarling, pacing the room, slapping his arms one after the other. He’d spent most of his life in and out of the nut house, total anger issues, then got out and went killing scum for kicks. Some real messed-up shit. Couple’a years later, he found us. We recruited him. He helped us in the Mexican war, proved a hundred percent club loyalty. We patched him in. Now we let him loose on those who deserve a completely f*cked-up way to die. Crazy bastard gets real inventive.

Flame grabbed my knife from the wall, lifted it to cut a slice on the underside of his arm, then groaned like some slut was sucking on his dick. Blood ran to the floor. He hissed in pleasure, wired eyes closing. Shit, the dude was built. He’d be pretty damn good-looking if he didn’t have death permanently in his eyes. Bitches were right to stay the f*ck away from the psycho. If any of them touched him, he’d f*ckin’ rip out their hearts with one hand.

Ky rolled his eyes at me. I got what he was saying. Flame needed a release. He’d get one soon enough. We all would. War was coming. I could f*ckin’ feel it in my bones.

“You good, brother?” Ky asked Flame. We all just stared at him, f*ckin’ bloodletting, his hard dick straining in his leathers.

Flame walked toward me, presenting me with my bloodied knife. His black eyes blazed. “Need blood spilt. Snitch needs teaching a lesson. I got revenge burning in me, Styx. Got venom stirring my veins.”

“Brother, when we get a lead, you’re up,” Ky assured Flame as I nodded in agreement.

Flame smiled, his white teeth shining, his black, tattooed scripted gums reading Pain silhouetted against pink flesh. “Fuck yeah!”

Facing the rest of the brothers, I scanned for twitches or signs of fear.

Still nothing.

Not one. Fuckin’. Thing.

As I shifted in my chair, I signed. My VP read out loud, “Any other business?”

A wave of shaking heads answered the question. I grabbed the gavel, slamming it down on the hard wood.

Turning to the brothers, Ky flashed his winning smile. “Now, don’t know ’bout y’all, but I’m getting me some *.”