Have Gun, Will Travel (The Bare Bones MC #5)(45)
On his way out of the hangar, Sax was again waylaid by Santiago Slayer. Now he had at least ten women hanging over him—what was the f*cking attraction to the polyester-clad lounge lizard?—and he must’ve been having the time of his life, making it doubly strange he’d break all of that up to accost Sax, who was his nemesis after all.
“All right, ladies,” Slayer said with that cap-toothed, ingratiating smile. “Enough. The men need to talk manly things now. Give the Slayer a break for a few minutes.”
The women pouted. “Aw, Slayer.” One hang-around with implants was so scantily clad, her tiny stars and stripes bra was held up by her perky nipples. Normally, this would’ve been the sort of thing Sax was overly interested in, even if it meant picking up on Slayer’s “leftovers.” Today, it couldn’t have been farther from his mind. What the f*ck did Slayer want?
Slayer managed to peel chick after chick from his person while walking. They finally found themselves alone by the corner of the hangar. From here, Sax could see if Leo came out of the UXO shed. Slayer held up his hands like a picture frame.
“Mr. Saxonberg. Normally I would not be talking to you like this, mano e mano. Normally I would not be talking to you at all. I would be out in the field facing down grave mortal danger in my readiness to slay the dragon, to take down the enemy, to look death in the eye and challenge it to a duel.”
“Rather than partying here with our women.”
Slayer nodded in agreement. “Rather than being here. But I had no choice. You peeled out so fast from the battlefield, my ride was left behind on the Mogollon Rim.”
Sax snorted. “What is your ride, anyway? A Beemer?”
Slayer fluttered his eyelashes in annoyance. “A Fiat, which is built for hugging the road at super-fast speeds. But that is not the issue here. It is my duty to express my concern and annoyance with something I just witnessed. I know this is your club, this is your turf, and I respect that.”
Sax rolled his eyes. Was the guy about to complain about Harte, too? For a guy who seemed a little light in the loafers himself, it was like the pot calling the kettle black to be pointing fingers at Harte. And…how many people, exactly, had seen Harte and Dayton going hard at it? “I’m going to talk to him about it. He does need to know that sort of thing is never going to be accepted in most MCs.”
Slayer frowned. “My. I must say I am surprised at your lackadaisical attitude at something so vital.”
Sax held his hands out, palms to the ground. “Look. If he prefers cock to *, there’s no brainwashing in hell that’s going to change—”
“What?” Slayer was taken aback, while at the same time guffawing at Sax. “Cock and *? While I certainly wish I knew who you were referring to, I am, unfortunately, referring to that completely fake biker who rode in here almost an hour ago. I have not said anything, and no one else seems to have noticed or cared, but it was completely obvious he is working for the federales.”
Now it was Sax’s turn to be aghast. “Do you mean…the guy who went into that building with my brother Leo?”
Slayer closed his eyes patiently. “The very same. For one, he had a completely ridiculous helmet on. No self-respecting biker would be caught dead wearing a cubo cerebro of such clownish proportions. True, he rode a Harley, a Super Glide with airbrushed tanks. But tell me, what brother would be seen in public with one of those helmets with the built-in microphones? Those things make you look like a pilot about to take off from the runway, a ricer riding a rice burner, or a fellow who smoked too many cartons of cigarettes.”
Sax knew the ridiculous contraptions Slayer talked about, and he agreed. Only regular civilian riding club guys wore those, to talk to each other while out on a run. “Well, that’s hardly a reason to think a guy is a federale, Slayer. Was there anything else suspicious about him?”
“Oh, what wasn’t suspicious? My sixth sense, my smelling dog’s sense of something wrong went into high alert the second he breezed in here wearing those ridiculous fake colors.”
“Something with the word ‘skeleton’ in it, right?”
“Yes, how did you know? Have you ever heard of The Storming Skeletons MC? It sounds like a bad parody on your name, The Bare Bones.”
It really did. “No. Never heard of them.”
“Exactly. And get this. I immediately ran his plate number. No such plate exists. I got close to him as he parked, blending in with the crowd due to the number of sweetbutts I had clinging to my arms. When he turned off his engine, I heard him distinctly say “Ten four. I’ll have him come in to discuss the relocation,” into his embarrassing little mic. I have no idea what that means, but it’s clear he was talking about your brother, because Leo then approached him like an old friend, and that’s when they went into that little building. Listen, Mr. Saxonberg. I want nothing to do with this federale bullshit. If Leo is an inside man, I’d like to be as far away as possible. If they’ve got eyes on Leo, that means they’ve got eyes on me, and that’s the last thing I want.”
“Oh, right, the last thing you want is publicity,” Sax said sarcastically, but he was drinking in everything the vinyl playboy was telling him. “Thanks for the intel, Slayer. I know you’ve got to go your own separate way to find Tormenta and we can’t share intel on that, but I want you to know…” It killed Sax to say this, but it was mostly true. “It’s been a pleasure working with you.” Or at least an amusement. He just hoped Slayer didn’t try to shake his hand.