Chapter Eight

 

RYAN

 

I can't tell them what happened. I'd be a fool to even think it. There was a moment, however brief, where I thought I might tell them something. Thank God I'd come to my senses soon enough.

But if I can't involve Logan and Brian in the search, then it means I'm on my own, and if I'm on my own…

There's someone on the inside. There must be. But how I'm supposed to find him is the rub. For a long minute I consider.

Is the timing significant? These cops, they can't control themselves. The minute they've got enough, they shoot in.

But then again, who knows. They were smarter than I'd given them credit for. They'd made moves I didn't expect so far. Maybe they were just playing me. I could go on and on, trying to figure all this shit out, and it means nothing.

Well, that's just too bad. What could they have gotten ahold of?

It's not hard to figure it out. It's got something to do with the delivery. It must have. I take a deep breath.

Los Diablos are going to be trouble if they don't get it. But if I find out those sons of bitches had something to do with my little excursion today, then they're going to have a whole world more trouble.

If I've got someone on my inside, then they've definitely got someone. I've seen their operation, and there's no chance in hell that those Mexican sons of bitches don't have some Feds sniffing them.

It would be nice to believe that they are the only ones who have some house cleaning, but I know better. If the Feds think that they know everything I'm doing, then they've got someone on the inside.

For a long, sickening moment, I can't shake the thought that Brian and Logan might be involved. If they want to get to me, then through my brothers would be an easy way to do it.

Neither of them showed any signs that there's any possibility of involvement, though. There's simply no way. Not the way that they jumped right up.

I already know who it is. Something in my head, an itch. A doubt. And that doubt was confirmed when the cops showed up. But I don't want to jump to conclusions.

Spider has done good work for me, this past year. It'd be a shame to have to put the hurt on him. As I sit, the gun in my hand feels heavy. I already know what to do, now.

It couldn't have been one of the drivers. Unless they had a constant rotation of guys coming in and leaving, which was possible in a sort of theoretical way.

It did the one thing that I never like to do, though, which is ascribing mythical powers to the cops. Anyone could be a cop, and it's true. But assuming that everyone's a cop, that's dangerous.

No, it's much easier to fit the collar on just one man, the one man who went from not knowing to knowing in the span of that afternoon.

Still, Ryan waited. He put the gun down. Took a deep breath and picked it back up. The phone came out of his pocket easy.

"Spider? I need you to meet me at the bar."

Spider's voice sounds bad. He knows I know, but that's part of the fun, isn't it? "Sure, boss. You need me there right this second?"

"Naw, take your time, man. Pick me up—you know those bite-size ice cream candies? Yeah, Dibs. That's the one. Get me some of those on the way over."

I click the phone off. Time to thin the herd. I jab a few buttons on my phone. Robin's never looked right to me. He's a squirmy kinda guy.

He's bad for business, you can't send him anywhere. Spider might be the cop, but people don't look at him and say, 'you're a fuckin' cop!'

They look at Robin and they don't say it because they already fuckin' left. Bad for business.

"What's up, boss?"

"I need you to meet me here."

"At the bar?"

"Yeah. Everything okay?"

Robin pauses a long time. "Sure, boss. I'll be there in five."

I hang up the phone, tap the gun on the table. Nervous habit. I should have kicked it a long time ago, but I just can't get rid of it. I hear the dull rumble of a bike rolling up.

Must be Robin. Spider drives one of those big fuckin' one-cylinder Harleys, a sound you can hear the difference in compared to Robin's V-twin.

The guy looks as shaky now as he ever has. I pour him a beer. The cold glass even looks tempting to me. Shame to waste most of it, but sometimes you waste things.

He settles in to the bar. I can tell he wants to ask what I called him out for, but he keeps his mouth shut, and I'm not going to tell him until Spider gets here anyways.

I wish there was some advice I could give the poor schmuck. There's nothing that can be done for him, though. If I told him that some tattoos might help, well, I would be lying, wouldn't I?

He looks like a square no matter what you do, down to that shitty English bike he drives. Most would have left by now, but Robin can't take a hint, and now it's gone one step too far.

A few silent minutes pass, the gun still sitting heavy on the ledge behind the bar. I can feel it there, like it's sitting right in my fuckin' lap.

The low, gravelly sound of Spider's engine pulling up outside tells me that there's only a few minutes more of the quiet. Soon, everything's going to go fuckin' nuts. The least that I can do is wait for those Dibs.

He comes in, cradling the bright red package in one large hand.

"Hey, Spider," Robin says, his movements shifty. Maybe I was wrong. Robin could be an informant, or at least he could be an informant, too.

Spider's low, gravelly voice matches the sound of his engines. "Hey. Everything okay, boss?"

I keep them both waiting a little longer. "You got those Dibs for me?"

He tosses them, and I catch the package, still cold, between my hands. I pop the top open, peel the cover back, and pop one into my mouth.

"That what you wanted?"

"Perfect," I tell him, smiling. I pour out a third beer, one for each of us. The place isn't lit up, not this time of night. Just the lights around the bar, like a spotlight on the three of us.

I pop another piece of ice cream into my mouth.

"Hey, Spider, I know I've been runnin' you a little ragged lately, dealing with so much of the day-to-day stuff."

I might not have noticed the way he squirms under the attention, if I didn't already know what he was hiding. But as it is, I do notice it.

"It's fine, boss. I'm just trying to do my part."

"I know," I tell him. "And that's just the thing. About the day-to-day operations. I just got word, you see. There's a mole. A mole, in our club. Can you believe that shit?"

Robin's face twists up in confusion, even as Spider's trying to keep his face neutral, trying to hide the heavy swallow of nerves.

"A mole, boss?"

"Shut the fuck up, Robin."

Spider leans in, trying to look like he's not about to get shot.

"You got any ideas who it could be, boss?"

"I have a very good idea, man. I have a very good idea."

I pull the gun out and hand it over to him. "Clean up this mess for me."

I walk away. This is a test, and like all tests, it has to be taken in private. You check the test after, of course. If he wants to play cop, then he'll fire off the shot into the air, or something.

If he wants to play with the big boys, though, he'll have to find the balls to put one right into Robin's chest. That will answer the question for me. Can I use him? Or should I have dealt with it right then and there?