Chapter SEVEN

THE PUB was fairly quiet, given it was a Monday evening. A few men sat at the long timber bar in the front room, drinking schooners of beer. A few other small groups gathered around scattered tables. The sound of the cricket match showing on the big TV provided the main source of noise. The volume spiked every now and then as the pub patrons cheered, and the familiar musical tones of the poker machines could be heard whenever someone opened the door that separated the gambling area that housed the pokies from the main bar.

A quick scan of the room showed no sign of Pete or Rocky, so Mitch exited through a doorway with a large sign pointing to the bistro. It was a relief to leave the strong smell of stale beer behind. The back bar and bistro area was more open, with large glass doors leading to an enclosed patio area with a huge barbecue. It was there Mitch found them, sitting around a large table with a number of other men.

Mitch met Pete’s eyes across the room. The flash of fear was evidenced by his sudden pallor and quick glance around. Pete picked up his beer and took a long swallow before nodding at Mitch.

He stood as Mitch approached. “Mitch, hi. I’m glad you could make it.”

They shook hands. The rest of the group had gone silent and glared at Mitch with outright hostility. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, but Mitch stared them down. No way was he going to let on that they gave him the creeps—just the idea of Pete tied up with these guys was enough to get Mitch’s pulse racing.

Pete made a sweeping gesture. “These guys are my friends.” He indicated Rocky. “You met Rocky at the shop. Not sure if you were introduced properly, though. Rocky Cummings, this is Mitch.” Rocky nodded but didn’t stand. Pete addressed Mitch again. “Rocky owns CMC.”

Mitch gave Rocky his attention. “Nice place you’ve got there. I was impressed with the job done on my bike. It’s running great.”

“Best bloody shop in Sydney.” This from the guy sitting next to Rocky. It was the same guy who’d approached Mitch when he was in the showroom—Rocky’s right-hand man. He held out his hand. “Warren Jones. Everyone calls me Stack.”

“Nice to meet you, Stack.”

Stack was dressed like the others. Jeans, black T-shirt with motif, and boots. Full-sleeve tattoos. His head was shaved close to his skull, and a scar over his left eye hinted at an injury that hadn’t been properly stitched, but definitely served to make the guy look frightening. No doubt small kids would run a mile. Even Mitch wouldn’t like to bump into him in a dark alley.

None of them were wearing jackets or vests with distinctive patches, but he hadn’t expected them to. Rocky was too smart to flaunt the club membership, especially with various laws banning bikie club members from wearing club colors on licensed premises. Between those laws and the laws that prevented convicted criminals from consorting, it was getting difficult for clubs to maintain their traditional concept of brotherhood.

“Let me buy that beer I promised you,” Mitch said to Pete, then addressed the rest of the table. “Another round, guys?” Nods and grunts met his offer. “Hey, Pete, why don’t you come and give me a hand?”

Pete stood behind him at the bar as he ordered. They waited while the barman gathered drinks, and Mitch used the opportunity to quickly talk to Pete. They wouldn’t have long.

“Are you doing okay?” he asked, his voice dropping low.

“I’m fine. What are you doing here?”

Mitch ignored the question. “Are you sure? Do you know what you’ve got yourself mixed up in? These guys are dangerous, Pete.”

“I can take care of myself.” Pete flicked his gaze to the table before returning to Mitch. “But not if you fuck this up for me. You need to stay away.”

“Can’t do that, Pete.”

“If Rocky or any of the others discover you’re a cop, or find out….”

“That we were seeing each other?”

Pete swallowed heavily, and he nodded. “My life wouldn’t be worth living.”

“I’m here to help, not to put you in danger.”

“Jesus, Mitch. I’m not sure what you expect from me.”

“Just don’t blow my cover. I need an in with these guys, and you’re it. I need an excuse to hang around and hopefully get in Rocky’s good books. You’re driving for him, right?”

Pete nodded. “Making some deliveries.”

“I assume it’s not all legit.”

Pete glanced over at the table again. “Now’s not a good time.”

“Drugs?”

“Fuck, Mitch. I said not now.”

“Are you safe?”

“What the hell do you think? I’m working for bloody Rocky Cummings,” Pete hissed. “If I had a choice, do you think I’d be here? I’m doing what I have to do.”

“Do you need us to get you out of there?”

“No! I just need to be left alone. I need you to walk away and pretend you don’t know me. Fuck it! I need you to have never shown up at all.”

“Your drinks are ready.”

They both turned at the announcement from the bartender. Mitch handed over some cash and whispered to Pete while he waited for his change. “I need to meet with you. Tell me where and when.”

“I’m staying at Rocky’s. I’ll have to let you know.” Pete picked up a tray of drinks and left. He was already seated by the time Mitch put the tray he was carrying on the table. Pete had seated himself between Rocky and another guy, forcing Mitch to sit opposite.

Bottles of beer were passed around. Mitch took a large swig from his bottle, aware of the scrutiny he was under. Stack sat to his right and Rocky directly across from him, next to Pete. Three other guys took up the far end of the table and were engaged in conversation.

Rocky downed half his bottle before speaking. “So you’re looking to pick up some more cash?”

Mitch nodded, the beer bottle still at his lips. He swallowed. “Hell, yeah.”

Rocky nudged Peter with his elbow. “You’ll vouch for this guy?”

“Sure.” Pete didn’t sound sure. His voice was clipped, and he glared across the table. C’mon, Pete, don’t let me down. A couple of moments passed, and then Pete cleared his throat. “I have no reason not to trust him. He did right by me. Stood by me through some shit. Had my back.”

Pete met his gaze and gave an almost imperceptible nod. It was clear he meant what he said. Memories flooded back: those last few weeks together, the arguments about Pete’s recovery, and Pete’s insistence that Mitch didn’t have to feel guilty and stay any longer. It was as if Pete had resigned himself to his future and didn’t want to drag Mitch down any farther, so gave him a get-out-of-jail-free card.

“And you had mine,” Mitch said, raising his bottle in a toast.

Rocky’s voice cut through Mitch and Pete’s silent communication. “Come see me at the shop tomorrow. I’ve got something you can help me with.”

“Yeah? That’s great.”