CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
Bishop's hog glided into the parking lot of the clubhouse. The building sat just behind Bishop's Auto, flanking the garage like two outlaws back-to-back in a shoot-out. Both buildings were extremely different, both outside and in. Where Bishop's Auto was all metal, edges, and grease, the clubhouse had a softer external appearance and no designations of a business. It almost seemed like a swanky bar, and many people mistook it for one.
Instantly, Bishop saw they had company, as his prior loin-simmering satisfaction dissipated. The group of four bikers attempted to look as natural as possible while on Seven Tribesmen’s turf. Bishop narrowed his eyes and saw an insignia of a spike slammed through an angry skull on the back of their vests. Devil Spikes. Bishop's thoughts bristled angrily, and he pressed his lips together in a thin line.
“Hey, boss. We have visitors.” From the shadows of the awning, Coyote approached Bishop, leaving Howler and Ruse in the shadows. His eyebrows furrowed and lips twisted into a frown, as he glanced toward the four strangers. “They rode on in while you were out.”
“What do they want?” he asked Coyote, his eyes never drawing away from the assembled gang.
“They say they have a proposition for us,” snorted Coyote, his predetermined position obvious. His voice took on an edge of annoyance, as he said, “Wouldn't talk to anyone about it except you.”
Bishop's lips twitched with amusement, thinking Coyote was playing the ironic part of power-hungry vice president, but it faltered. There was no sense of teasing or amusement in Coyote's expression. His eyes glinted angrily, and his nose wrinkled, like a dog ready to bare its pointy canines at a threat. Even Coyote's hair seemed a little spikier than usual.
Bishop laid a heavy palm on Coyote's shoulder, and the man jumped under the sudden touch. Green eyes turned to Bishop's face, as the president of the Seven Tribesmen steeled his expression and said, “Let's hear what they have to say before we maul them.”
Coyote forced himself to ease under Bishop's touch. His head dipped down, as if to wordlessly apologize. Bishop's hand drifted from Coyote's shoulder, and he advanced on the four Devil Spikes assembled. Coyote's footfalls sounded behind him on the pavement. “I hear you boys are from Bellevue, yeah?”
“You Arthur Bishop?” One stepped forward, lanky and sinewy with long graying hair. He tried to set his shoulders firmly, but an underlying sense of anxiety permeated his thoughts. The black left eye he sported didn't help his demeanor any. He fiddled with a half-smoked cigarette butt between his fingers. The other three men varied in body type. One tall and beefy, another muscular like an ex-marine, and one looked as if he wouldn't be a buck-fifty while wet.
“The one and only.” Bishop extended his arms, a broad smile crossing his face. Then, his amiable nature quickly drained away, replaced by a firm scowl crossing his features. “Now, what do you want?”
Old Hippie stuck out his chin, pretending to possess more confidence than he had. “Our boss wants to make a deal with you.”
“Why?” demanded Bishop, cocking an eyebrow at the man.
“We know shit that'll help you.” Old Hippie swallowed. “You can keep us safe.”
Bishop nodded his head. Once the Seven Tribesmen dismantled the Grave Demons, the Devil Spikes would be left with no contact to the cartel and a cocaine snorting demographic. With the Demons gone, the Spikes had no way to pay back the cartel either. Hell, the Spikes were a target now for ratting out the Demons.
Bishop leaned his head back, eyeballing the four men. They'd definitely be armed, either with firearms or knives. If they were carrying crack to plant inside, he couldn't tell. There was one way to fix that uncertainty.
“Coyote,” Bishop listed his head toward his right-hand man, “how about you and our brothers pat down these boys?”
“Yes, boss,” intoned Coyote, a twitch of smugness flickering over his face.
“We ain't going into your clubhouse unarmed!” Buck-Fifty sputtered, his blue eyes wide and vicious. His face contorted into a snarl of fearful rage, and Bishop made a mental note to keep an eye on him.
“Last time we let our guard down, I lost two men to the pigs for a few days after planted snort was found in their bedrolls.” Bishop stepped closer and loomed over Buck-Fifty, drawing himself up to his full height and using every inch to intimidate him.
As Bishop locked gazes with the man, and rage bubbled in his guts. These guys were part of the reason the FBI was in town. They almost got Howler and Crow fingered for possession. They caused the Seven Tribesmen quite a bit of trouble. He shouldn't even be amusing himself with this potential alliance.
Bishop turned to the spokesperson, who appeared about ready to strangle Buck-Fifty with his own hands. “You want us to trust you? You gotta make yourselves vulnerable first.”
He turned away from the group before any of them could posit another complaint. Bishop would send them packing if he heard any more whining. He still had to review the document he nicked from Stella's office. With the Devil Spikes offering their “assistance,” the paper may prove to be more worthwhile than originally thought. Bishop's stomach lurched with uncertainty as he passed the threshold into the clubhouse. Behind him, he listened to the bickering of the Spikes and his men, as a very intense pat-down took place.