Vince sat back in the chair in the makeshift office at the Iron Claws clubhouse, his feet propped up on the table, smoking and staring out the window. The rest of the present members were amped up about this delivery, but he couldn’t seem to muster any excitement, as Traunch had just so kindly pointed out.
“It’s just another day in paradise for you, eh, Vinny?”
Taking his time putting out his cigarette in the ash tray, Vince blew out one last long line of smoke and shrugged. “It’s just a delivery, Traunch. We run down to San Antonio, drop the blank papers off with our new supplier and make sure he’s still willing to work with us, and swing back home. Easy as a preacher’s daughter.”
Traunch chuckled, rubbing his bald head. “Nicely put, but SAPD isn’t on our payroll, and neither are most of the small towns in between. Aren’t you worried about questions? We don’t know anything about the pigs down there.”
Vince sat up as Pound joined them, hovering over Traunch’s shoulder. “We’ve also got to dodge the Pale Demons, brother. Maybe we’re not in their industry, but they’re not going to like us barging in on their territory without cutting them in for a piece.”
Vince shook his head. “I’m not worried about it. As far as they’re concerned, we’re scouting the territory and haven’t made any deals. If they question us further than that, it’s going to start some real business that they don’t have the gun power to handle.”
“Besides, they could earn a cut if they wanted it.” Pound and Traunch turned, and Vince stood to see Cyril bent over the pool table with a cigar in his mouth. “Demons raise any hell and we can lay out the options.”
“And what are those?” Vince asked, suddenly curious what their president had up his sleeve.
“First option is shut the fuck up or die. Second option is stay out of our business, and we’ll stay out of yours. Third option is, if you want a cut, assume some of the risk. We’ll meet them halfway on deliveries and pickups, cutting our risk and staying the hell out of their territory, and they can take ten percent.” Cyril slipped the cue through his fingers, making a bank shot and nodding his approval.
Vince didn’t like it, and Pound beat him to the punch. “They aren’t going to settle for that. And besides, who’s to say they can be trusted? They’ll take our first pickup and run with it, probably to the border, and somehow get half a million dollars in small counterfeit bills to Mexico.”
Traunch agreed. “I don’t know why we picked up this new guy anyway.”
Cyril narrowed his eyes at the three of them, not used to his members calling him out on a decision like this. That is, except for Vince, who managed to talk some sense into the old man every now and then. Cyril Reichert was old-school, and he didn’t like democracy. “If none of you like it, we can put it to a vote. I’m just telling it like it is, though. If you all want to start a war with some nasty, half-wild band of hooligans, be my guest. I’ll stay here and wave the white flag when I don’t have anyone left to count on, and this club can go to hell in a handbasket.”
Vince clenched his jaw. He loved Cyril like a father, but he’d noticed more and more how manipulative the son of a bitch could be, and that bothered him. He was about to take on this crazy mission, making sure they could get a truck full of cut paper to a printer—the only printer they had found who could actually counterfeit the newly colored small bills the U.S. government now minted—and return to pick up the finished product in a week.
Vince knew enough to know that they couldn’t keep funneling big bills through all of their contacts. They had plenty of places to launder money, but most of them needed smaller bills to avoid suspicion.
The Feds already had a team trying to figure out where the influx of counterfeit money was coming from, and those guys didn’t even know the half of it. If they kept getting big bills in, someone would eventually take notice. Smaller bills wouldn’t be checked as carefully; anything under fifty would probably go unnoticed.
But Vince thought they should bide their time and find someone in friendlier territory, or simply buy this guy off to get copies of his templates for their previous supplier. He’d mentioned it more than once to Cyril, but the president had blown him off, telling him that if he wanted to vie for the leadership role, he needed to have the balls to put old horses out to pasture.
Vince didn’t want the role of president; he was more than happy handling the treasury role and aiding enforcement. But if Cyril kept getting them into a bunch of happy horseshit like this, Vince knew someone would have to challenge the old fool.
Now, though, there was business to attend to. The obligation was set, and Vince didn’t back down. Besides, the long ride would do him good—maybe help him get that paramedic out of his head.
But as he started to follow Traunch out of the office, Pound grabbed his arm. He groaned. “What now?”
“Don’t get pissy with me. How are you doing today?”
“I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Pound rolled his eyes. “Your dumb act doesn’t work on me, bud. After last night, with all the shit that happened and that leg of yours, are you good to take this trip?”
Vince scoffed. “I’m perfectly fine to ride, okay? And I don’t appreciate you questioning me about it.”
“I just want to make sure you’re not going to do anything stupid. I mean, you’ve been flying by the seat of your pants for a while, and you’ve gotten a little loose and dangerous when it comes to business. I need to know you’re going to be safe and not do anything that’s going to get us caught, hurt, or dead.”
The seriousness of his expression didn’t sit well with Vince, and he started back, hoping Pound would back down.
When Pound didn’t, Vince finally responded. “The Iron Claws are my family. The last thing I want is for anyone to get hurt.” Pound didn’t look convinced. “Would it make you feel better if I said I’d be on my best behavior, Scout’s honor?” He held up two fingers playfully and got Pound to smile.
“Actually, yes, it does. Thanks.” Pound patted him on the back, and they stepped out into the bright sunlight. Vince pulled on his jacket, grabbed his backpack, and reached for his sunglasses, squinting. But he halted at the sound of screeching tires and looked up to see dust flying behind a set of tires on a beat-up Chevy sedan.
“What the hell is that?” Pound muttered, shading his eyes with his hand and staring at the car as it jerked to a stop.
Vince shrugged. He couldn’t see through the cloud surrounding the car and waited as it began to settle. But as the driver’s door flew open and he saw a pair of long, shapely legs, he knew exactly who had just burst into his compound to rain on his parade.
As if she hadn’t already done enough.
Ariana stormed straight at him and didn’t stop until she was inches from his face. “I’ve got some things to clear up with you.”
“This should be fun,” Pound muttered, but he backed away with his hands up in a universal sign of surrender at the searing look she gave him. “She’s all yours, cowboy.”
Great. The one time he wanted his brothers to stand beside him, they left him to his own devices, and he didn’t know if that was good enough to survive.