“Volkovs are in the air and on their way. How’s this get wrapped up, Gun?” Delaney leaned back in his desk chair. Simon and Gun sat with him, crowded into his small, cluttered office.
True to his word, Delaney had given Gunner a day. The club, and its family and loved ones who were near enough to be at risk, had spent yet another crowded night crammed into the clubhouse. This morning, the old ladies who had jobs were at them, under guard. Signet Models was back up and running, but limited to in-house work, with a keycard lock on the exterior doors and two armed men standing sentry at each entrance. Maddie and her girls had taken a big financial hit in the interest of their physical safety. Since the Bulls had caused their trouble, the club was supplementing her ledger as much as they could.
This war was getting fucking expensive.
As soon as Delaney had come into the party room, while Simon had been navigating his coffee around his broken nose and his lack of depth perception, he’d called him and Gunner to his office.
Now Gunner turned his head, slowly, and narrowed his eyes at Simon. “My sister, you fucking bastard.”
Simon said nothing. He’d said it all already, and there wasn’t anything Gunner would hear. Deb thought maybe she’d calmed him down; sitting here burning under his acid stare, Simon doubted it.
“She says she loves you.”
To that, he could offer a response. “And I love her. I do, Gun. I wouldn’t fuck around with your sister’s feelings.”
“Fucking shitbag. Motherfucker.”
“Gun,” Delaney sighed. “Call him all the names you want, but do it on your time. I got you back here because I want to know what you need to put this on the shelf. We got Russians here in a few hours, and that’s gonna heat up our beef with the Hounds in some way, we all know it. We can’t afford this shit. So what d’you need?”
Gunner swiveled his glare back to the president. “I told you what I need. His patch. I want a patch vote.”
Delaney grunted in frustration. “And I already said you can’t fucking have his patch. Fine. Now I’m gonna tell you how this gets finished.” He turned to Simon. “It was way out of bounds for you to hide that you got with his sister even once. Keepin’ that behind his back for more’n a year? You had to know it would blow up right in the middle of our fucking clubhouse. That’s stupid, and it’s disloyal, and if we weren’t in the middle of a goddamn war, I’d have half a mind to give him a chance at your goddamn patch.”
The president was right. Simon hung his head. “I’m sorry, D.” He brought his gaze back up and met Gunner’s scowl. “I’m really sorry. It was so fucking stupid.”
“It’s fucking stupid to bring her close right now, motherfucker.”
“I know. I know.”
“Ten thousand dollar fine,” Delaney interjected. “And this is done.”
Holy Christ. Ten thousand dollars? Not counting Gunner’s massive restitution bill for tearing Terry’s Billiards apart, that was ten times bigger than the biggest club fine Simon had ever heard of. Ten thousand dollars? For getting with Deb?
No. Not for getting with Deb. For what was happening with Gunner right now. For lighting a fuse in the middle of the clubhouse.
While Simon staggered under the weight of Delaney’s pronouncement, Gunner’s head whipped back to the president. “A fine? You want him to pay money? Did you just fucking sell my sister?”
Delaney vaulted from his seat and loomed over Gunner. “Enough! Gunner, I am telling you to put that tongue back in your fucking mouth and find some goddamn sense! How old is Deb? Thirty-four? She is an adult who can get with whoever she pleases! What Simon did wrong is not fuck your sister! What he did wrong is lie about it!”
Gunner sat back, crossing his arms over his chest, glowering at Simon. He looked like an overgrown kid put on timeout. “At least let me in the ring with him.”
With a loudly rhetorical exhale, Delaney sat back in his chair. He studied Simon.
Actually, the ring was a best-case scenario here. Simon could protect himself, and he knew Gunner would find his level in a fight.
Simon was about to open his mouth and agree to the ring when Delaney said, “When the Russians are gone and shit calms back down to normal chaos. When he’s healed from the beatdown you already put on him, then yeah. Okay. But when it’s done, you will fucking hug it out and be friends again. And in the meantime, you will remember that you are brothers. Am I understood?”
“Yeah, Prez,” Simon answered.
Gunner did some more glowering before he nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”
Delaney stood up again. “Up.” Simon and Gunner stood. “Shake.”
Simon held out his hand. Gunner glared at it, his arms crossed again.
“Gunner, goddammit.”
At Delaney’s snarl, Gunner offered his hand. When they shook, he clamped down hard, grinding Simon’s knuckles.
~oOo~
By noon, both the Night Horde and the Great Plains Riders had arrived, and the Bulls’ clubhouse felt packed beyond capacity. When they partied with the neighborhood, they entertained more people than this, but that was people moving around, milling about, coming and going. This was nearly the full memberships of three MCs, plus most of the Bulls’ old ladies and children, and the sweetbutts and hangarounds, all taking up the same space and staying put, like trouble had turned the clubhouse floor to glue. Or quicksand.
And the Volkovs were on their way. If the Hounds got it in their collective head to attack the clubhouse today, they could vaporize an entire weapons pipeline and tilt the underworld on its side.
Which was why every adult in the room was armed, and the Bulls were running armed patrols around the property boundary. They’d closed the service station, too, and patrolled around that as well. It looked like Beirut or some shit out there.
In the midst of all that protection, people inside tried to be normal. The women kept a steady supply of eats and drinks on offer, Mo had produced a couple of big boxes of toys for the kids, they had the PlayStation going on the television, and the juke played steadily, too. Patches from three friendly MCs caught up with each other and made what lighthearted talk they could.
But everybody knew why it looked like Beirut or some shit out there. Or knew enough, at any rate, and it weighed the place down.
Simon noticed Griffin standing alone, leaning against the wall near the staircase. It took work to be alone in this crowd. He grabbed a couple of hot dogs in buns from the big foil tray of them and pulled a couple of beers out of the ice chest on the bar, and he headed toward his lonely brother.
“Hey, man. Here.”
Griffin took a dog and a bottle without thanks or even paying much notice. His eyes still staring emptily before him, he took a swig of beer.
“You gotta snap to, bro.”
That got his eyes to focus. “Fuck off, Si.”
“Griffin. People are gonna start looking twice at you, if you don’t pull yourself back up.”
Since the night the Bulls—Simon—had burned the school, Griffin had been quietly spinning in his own storm.
Simon spent a lot of time trying very hard not to think too much about Patrice’s uncle. The innocent bystander he’d killed. If he let that thought loose, it would eat him alive.
But the guy was dead, and everybody who knew anything knew that the Bulls had burned that school and killed him. Couldn’t prove it, but knew it plain. Patrice knew it better than most. She’d ended things with Griffin because of it.
Besides Griffin’s personal loss, it made her a liability—a girl with Northside ties, who’d been with a Bull for years, and deep in the clubhouse. Now she was split from Griffin and the club, and she was angry. Grieving. Maybe vindictive. That could be very bad news, if the Hounds got hold of her and asked her what she knew.
Griffin had never marked her. That had often been a point of gossip in the clubhouse, but now it had taken on a different kind of notice. What had been a curiosity—a long-term relationship that had never been put down in ink of any kind—was now a problem. What did Patrice know? How much? Did she want payback for her uncle? How much could she hurt them?
Could she hurt them enough that they had to deal with her? A woman? One who’d been a good friend to the old ladies and most of the patches? One whom Griffin loved? They’d already voted once and barely decided to leave her be. Another vote could easily go the other way.
Now, Griffin scowled and ripped off a bite of hot dog. He chewed slowly, thoughtfully, and then turned his scowl on Simon. “I’m not taking talk from you. Patrice and me, we were straight up, all the time. I never kept anything from the club. You and Deb? That’s fucked up. So get outta my grill.”
Simon stared for a moment, tempted to defend himself, wondering if he should push harder. But there was no point. The stress of this beef with the Street Hounds had caused a few cracks to form in the bond that held the Brazen Bulls together. He stood on one of those cracks himself. So Griffin was right; he’d have to tend to his own trouble.
~oOo~
Irina Volkov was five-foot-nothing, a little on the plump side, and in her sixties. Her hair was short and white, and her skin had the velvety texture of advancing age. Put her in a pair of stretch pants and a sweatshirt with a cat on it, and she’d look like any grandma wandering through Wal-Mart, pushing a cart full of hard candies and bulk toilet paper.
But she wore a sedate black pantsuit, and she walked into the Brazen Bulls clubhouse flanked by four Russian men in similar suits. Three of those men were broad and burly, obviously security. The fourth was slim and tall. Alexei Sokolov: Irina’s closest advisor.
Surrounded by men who each had at least a foot on her, she dwarfed them all. She walked into a room and immediately drew attention and power to her. One look at her sharp, ice-blue eyes, and there was no doubt who was the most dangerous person in the place. The short, chubby grandma.
“Irina.” Delaney met her near the door, and they shook hands. Delaney had embraced Big Ike and Isaac, of the Horde, and Cooper and Riggs, from the Riders. It was their custom to greet friends with a hug. But Simon didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone hug the Russians. Maybe it was a cultural thing. Or maybe it was just the optics—maybe Irina didn’t want to get swallowed up in a hug from a man she considered her subordinate, and thus none of the other Russians greeted the Bulls that way, either.
“Brian. Is good to see you.” She had a strong accent, and her syntax was decidedly Russian, but her English was fluent and clear.
“And you. Sorry the circumstances aren’t better.” He nodded at her companion and held out his hand. “Alexei.”
Alexei shook, and added a second hand. “Delaney.” Since Irina’s son had been killed on Bulls’ turf, Alexei had stepped in as her agent. Kirill had been her second in command, groomed to lead the bratva when Irina was ready to step down—and she’d been close to ready. Since she’d lost him, she’d named no second. Word was, she meant to lead until her grandson, Nikolai, was old enough to take the helm. But Alexei had stepped up to her side, and he’d done most of the traveling for their business. It had been him the Bulls had worked most closely with since 1995.
Balding, bespectacled, and thin to the point of frailness, he had the look of a librarian. But Simon had heard stories about his talent for inventive violence. He was no librarian.
“Would you like to relax, have something to eat, before we sit?” Dane asked. “Our women have been keeping a nice spread going today.”
Irina offered a tight smile. “Later. All are here?”
Delaney nodded and waved toward the room. The presidents and VPs of the smaller clubs stood not far off. “Horde and Riders accounted for. You know Big Ike Lunden, of the Night Horde.”
Big Ike stepped forward and offered his hand. “Irina.”
She shook, but she didn’t speak. Except with her eyes. She didn’t like Big Ike. And he didn’t like her. In fact, she’d demanded that he sit out the Horde’s work on the Volkov guns and let his son, Isaac, take over. Apparently, though, she’d specifically called for the club officers to be present for this meet. All of them.
Delaney brought Cooper forward. “And Cooper Treadway, of the Great Plains Riders.”
Cooper took his turn and offered his hand. He also gave her a courtly nod and a smile. “Ma’am. Good to meet ya.”
She nodded back and shook his hand. “Yes. Cooper. Your club, your work is good.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Dropping his hand, she turned to Delaney. “We meet now, yes?”
“Of course.” To Rad, he said, “Put the prospects on guard. Call the members in.”
Rad nodded and obeyed the order. Delaney led Irina toward the chapel. Alexei followed her, and everyone else fell in line behind.
~oOo~
Irina, Alexei, Big Ike, and Cooper took Apollo, Griffin, Slick, and Wally’s seats at the table. The displaced Bulls, and the rest of the Horde and Riders officers, stood, lined up loosely against the wall, behind the chairs at the far side of the table.
Delaney set his gavel aside; this wasn’t a club meeting. “Irina, you called this meeting, so I’m gonna give you the table today.”
“Thank you, Brian. I come, and wish you all here, for information we have. It gives, how you say, context, to this battle you fight here in Tulsa.” She lased Delaney with those eyes. “We think you fight front in our war.”
The room filled with the rumble and ruffle of men confronting that surprising declaration. Delaney leaned in, crossing his arms on the table. “How so?”
Irina nodded at Alexei, who sat at her side, wiping his wire-frame glasses with a neat white handkerchief.
“Apollo,” he said and put his glasses on his face, tucking the handkerchief into his breast pocket.
Apollo took a step forward. “Yeah.”
“You’ve traced the finances of Street Hounds, yes?” His accent was much subtler than his boss’s.
“Yeah. I hit a wall in Chicago. Far’s I can tell, money starts at the gang headquarters.”
“This answer, it satisfies you?”
Apollo cast an inquiring look at Delaney. When the president nodded, Apollo returned his attention to the Russian. “No. The numbers don’t add up. But I can’t get past Chicago. I can’t find a trail to follow past that point.”
“No, you can’t. You’re meant not to.”
“But you know what goes beyond,” Delaney said.
Alexei shifted his attention to their president. “Yes. We connected our dots from New York. They meet your dots in Chicago. Your dots and our dots, they make a line together.”
“Can we drop the dots thing?” Maverick asked and looked at Irina. “I got a pregnant woman and a little girl out there. If you’re saying that our trouble here in Tulsa is wound up with you somehow, just be straight about it.”
“Mav,” Dane warned. “Sit back.”
Irina locked eyes with Maverick. “You are Maverick.”
“Yeah.”
She didn’t say more, just studied him for a few seconds, and then nodded. Maverick opened his mouth, but Gunner slapped his hand on his shoulder and held him back. That was good. Maverick had killed for Irina while he was inside, and he’d paid hard for it. He was no fan of the Volkovs or the work the Bulls did for them, and he was a man who spoke his mind.
Delaney jumped in and started the conversation again. “You are saying that—the Hounds are connected to you in some way.”
“Not to us,” Alexei answered. “To competitors. The Abbatontuonos. An Italian family.”
“That’s the Italians that fucked us up a couple years ago,” the Horde VP, Isaac, said, standing behind his father. “They beefed with you back then. You said you had ‘em handled.”
“Back east there are many…organizations. Our relations with them, they…shift.” Alexei wiggled his hand back and forth. He turned from Isaac and addressed Delaney. “I think it’s not so different here. Sometimes we have friends, sometimes enemies.”
“All this—the hits we’re taking in town, the trouble on the runs, it’s not the Hounds?” Becker shook his head. “Makes no sense. It is the Hounds. I recognize the assholes with the goddamn guns in our faces.”
“Easy, Beck,” Delaney muttered. To Irina, he said, “So you’re fighting with the Abbaton—whatever—again. And they’re bankrolling the Hounds.”
Alexei picked that up. “Yes. It is the Hounds. But their fight with you is useful for our enemies in their fight with us.”
“Because they’re moving competing product, or just to fuck with you through us?”
“It is bigger than the Bulls, Brian,” Alexei answered. “This is all you need to know. Now you step back, and we handle business.”
“No.” All heads turned to Maverick, and he said it again. “No. You don’t ice us out. Whatever is going on with you back east, we’re fighting here. Tulsa is Bulls turf, not Volkov.”
“And damn well not Horde.” Big Ike faced Irina. “We want out.”
“Shut the fuck up, old man.” Isaac came forward, but Big Ike, without taking his eyes from Irina, threw out his arm to hold his son back.
“I don’t like you, lady. I don’t like your fuckin’ guns. I don’t like the way you think you own the whole damn country. You’re sellin’ fuckin’ missile launchers to wetback druglords, and you’re pullin’ fuckin’ Mafia shit down on all our heads. The Horde is out.”
Simon studied Ox, sitting quietly as usual but paying close attention. He was half Mexican, and staring now at Big Ike with obvious contempt.
“Ike can’t make that call,” Isaac protested. “Our table makes that call, and we voted the work.” He glared down at his father. “We need the work.”
“Day I go beggin’ some fuckin’ Commies for my bread is the day I put the match to Signal Bend myself.”
Holy shit. Simon sat back, feeling a need to fade into the background until he had to be ready to fight. A room full to the brim with large men and one small woman went quiet as a tomb. Even Delaney was speechless. He stared at Big Ike, his old friend, like he’d never met him before.
With perfect, frigid calm, Irina lifted her eyes to Isaac. “Your father is president of your club, yes?”
“Damn right,” Big Ike said.
Isaac’s curled fists shook at his side. “Yeah. But we vote. Majority carries. The club wants this work, whatever the old man says.”
Irina nodded, then looked back at Delaney. “Horde is out.”
Now all eyes locked on Delaney, who hesitated a beat, then said, “Big Ike, Isaac, the rest of the Horde, you need to leave the chapel. You and yours are welcome to stay as our guests and grab a bite before you hit the road.” He looked up at Isaac, his neck craning so he could meet the huge man’s eyes. “You keep your temper in check while you’re in my house, son, or I will take it personally. Understand?”
Isaac gave the shortest possible nod and stormed from the room.
Big Ike pushed his seat back and stood. “I thought you had more integrity than this, D.”
“Get outta my chapel, Ike. Much more outta you and it’ll be friendship and not just business on the line.”
Big Ike strolled out. The other Horde officers followed him, none of them meeting any eyes in the room.
When they were gone, Apollo took the seat Ike had vacated. Delaney watched him sit, then turned back to Irina with a sigh. “That’s a problem.”
She shook her head. “No. Easily replaced. With better. Horde was weak link in chain. Until son overtakes father, they are nothing. But they are not only weak link. Which is Griffin?”
“No, Irina,” Delaney cut in, before Griffin declared himself. “I know where you’re goin’, and no. That’s internal, and it is not a problem for you.”
“Who knows Bulls, knows Volkov. Yes?”
Delaney shook his head. “It’s not a problem. The girl has nothing she could use to hurt us.”
“And if you are wrong?”
“Then I will handle it. However I need to.”
Griffin stirred, like he meant to speak, and Simon tried to catch his attention with his one working eye. When he did, he shook his head, as subtly as possible. Griffin’s eyes flared, but he settled.
Delaney and Irina stared at each other. Time stilled. The air went silent. Not even the sound of breathing. Then, at last, when Simon thought the room would blow simply from the pressure, Irina nodded.
“My trust is in you, Brian.”
“It’s well placed, Irina.” He leaned in. “You’re telling us that the trouble we’ve got here in Tulsa is as hot as it is because of your beef with the Italians?”
She cocked her head; the gesture acknowledged the truth without confirming it.
Delaney went on. “I expect you’ll tell us what that means, but I will tell you how it works. Here in Tulsa, we are fighting for our lives in whispers. Innocents have been hit. We got families torn apart. Our wallets are being pummeled. We can’t get the upper hand because we can’t fight in the daylight. We’re trying not to bring the whole city down around us, we’re trying to protect your interests, and now you tell us that we’ve been fighting the goddamn Mafia all this time. So your trust in me and mine is well placed. I would like to see some sign that mine in you is just as right.”
“This is why you haven’t offered more help. You only protected your product,” Dane said. Irina had added Volkov men as security on the gun runs, but no other help. “You were letting this play out so you could get a feel for your own fight.”
Irina spared Dane a glance. Before she could answer, if she even meant to, Maverick spoke again.
“You owe us.”
She turned to Maverick, obviously interested. “You think this why?”
“I killed for you inside. All I got for that was grief.”
“That was end of old business. Bulls business. My son died in this business. What you did, that was owed.”
Maverick jerked his head around to Delaney. Shock had slackened his face completely. “D?”
“We’ll talk later, Mav. Right now, we need to understand what all this Italian shit means for the business we’re in now.”
Simon thought that Maverick meant to get up, which would start a whole new round of trouble in this meeting, but Gunner slammed his hand on his friend’s shoulder again and held him in place. Interesting that Gunner, who was barely under control himself, had Maverick in hand. Those two had an interesting dynamic. Something like symbiotic.
But all around the table, there were cracks. Gunner and Simon. Maverick and Delaney. Griffin and the whole club. Whatever the hell had just happened with the Horde. Cooper, of the Riders, a tiny club who’d gone outlaw specifically for the Russian work, didn’t look too thrilled about his place at this shaky table. He kept glancing back at his officers like he couldn’t believe what he was witnessing and didn’t know what to do.
Simon rubbed his forehead. His head hurt. His face ached. His eye itched. What he really wanted was to go to bed and put his head on Deb’s lap.
That was what he’d missed all these years more than anything else—someone to go home to after a hard day. Someone to confide in when he hurt. He’d killed a fucking assistant principal, and he’d had to just shove all his feelings about that deep into his chest because he had no one to open his heart to.
Now he did, and it didn’t matter. He couldn’t even bring her close, much less open up. He wanted this bullshit finished. Even if it meant blowing a crater in the Greenwood District.
If the Volkovs were getting involved now, he didn’t fucking care why they’d waited. He knew damn well Irina would decimate her enemies. He’d seen her do it before.
Irina gestured at Alexei. “Alexei now will explain situation of us all.”
~oOo~
He wanted to see Deb. That was the only thought he allowed any sway when he walked up to Gunner after they’d finally ended that epic slog of a meeting. The Horde were gone. The Riders, the Volkovs, and the Bulls had set aside the tension of their business and were filling plates with food.
He wanted to see Deb, he wanted to lay his head in her lap and take a breath, and he couldn’t do it until her brother stood down.
Gunner sat alone in the corner of the room, watching the activity. He had neither food nor drink. Simon veered off from the food line and went to him.
“Get the fuck away from me, asshole.”
“Just got one thing to say, and then I’ll keep my distance.”
Gunner looked up, eyes narrowed, that canyon of a crease splitting his forehead.
He seemed to be waiting, so Simon jumped in. “You know what it means, that the Italians are pulling the Hounds’ strings?”
The narrow, creased stare continued unchanged.
“It means none of it’s on you. This has nothing to do with what happened at Terry’s. This is a turf war between the Russians and the Italians. This is the Abbatontuonos”—he had no idea why Delaney had so much trouble with that name—“trying to take over the Volkovs’ guns, and their drugs, too. They hit here because we’re the hub. That’s it. The Italians used the Hounds because Dyson was weak, and they saw a way to put their guys in town. Booker Howard is a nobody. He’s nothing but a fucking real estate agent, trying to bag a land grab for his clients. He did not start this war because you hustled him at pool and got caught up in a brawl. That was petty turf bullshit. He didn’t start a war at all. He was just the match, bro. This is not on you.”
It was hardly the first time that someone had reassured Gunner that this trouble wasn’t his fault. But all the reassurances in the world hadn’t eased his mind, and Simon suspected that no small part of his return to crazytown had been fueled by his guilt that something he’d done had made the world more dangerous for Leah and the other innocents attached to the Bulls.
What was worse, Simon suspected: on the basis of their old information, there had been a kernel of truth in his fear. But now, the field had changed. Now it wasn’t just a guy with a vendetta starting shit. Now it was much bigger than the Bulls or Booker Howard or Tulsa.
And now, they had the full power of the Volkovs on their side. They’d been fighting with one hand tied behind their backs and hadn’t known it. Now their strength would match their foe’s.
While Simon had spoken, Gunner’s eyes had widened, and his face had relaxed. When he finished, Gunner’s mouth was open. He looked away, staring blankly before him.
“Fuck.”
“Yeah. Just thought I’d point that out, if you hadn’t seen it yet. This is not on you.”
He turned and left Gunner alone, as promised.
~oOo~
“Only way things ever end with her is if she wants it. You break it off with her, and I will kill you.”
Simon swallowed his mouthful of pasta salad and turned around. “Hey, Gun.”
Gunner pushed Caleb off the barstool at Simon’s side and sat down. “I am not fucking around. You make her shed one tear, and I will kill you. You look twice at a piece of ass around here, and I will kill you.”
“I see the picture. My life is in your hands.”
“Exactly.”
“But you’re good with me and her?”
“Fuck no. I fucking hate it, and we are not okay. But she fucking swears she loves your ugly ass.”
“You talked to her again.”
He nodded, grimacing as if the gesture pained him. “I mean it, Si. You cause her pain, and I will bring it back on you a hundred times. And I’m still gonna kick your ass in the ring when your face heals.”
“Can’t wait.”
“She wants us both out to the farm on Saturday. Guess we’ll be alive, since Mother Russia wants to wait to make her move.” He turned and walked away.
“Gun,” he called after him. “Thank you, brother.”
“Fuck you.” He didn’t bother to turn around.
When Simon returned to his dinner, he was smiling.
One crack repaired.