When I dropped Einstein off at the Seven Veils, the goddamn pussy was shaking like a leaf. I locked him in my office with a bottle of scotch, told him to drink until he felt better, then left to go meet up with Peters.

As I drove back, I could see the smoke from the barn from two miles away. It made me fucking sick. And enraged.

God DAMN Jack Pollari. A year of preparation, close to a hundred grand, and all my fuckin’ plans down the drain.

I was going to kill that motherfucker. Slowly, and very fuckin’ painfully.

First thing I saw was about ten police cruisers and the shot-up pickup out front on the road. Guess Jack’d driven it down so they didn’t have to walk it on foot – especially since I think Wild Bill clipped Kade.

Good. I hoped that asshole was dead.

I passed on by and pulled up to the main house where Peters was waiting for me.

Behind him, a fire engine was spraying down what remained of the barn. They’d already put out the blown-up Harleys, and the firemen were inspecting the wreckage.

I was pissed about that, too – Jack blowing up some of my best men. Although they were a helluva a lot more replaceable than my fuckin’ meth lab.

What really stuck in my craw was how they’d one-upped me, taking out Chuck like that over at the corner of the house. I’d thought for sure I had them with that one. We’d let Chuck off at the road and he hoofed it to the house while we rode up and then stalled. Chuck was the best shot in the club. He was supposed to take them out before they knew what was going on.

Jack must have had somebody up in the hills, though, with eyes on the scene.

Motherfucker.

And where the fuck did he get a fuckin’ rocket launcher? They weren’t exactly expensive, but they weren’t somethin’ you picked up at Walmart, neither.

I swore I was going to get some answers before I tortured the prick to death.

Unfortunately, I had other problems at the moment. For one, Peters had a stick jammed about two feet up his tightly puckered asshole.

“Lou,” he said as I got off my bike, “this is a problem.”

“Goddamn right it’s a problem. Jack Pollari blew up my fuckin’ property with a goddamn rocket launcher.”

“That’s the least of your worries. There’s body parts all over the place from the explosion, for God’s sake. And that kid who got shot in your club last month is dead.”

“I know,” I said with a fake head-shake of regret. “Jack shot him in the back.”

“Did he,” Dan said sarcastically.

I didn’t like this little dipshit’s tone of voice. “Yeah. He did.”

Of course we both knew that Jack Pollari would never shoot a man in the back – but the asswipe wasn’t supposed to call me on that.

Dan leaned in and whispered angrily, “And why didn’t you tell me you had a meth lab going?”

“A meth lab?” I asked, barely bothering to act shocked. “What?”

“Knock off the bullshit. Why didn’t you tell me?”

He was starting to piss me off. “You’ll get your cut when the time’s right.”

Dan looked around like the boogeyman was at his elbow. “Are you crazy?” he hissed as he eyed his patrolmen and detectives, trying to make sure nobody had overheard.

“Oh, Jesus Christ, Dan – every whore and pot dealer in Richards knows the cops are on the take. Hell, if anybody here on my property right now isn’t on the take, I gotta question your fuckin’ judgment.”

“I have to keep up appearances,” he snarled.

“I don’t give a fuck about appearances. What I do give a fuck about is results. Now why don’t you go do your job and track down Jack, his bitch, and that cocksucker Kade?”

“The fire department knows it was a meth lab, Lou. I’m supposed to report this to the EPA, Sacramento, the DEA – ”

The mention of the DEA sent a cold shiver down my spine. “You ain’t reportin’ shit.”

“This property is contaminated now, Lou! It’s considered a toxic waste site, and it’s supposed to be condemned!”

“I don’t think the owner’s gonna make too much of a ruckus,” I said sarcastically.

“You don’t understand – the normal stuff I do as part of our agreement is one thing. This is entirely different.”

“Like I said – you’ll get your cut when it’s time.”

“And when were you going to let me know?” Dan asked angrily.

With Dan, that’s always what it came down to. Money.

“When you did the regular job I pay you for, you stupid fuck. If you’d done what I said and actually caught them, none of this – ”

I pointed at the barn.

“ – would have happened. I should make you work off every single dollar you cost me, you incompetent dumbass.”

He turned red as a beet. “You better watch yourself, Lou.”

“Or what?” I sneered.

“You think just because of our prior business relationship that I – ”

I stepped up right in his face. “This is a hell of a time for you to be growing a pair, Dan.”

He immediately backed away. He was afraid of me, yeah, but he was still plenty pissed.

“Look,” I said, trying to bring it down a notch. “Tensions are high. Some bad shit went down. Let’s keep this professional, okay?”

“This is going to cost you, Lou,” Peters said. He wasn’t man enough to be outwardly aggressive, so instead he was sniveling like a resentful little bitch.

“Yeah – it always does. Now, how soon can you get finished here and get everybody the fuck off my property?”

He apparently forgot his anger and stared at me in wide-eyed bewilderment. “What are you talking about? This is an active crime scene! A multiple murder scene, with a meth lab that needs to be cleaned up!”

I leaned in close. “You wanna get paid? Then get the fuck off my property.”

“How the hell is getting off your property going to – ”

“Because there’s a couple hundred pounds of meth buried out there in 55-gallon drums. I need my boys to come in and dig it out so I can sell it, make enough money to restart the business, and pay important business partners like you,” I said contemptuously.

I saw a light go on in Dan’s eyes. He was considering fucking me over, digging up the stash, and selling it off so he could keep all the money for himself.

I cut him off at the pass. “Before you go plotting out your retirement in the Caribbean, I think you should know the Santa Muertes are gonna be pretty fuckin’ pissed when they don’t get their shipment on time. Or from their expected connection.”

The light in his eyes flickered out.

“…the Santa Muertes?” he asked hoarsely.

“Yup.”

“What the hell are you dealing with them for? Aren’t they supplied through the cartels?”

“I made them a better offer. Now… how soon are you gonna get off my fuckin’ property so I can get to work? Or do you want your boys digging it up for me, seeing as how they practically work for me anyway?”

Peters kept them onsite for another eight hours, then roped the whole place off in yellow tape and called it a day.

That’s when my crew came in.