CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
Later that evening, when the Devil Spikes had been ushered into a garage where they could sleep while being watched over by the Tribesmen, Bishop and Coyote sat alone in the conference room. Bishop held the document he stole from Stella in his hands. His eyes went over every line, while replaying the Spikes' proposal in his head.
“So, you think the Spikes are reliable?” grunted Coyote from where he sat to Bishop's right.
Bishop's gaze darted to his vice president and away from the words of a freshly stung prostitute. His mind swirled with thoughts and consideration. Too much new information had been pumped into it over the last hour.
“If what they say is true,” Bishop muttered, his eyebrows furrowing, “I don't see why not.”
Coyote's brows furrowed in frustration. He wasn't convinced, and he wasn't afraid to voice it. “Why would the White Knights join up with the Demons though?”
“We put one of their men behind bars.” Bishop frowned, recalling Stan. He vaguely wondered where the man was now. A paranoid part of him almost expected the disgusting piece-of-shit to rear his ugly head.
“An affiliate,” corrected Coyote.
Bishop waved away the correction with an irritated palm. “Point is, there's motive.”
Coyote wasn't letting go of the topic. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the wooden table. His pointer finger tapped against the tabletop, as if his point were solidified in the wood grain. “Yeah, and there's motive for the Spikes to lie to us.”
“Everyone and their grandma knows the FBI is in town,” snorted Bishop, rolling his eyes. “Why risk getting caught with possession of crank?”
“You mean everyone knows you're banging the agent.”
“Coyote.”
“Just saying. If the White Knights got involved, then the Demons and Spikes know about your relations with Agent Holmes.”
Bishop fell silent. That speculation had been lingering at the edges of his thoughts, afraid to be noticed. Just imagining Stella getting involved in the tangled mess of club politics made his stomach lurch. He couldn't do anything about it though. She had already shoved her nose in pretty deep.
“The Spikes are putting themselves in a vulnerable position.” Bishop's denial rallied against Coyote's sense. It wasn't even implausible denial. “If they get caught red-handed with blow, they're gonna get possession. Bare minimum. The blowback could be traced back to the Demons and the cartel.”
Coyote shrugged, shaking his head slightly as he heaved a sigh. Bishop groaned, rubbing his throbbing temple. Sometimes, Bishop felt the tangled web of motorcycle clubs could use a good trimming. It didn't help that the Seven Tribesmen had lost a long-time partnership and investment. There was also a second issue with the Spikes: they offered their turf and their patch in exchange for protection from the Demons. Bishop's jaw clenched and unclenched. Acreage was a big deal. It was even a bigger deal for a club to relinquish their identity and become a charter.
A set of knuckles rapped across the conference room door. Bishop's eyes swung to the clock. Nine o'clock. He resisted the urge to groan again. The rest of the Seven Tribesmen were ready for the meeting and vote. That meant the three newbies—who had been given a kind of internship with the 7T—would be watching over the Spikes. That meant they needed to be short and sweet with business.
“Get in here!” Bishop barked through the door. The rest of the members—sans Newb—filed into the room. Each expression held the strained, pinched look of a club ready to topple. Bishop swallowed, mentally preparing for the long discussion ahead. As he shifted in his seat, the dull throb of his muscles reminded him of the pleasant afternoon with Stella. A dull ache singed at the corners of his heart, but he tried to push the feelings aside as he delved into the meeting.