Chapter 22

Briar

“Well this place will never be featured on a ‘Visit Richmond’ advertisement,” Hornet mutters as we climb off of our bikes.

Lynch and Luis discussed our drop-off point, and the abandoned industrial site seems the perfect place. It’s a barren wasteland, forgotten by the blueblood aristocrats of Virginia. Hell, I imagine even the bums and vagrants don’t come down here. There’s a sinister cloak over the entire area as if the lost souls of murder victims are still floating around and unable to escape.

“It’s far from prying eyes.” Lynch points to the one way in and one way out design of the decrepit buildings situated in a massive rectangle of weathered concrete and broken glass. “We won’t be snuck up on.”

“Unless they got here before we did and are already training their fucking guns on us,” Ronan warns.

My eyes, already on the half-broken windows on the second and third floors, double their focus. Nothing seems amiss, other than the lurking unease and shiftiness of the air, but that doesn’t stop the thrum of caution pumping through my veins.

“Just be vigilant guys,” Lynch says. “Luis benefits from us more if we sell the drugs than if he does a one-off rip.”

I’m on pins and needles to the point my hands are shaking when the murdered-out Escalade pulls into the small opening the buildings create. It seems like the type of vehicle members of the cartel would drive, but we can’t ever be too sure.

Each of us is standing behind our bikes, even though they don’t offer much coverage if bullets start flying. We’re carrying an ungodly quantity of cash because Luis insisted on small bills as his form of payment. We had to split the money between all eight members’ saddlebags, much like we will have to do with the dope to get it where it needs to go.

The SUV rolls to a stop, too close to be anyone but the cartel, but we don’t calm even the slightest. Especially not when that big scarred faced motherfucker climbs out from the backseat. He glares at us from about twenty yards away, his face hard and menacing.

“And I thought I wore a lot of black.”

I sigh at TJ’s ability to spew bullshit even in a moment like this.

“That’s the fucker I was talking about the other day,” Ronan says on a hiss. “Gives me the chills just being this fucking close to him.”

“Chill out,” Lynch grits through his teeth.

“I kind of want to pick his brain,” TJ says.

“Sick fuck,” Chains replies, but there’s laughter in his voice.

The driver doesn’t exit the vehicle, but the front passenger side door opens, and a man I’ve never seen before steps out.

“El Presidente,” the passenger greets as he walks toward us. “I pray your ride here was safe and without adversity.”

“It was fine,” Lynch replies. None of us have taken our hands off of the butts of our weapons, but the Colombian in front of us doesn’t seem worried in the slightest.

The big guy goes to the back and lifts the hatch before angling his head around to stare in our direction.

“Your guys will need to get the merchandise out of the back. El Asesino doesn’t lift his hands for anyone but Sen͂or Jiménez,” the guy in front of us instructs.

Lynch nods, and Hornet, Ronan, and TJ make their way to the back of the vehicle.

“Is this for me?” Jiménez’s mouthpiece points to the bag at Lynch’s feet.

“It’s all there,” my president says as he slides the bag of cash toward the man with his foot. “Count it if you like.”

“We trust you,” he says as he leans down and grabs the handles. I would’ve believed him if it wasn’t for the twitch under his right eye.

Our guys make it back to our side, and without another word, the Colombians load back up into the Escalade and drive away.

“That was tense,” Ronan says with a humorless chuckle. “They’re way more intense than the Mexicans we bought off of last month.”

“Same coke,” Hornet mutters as he begins disbursing the kilos.

“All there?” Lynch asks as he takes four bundles.

“I mean, I didn’t weigh it or anything,” the road captain says.

“Smartass.” I take my packages from him and begin to load them in my saddlebags.

“What do you mean it’s the same coke?” Ronan asks as he grabs the four kilos he’s responsible for. “This is Colombian coke, not Mexican coke.”

“This guy,” Chains says hitching a thumb over his shoulder with his free hand after walking away with his packages.

“Mexicans get their coke from Colombia,” I explain. “In dealing with us, the Colombians are just cutting out the middlemen, and it’s cheaper to move dope over water than on land through Mexico.”

“We’re now the middlemen,” TJ grumbles.

“The cartel is scrambling right now. They’re doing everything to cut the Mexicans out of their business,” I continue. Ronan’s brow furrows. This motherfucker is helping run one of the biggest distribution organizations on the east coast, and he doesn’t even know a damn thing about the roots of the product? “Haven’t you ever heard of reverse criminal colonization?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “I don’t watch the news.”

“The Mexicans used to be the pack mules for Colombian coke,” Lynch continues, not agitated in the least by our little impromptu education class in the middle of an abandoned industrial park where at any moment we could be rode up on and slaughtered for the thirty-two kilos of coke we were practically forced into buying. “Now, the Mexican cartels are infiltrating South America and taking over the plantations. The Colombian Empire isn’t as stable as Jiménez wants everyone to believe.”

“Shit,” Ronan whispers. “So maybe we should’ve stuck with the Mexicans.”

“We’ll bide our time.” Lynch climbs on his bike. “See how things play out over the next couple of months.”

Months? I think to myself. He just signed a five year contract with the Colombian cartel. As I climb on my bike, I have a sinking feeling that he’s planning something, and for the first time since I joined this MC, I don’t know a damn thing going on in his head.

When everyone has their portion of the coke loaded up, we each follow Lynch’s lead and climb on our bikes.

“Stick to the speed limit,” Lynch reminds them. “Until you off-load this shipment, I expect you to drive like a bunch of blue-haired grannies. Don’t get pinched.”

The other six guys crank their bikes and drive off, leaving Lynch and me alone. I have no idea what’s going to go down, but he hasn’t bothered to crank his bike, so I don’t even lift my finger to my own ignition.

“I want to get as far as we can today.”

“Riding at night is always better,” I counter.

“I’m not sitting in some hotel room for the next ten hours until the sun goes down. You may not have anything to get back to in Sutton, but I want to get home as soon as possible.”

When did things get so volatile between us? I don’t speak for a long moment, spending the time staring at him. Something insidious climbs inside of me, forcing my hands to fist at my sides and anger to bubble to the surface.

“You seem agitated,” he taunts. “Something on your mind?”

“You’ve been distracted lately.”

“Are you saying I’m not handling the club?”

I chew on my lower lip before responding, doing my best to calm my annoyance. It only serves to irritate me more. “When you took over, you spoke about getting a larger crew. You swore the officers in the club wouldn’t have to put their necks on the line doing shit like this anymore. Yet, here we are, fixing to drive almost six hundred and fifty miles weighed down with eight kilos of fucking coke.”

“You sound like a brand-new member, not a seasoned rider. Five years ago you would’ve laughed in the face of the consequences of getting caught.”

“You’re an asshole,” I spit. Mature, right? Well, it’s the best thing I could come up with without vomiting what I really want to say. Walking away, or getting arrested and sent to prison for years after just coming to the realization that I may be able to have something real in my life, is the very last thing I want right now.

“You’ve known that for years. What else?”

“You’re not the only one—” I clench my jaw until the damn thing aches in my brain. Spewing all my shit at him right now would only end badly for me. I don’t imagine he’d think twice about leaving my body here. From the looks of things, I wouldn’t be found anytime soon. The starving neighborhood animals would pick my bones clean by the end of the week.

“I’m not the only one—what?” There’s a challenge in his voice, one he’s never directed at me before.

My nose twitches, lip almost pulling up into a snarl, but thoughts of Molly rush me. Hurting her brother would never be forgiven. Hurting the president would be a death sentence. Either way, I lose.

“Nothing,” I mutter before cranking my bike.

It seems no matter the outcome, all roads lead to my own damn death.

Isn’t life fucking grand?