Vince sat on his new ride in a remote dirt canyon off I5, just south of the Washington border, smoking a cigarette and scowling at the dust and dirt already marring his baby. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered.
Pound chuckled. “She really is a sexy ride, man. Sorry this had to be her first time out.”
Vince shrugged. “I took her for a short spin earlier. I just wish I had a name for her before we both get buried.”
“Rosa. The most beautiful woman I ever met was named Rosa. She had a talented pair of lips, giant melons, and a waist the size of my wrist. I could wrap one of my hands all the way around that waist, but I couldn’t hold her tits with both.” Pound shook his head, his eyes misty with distant memory.
Amused, Vince asked, “So you think I should name my bike Rosa?”
“Of course! That bike deserves the name of the most beautiful woman in the world.” Pound was dead serious, and Vince searched his brain, trying to remember Rosa. He couldn’t remember either of them ever being interested in a woman without telling the other. But he didn’t remember anyone named Rosa.
It didn’t matter. “I can’t,” Vince said. “My grandmother’s name was Rosa. I can’t name my ride after a woman who took thirty minutes to shuffle across the living room. It would be an insult.” He patted the bike’s side lovingly. “I was thinking Michelle. It’s nice and feminine but strong, too.”
“I guess Michelle works.” Pound’s disgruntled reply made Vince laugh out loud, though the humor was short-lived. He could hear the rumble of bikes in the distance, and he wondered if it would be his last laugh. He reached back to touch the gun at his back, and then down to his boot, where he’d hidden a Bowie knife. It was all the security he had, and he considered texting Ariana. But that was desperate, and he was out of time anyway—the group of Pale Demons had already come around the bend and pulled into the canyon.
Vince swung off the bike, lining up with the others, shoulders squared. They could start out with all the civility in the world, but something was going to break down, and Vince was ready. He tossed the butt of his cigarette into the dirt and watched the cloud of dust fall back to the earth as the group of men came to a stop in front of them.
Gordo was the first to dismount, followed by Cortez. The two men looked so much alike it was frightening, but Gordo’s face was round with fat, his stomach bulging over his belt, whereas Cortez gave the impression of having just stepped out of the gym. Gordo moved slowly to stand just feet in front of Cyril, and their eyes locked, each wearing a confident smile.
“Hola, gringo. What have you for me?” Gordo grunted.
Vince watched the line of Mexicans, but he cast a quick glance at Cyril, catching the scowl on his face as he spoke. “I got shit. You called this meeting. What do you have for me?”
“You offer us ten percent,” Cortez said, his eyes locking on Vince’s. Vince gave a short nod. “My brother feels this is insulting. But we are not greedy, ese. We don’t ask much, you know. Only what the job is worth.”
“I told you we weren’t going to negotiate,” Cyril argued.
Vince cleared his throat. “What is it you want, Cortez? What do you think the job is worth?” If he left this up to Cyril, none of them were going to make it home, except in body bags.
Gordo laughed, a deep, ugly sound. “Hey, jefe, I like your man here. He has some brains. It would be stupid not to listen and make me blow them out.”
Cyril stepped forward, his hand at his back, and Vince grabbed his arm. “We’re listening,” he said, as much for Cyril’s benefit as for the Demons.
Cortez nodded. “Fifteen percent. We want $75,000 per run, and we will be satisfied. That’s a bargain. We work with the Santos for deliveries down south, and we pay them twenty percent. Think of it as a peace offering.”
“Fuck that!” Cyril exploded, a vein in his temple throbbing visibly in the dim light of sunset. “It’s ten percent or nothing, asshole!”
“Shut up!” Vince hollered, shoving Cyril back, the sound of guns being pulled loud behind him. He rounded and faced the line of Demons, their guns in hand. His men stood in the same position. He drew his and Cyril’s, not trusting his leader to hold his temper.
“Maybe you will reconsider your answer, jefe,” Gordo said. He raised his gun and pointed it at Cyril. “My men are fast. They will kill your men after I shoot you and before anyone can kill me for shooting you.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Vince told him. “Your request is reasonable enough to take into consideration. The problem is, we don’t have all our men here to make the decision. We gave you a chance to take our offer back to the group, Cortez. All I want is the same courtesy.”
Cortez gave a nod of acknowledgement. “Go back to your clubhouse, talk to your men, and let us know. You have 72 hours to respond. If you agree, we will meet you back here with your first shipment. If you don’t, things will not go so smoothly for you.” He made a show of putting his gun away, and the others followed suit. Vince nodded to his men to do the same, and he tucked both pistols into his pants and shot Cyril a warning look.
Vince waited for all the rival gang to mount their rides and drive out in a line. Traunch and Dustin started to climb on their bikes, but Vince waved them off, wanting the sound of those engines out of hearing range before they even considered leaving. He lit a cigarette; smoking should kill plenty of time. He stood there and tried to relax as he pulled out his phone and cursed at the call he’d missed from Ariana.
He heard Pound groan and raised his gaze. “What the hell is your problem?”
“Man, you got through this whole thing and didn’t lose your cool. Now, you’re staring at your phone looking all kinds of pathetic, and I’m guessing you want to talk to your girl.” Pound shook his head. “What is it about that woman that keeps you so interested?”
“Nothing, Pound. Let it go.” How could he tell Pound when he wasn’t sure himself? “My head’s on straight, whether you believe it or not.”
“Whatever.” He leaned in and spoke more quietly. “What the hell was that, anyway? You’re catching hell from Cyril as soon as we get home. I hope you know that.”
Vince shrugged. “I can take it. He made a bad call, and he almost got us all killed. If we go to war with these guys, we at least need some sort of advantage. Numbers, bigger weapons, cover. Out here, we’re asking to die. All I did was make a call that kept us alive for another 72 hours.” He glanced around Pound’s huge frame to see Cyril kick at the dirt while he cursed and shouted. “He’s losing it, bro. Can’t you see it?”
“He’s got a death wish or something, that’s for sure.” Pound punched his shoulder playfully. “You were there yourself not so long ago, I think. But seriously, what are we supposed to do about it? We’ve already voted, and the vote said we were going to the Kingsmen when the Demons turned down the offer. We can’t go back and vote again.”
“Yes, we can,” Vince argued. “They didn’t refuse. They negotiated. And if you’d had the balls to vote against Cyril, we wouldn’t be considering those skinheads as an alternative. So, we go back and vote on the new deal. It’s not so much different, and I think it’ll pass. Cyril’s going to freak out, but it’s what’s best for the club.”
Pound bared his teeth, and Vince didn’t wait for the impending fight. “Let’s ride!” he called and threw his cigarette aside before climbing on his bike and revving the engine. All he wanted right now was to get home, take a shower, and see if Ariana minded a midnight call. He had a feeling her arms – and legs – would be open to welcome him.