“No, Boonie’s a bastard. I’m a Reaper,” Duck replied, chuckling at his own lame joke. Horse rolled his eyes as Bolt snorted.
“Enough,” Pic said. “Let’s get moving on this, okay? The girls have food going and it smells too damned good to sit in here all day. Not only that, London just messaged me. She’s on her way out with Melanie, and somethin’ tells me Painter will be real interested in seeing her again.”
“The dick goes inside the girl,” Horse said helpfully. “Not your hand. Got it?”
“Shut the fuck up,” I said, grinning. I had a whole new list of fantasies to work through now that I was out again.
“Okay, here’s the story,” Pic said. “Apparently they’d been watching Torres for a while. The Evans bitch is out to get us—always suspected the club was behind her brother disappearing—and when she learned about the investigation she was all over it. She’d been setting him and several others up for at least six months before they pulled the trigger on it.
“Torres is still on administrative leave, but they’ll be pressing charges against all of them. Apparently they had a hell of a payoff system set up. The good news for us is Torres is stupid, but we aren’t. That means there’s no trail leading to us and they got plenty to convict him without the Reapers. He knows better than to cross us, so I think we’re in the clear there.”
“Guess that’s something,” I said. Pic shrugged.
“Well, the real problem is the rest of your parole. You’re out of chances now—she’s looking for Reaper blood, and you’re vulnerable. She’s convinced the club killed her brother.”
Several of the guys exchanged glances. Technically we hadn’t killed the guy . . . just delivered him to the cartel leaders he’d screwed over, so they could kill him. That shit was on him, ultimately—not like we told him to double-cross a fucking drug cartel.
“Anything we can do about her?” I asked.
“We’re working on it,” Bolt said. “Sooner or later we’ll find a way, but until then you need to be damned careful. Got it?”
“Yeah, I got it,” I replied. “For the record, this sucks.”
“It is what it is,” Pic said. “Now on to other business. Wanted to give you an update on Gage. His situation’s good. He’s been hanging around with the Nighthawks a lot, so much that they’re already dropping hints about him prospecting. Not only that, they gave two of their prospects patches while you were locked up.”
“Not a huge surprise, I guess,” I murmured. “Still a damned shame to see a club go down like that. Think they’re gearing up for war?”
“Looks that way,” he affirmed. “Gage is doin’ great there, but they’ve been asking about you. He told ’em you got locked up again, so that’s one loose end tied off.”
“Still say we should just ride in there and take over,” Duck grunted. “They’re a support club. Time to assert some fucking authority.”
“Not until we have a handle on the situation north of the border,” Pic said. “The Nighthawk Raiders are only a symptom of the real problem. We’ll take out Marsh once we get the pipeline secured. Took us five years to build that trade up. Can’t afford to start over—too many people waiting to swoop in on our territory. We go after Marsh direct without securing the border and we might as well hand Hallies Falls over to the cartel with a fucking bow.”
Duck grunted. “You worry too much about money. This is about respect.”
Picnic sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers.
“Anyone else?”
“Sorry, Duck,” Bolt said. “But I’m with Pic on this. You’re right—it’s a matter of respect. But it’s also about business.”
“Painter, what about you?” Pic asked. That surprised me—I gave my reports and occasionally offered a comment, but meetings like this were usually about the more established guys making decisions.
“The Nighthawks are rotten,” I said slowly. “We can take them out anytime we want, easy. We do it right, we slide into the void and take over their trade, which is good for us. I agree that we have to maintain respect, but a few more weeks won’t make much of a difference. Give Gage time to work.”
“All in favor?” Pic asked. Everyone but Duck grunted an affirmative. He just growled at us, then rose from his chair to lumber off toward the bar.
“He seem grumpier than usual?” Horse asked.
“Been havin’ a rough time,” Pic said, his voice low. “Goin’ to the doctor a lot lately. Somethin’s up, but he won’t tell me what. Stupid fucking stubborn asshole. Painter, you got a minute? Want to talk to you—in the office.”
“Sure,” I said, rising to follow him out into the hall. His office was across the way, and something about getting called into it reminded me of when I’d gotten in trouble at school. There was a principal-ish feel to the place, even though the walls were papered with posters advertising headliners at The Line.
“What’s up?” I asked, settling into the chair in front of his big desk. He sat down in the chair behind it, one of those old-fashioned wooden ones with spindles on the back and rollers on the bottom.
“Just wanted to check in with you,” he said. “Now that we’ve talked things out. You doin’ okay?”
“Fine,” I said. “I mean, Mel was a little weird yesterday when she came to see me, but this has been a lot for her to take in. We’ll figure it out tonight.”