Bikers never came in packs back to our headquarters, and when they did, we knew they were coming, like when they finished a run. It was also far too early for the Fallen Saints to be awake—ten in the morning, to be exact—so this led me to believe that the police or a SWAT force of some kind were coming. But for what?
I rushed to the front of the building, my gun on my hip, ready to hide it the second I heard a blue siren or saw a navy blue uniform. But when the motorcycles came into view, they were not law enforcement.
But they weren’t the Fallen Saints, either.
It took me a few moments for them to draw closer before I realized that this wasn’t some new club trying to establish itself. It wasn’t the Gray Reapers and Cole, a group I hoped we could merge with but one which I didn’t have a lot of faith would be joining us. It was, however, someone we knew well.
It was the Hovas, the group that had supplied us guns a month or so ago in exchange for a few thousand dollars cash.
But their unannounced presence raised several questions that superceded any goodwill.
What the fuck were they doing, driving all the way from Compton all the way up here on an early morning? And for that matter, why were there about a dozen of them? What point were they trying to make?
I folded my arms, stepped forward, and let Jerome, their leader, come to me. He tried to intimidate me by maintaining his speed all the way up to the point of nearly hitting me, but he slammed on his brakes at the last second. I knew him better than anyone else in the Black Reapers. I knew damn well that man liked to do things for appearances, but that was a far, far cry from doing something that could get him in trouble.
And nothing would lead to a very early shootout faster than for a trespasser to run over a Black Reaper.
“Axle, Axle, Axle,” he said after he and the rest of the Hovas had killed their engines. “Little Lane couldn’t be here today, huh? He put the black man in charge to meet the black club?”
“I’m the VP of this club, Jerome, and don’t you forget it.”
“Oh, yeah?” Jerome said with a snicker. “Shit, just couldn’t cut it with us, huh? Had to go join the pussy boys up north?”
I ignored that comment.
“Still prefer to be silent, huh?” he said with a chuckle. “Would you like to take a guess for why we’re here?”
I didn’t say a word. I would not bow to pressure, even if it came from one of my former friends.
“For real,” Jerome said, snickering. “You ain’t never learn to talk, huh, Axle?”
“That’s because he knows I would come.”
I tried not to show the crestfallen feeling I had when Lane showed up. It wasn’t that Lane couldn’t succeed here—he had the last time we’d met up with the Hovas—but it was a very delicate dance that he had to play to make sure we didn’t get run over, metaphorically or literally. I could play it. His father could play it.
I didn’t know if he could play it consistently.
“Ah, Little Lane—”
“Lane, Jerome, Lane,” he said firmly.
Jerome stared at him as if he’d been gravely insulted. But to Lane’s credit, he did not flinch under the pressure. Instead, like me, he stood arms crossed. If I had been thinking more lightheartedly, I would have thought it looked like a movie showdown.
“Gotta admit, didn’t think your sorry ass would be up this early,” Jerome said. “I guess what they’re saying is true. Lane Carter actually gives a shit now!”
He laughed, joined seconds later by the other Hovas.Theatrics, theatrics, theatrics.
“We don’t know why you’re here,” Lane said. “And for the sake of our business, I suggest you start telling me why now.”
“For the sake of your business,” Jerome repeated, sounding incredulous. “You hear that, y’all? For the sake of your business. Man, why the fuck else do you think we’d be here if it wasn’t for our business?”
Lane betrayed nothing, but I was sure he had the same thoughts I was having—that neither of us had any idea what the hell Jerome was talking about.
“Oh, don’t be acting all stupid here,” Jerome said. “You know why we’re here with the sun in our eyes, right? Cuz we come down here at night, take your bullets—”
“The fuck you talking about?” Lane said, finally betraying some hint of confusion.
“The fuck you talking about?” Jerome snapped right back, mockingly imitating Lane’s voice. “Shit, did that attack at our little transaction erase your memory? Well, in case it did, ya dummy, let me remind you what happened. We traded guns for cash. All good. We were happy with that deal. And then bullets came reigning the fuck down on us. You think we’re supposed to trust you then?”
