“As a result, we’re going to focus on fortifying this place as best we can. We’re going to start reinforcing the walls here and taking on training tactics to defend ourselves until we’re ready to go on the offense. With Cole’s approval, Connor, I’ve reached out to your company to do some construction for us to help with that.”
“Tits,” I said. “But you could have done that without Cole’s approval.”
Brock gave no visible reaction, but I sensed that I’d said something that, while maybe not “bad,” wasn’t the most kosher thing to say.
“He’s the one bankrolling this club, and for as long as that is the case—”
“And how long are we going to be under his authority?” Mason asked. “I’m not asking because I dislike the guy. But at some point, we need to establish a level of autonomy here.”
So we have the freedom to launch our own strikes.
“I said he’s bankrolling us, but it’s more than that,” Brock said. “We’re a chapter of the Black Reapers, not some independent entity way out in the middle of nowhere that happens to share the same name. As a result, we’ll always be linked to them and they’ll always have some say in what we do. I will push for greater self-control, but I suspect even if Cole is OK with it, the Springsville head chapter may not be.”
We need to go to the source then.
“We should just approach him directly, then,” Mason said, echoing my thoughts. “We don’t need to be sitting here trying to think of what’s best when we can just ask him ourselves. No reason to sit back.”
“I did,” Brock said, sounding a little peeved, “and he said to stand by. So that’s what we’ll do.”
The tension was understandable. We’d never seen Cole look so angry as he did when he saw the Fallen Saints graffiti, and Brock was probably channeling that.
But Mason and I were growing tired of the cautious, “intelligent” approach. We wanted to fucking kill and get some blood on our hands. This wasn’t doing it.
“So, Connor, do what you can with your company and talk to whomever you want to talk to. I already spoke to the guy who sets up deals, but if you want to sweet talk and save us even more money somehow—”
“You fucking got it.”
The rest of the church meeting went by like normal. The only real difference was that Garrett wasn’t his usual yapping self, but that had been a change that had developed over the months even before Hannah gave birth. The infant’s arrival had merely turned him into a father in every sense of the word.
We just had to hope that he’d come out of it somehow and get some damn sense knocked into him.
When the meeting ended, Mason grabbed Zack and me and took us outside.
“We’re going straight to Albuquerque right now.”
“What for?” Zack said.
I know why.
“We’re going to talk to Cole ourselves.”
* * *
There was really no part of me that worried about the appearance of undermining Brock.
Maybe if we had explicitly disobeyed an order, sure. Maybe if we did something to fuck over the club, absolutely.
But was there anything wrong with going to talk with the club’s chapter founder? Was there anything wrong with having a meeting with one of the OGs? I thought fucking not.
And if Brock did, then we had a problem with him.
We parked our bikes and walked into the lobby, only to come face-to-face with a problem that not many of us had considered. Walking up to Cole’s place wasn’t like going to someone’s house and barging in the front door. There were a whole bunch of layers in the way.
Starting with the receptionist at the front desk.
“Can I help you?” the older lady said in a tone that suggested she did not want to help us.
Who could blame her? I didn’t believe in the stupid bullshit about not judging people by their appearances. We wore biker cuts, had tattoos, and didn’t smile a lot. What, were people supposed to assume that we could be the same as Mormons and give us the benefit of the doubt?
