“All right, enough fluff and bullshit. Asher, same deal as before. You’re with us, you’re a Black Reaper prospect. That’s it. You have a little more weight than other prospects because of where you come from, but don’t let your head get too big for your asshole. You’re still a prospect.”
“Got it,” I said, mostly just relieved this nonsense was over and we could focus on the task at hand.
“Outline to me what you know,” he said. “Even if it’s shit you already told.”
I recapped what I’d told Sonny and Spawn back in Vegas about the three locations and King’s main penthouse places in Bellagio and Cosmopolitan. And then I got to the stuff that some of our members, who had stayed behind in Vegas, had found out.
“We got reason to believe my wife is in the Chinatown hideout in Vegas,” I said. “But Chinatown isn’t exactly an isolated place. It’s not some random Burning Man-type campout of immigrants. It’s smack in the middle of the city, barely separated from the Strip. And on top of that, it’s a popular tourist spot.”
“So we can’t go in guns blazing without suffering casualties or arrest,” Satan said.
I nodded.
“We’re going to have to ditch the bikes,” Cole said, “just not the mentality or mindset of the Black Reapers.”
“And what are you suggesting, Cole?” Satan said, almost saying the name like a bit of a smear, as if Cole’s size was somehow reason not to speak up to him.
“It’s what I just fucking said,” Cole said, a hint of annoyance in his voice. How these two assholes hadn’t gone for each other’s throats by now was the greatest mystery of my life. “We have to park our bikes some distance away. We have to move without being spotted. And then we have to strike quietly and swiftly.”
“And how the fuck do you suggest we do that?” Satan said.
I chuckled. It was so obvious.
“Guys,” I said, “how do you think I spent the last year of my life? I was in the orbit of everyone in this room on a regular basis. I saw all of you in person at least a couple times. But none of you ever recognized me. Not even did a double glance. Why?”
“Because you were just a messenger—”
“Dad.”
Satan bit his lip.
“Because I got really good at laying low when I needed to and not being recognized when I didn’t want to. I thought if you guys saw me again, you’d kick my ass. I knew if the King’s Men guys saw me, they’d kill me. So I became an expert at disappearing into the background. I can tell you exactly what we need to do. But you may not like it.”
“What, you gonna tell us to dress in pink jeans?” Satan said.
I shook my head.
“The point is to avoid attention, not get it for an entirely different reason. But the first thing you’re going to have to do is ditch the cuts.”
“Done,” Sonny said before anyone could interject. “We all know whose side we’re on. If we aren’t, then no one should be going to Vegas.”
No one disagreed with him in the room. Admittedly, I didn’t recognize a ton of faces here, but I was doing my best to process the important ones. As best I could tell, those closest to the table were the ones worth knowing and remembering.
That was the hope, at least.
“We don’t need to wear disguises because the wrong disguise draws eyes anyways. But we can change subtle things. Haircuts. Jewelry. Cover up tattoos. It’s temporary and quick.”
“Fuck,” Satan said. “I know it makes sense. But fuck.”
I shrugged. Reality was about the only thing harder and more forceful than these guys.
“My best recommendation? We park far away. At the Palms Casino or Rio. And then we walk. It’s going to be a long walk in the heat, I will not shit you that. But it’ll allow for the least likelihood of being ambushed. They’ve seen us as bikers for the longest time. But if we just attack as citizens?”
Satan nodded.
“I’m good with it. Carters? Brock?”
“Works for me,” they all said.
