“yes. This place is ours. But the other humans will bring protein as a sacrifice for the clowder. For Tuffs’ Destruction. They will pet those who want to be petted. They will . . . They will bring toys for the young. They will entertain everyone. And sometimes, their cats who went to live with the bikers’ women may come to visit.”
Spy cocked her head at Tuffs the way she did when she was communing with other cats in that freaky ESP thing they had going, thanks to their own mutated nanobots.
I’d accidentally altered Tuffs, their queen, not too long after I’d come here. As a result, she had created her own very large nest, as I had been trying not to do. Before the battle of Warhammer’s Nest, Spy had sent small clowders into the clubs and had likely been spying on them all, gathering intel. I was pretty sure the cats intended to take over the world, but they were cats. There was nothing I could do about it, and it wasn’t as if they’d screw it up any worse than humans had.
Since the cats were no longer so angry, I poured water and kibble in their respective bowls and sat across from Cupcake. She had managed to keep down the water, but was still holding her head in her hands, hanging over her plate. We had eggs with tomatoes, peppers, and onions, something that might have been intended to be faux-bacon, a slice of rye toast, and ketchup.
I pushed a cup of coffee at her.
“I will never, ever,everagain, as God is my witness, drink mead after I drink shine.” She held up two fingers. “I swear on Red’s blacker-than-hell soul.”
???
In a ceremony that was far more anticlimactic than I’d been expecting, the charter for Junkyard Roadhouse, Trading Post, and Clearing House, was signed by the three supporting presidents and the VP of the OMW, McQuestion. Cupcake was not mentioned, nor was the amendment Whip had planned to insert stating that she had to maintain HA’s secrets. Whip liked his ride enough to not press for pre-war secrets that would have been years out of date anyway.
Besides. I had more current secrets than Cupcake had old ones. Warhammer hadn’t been the whole iceberg; Warhammer had been only the tip of bigger problems. And the queen had left all her intel to me. Jolene had absorbed all of Warhammer’s information into her databanks and together we had a pretty good idea what she had been part of.
I hadn’t discussed it with anyone outside of my nest, but I had names, lots of names, of people who wanted to take over the country in one way or the other. Various leaders in the Gov, military, and Hand of the Law had gotten together and planned long-term reshaping of what was left of the world. In the US, they had infiltrated all the biker clubs, all the militias, everything and everyone who might stand up against being taken over. Enemies were everywhere. Some had visited my roadhouse over the last day and half, and they’d take knowledge of what had happened here back to the people who paid them so well.
I watched three of the people I wanted to see dead as the clubs and the individual riders squared up money—and trade—wise. Pics of the Rules of Entry on the roadhouse doors and theindividual to-let rooms were made for future reference, and pics were made of Jolene’s bouncer. Bots were common everywhere. But Jolene’s alter ego was one of a kind. Items for the road and for the Old Ladies back home were purchased. A last round of my depleted liquor was consumed.
Leaving me with far better profit than I’d expected, everyone except Whip departed.
The prez of the HA was sitting at the bar, occupying the last seat in the row, a lowball glass with a half finger of liquid breakfast inside. There were cats all around him, sitting on the other stools, on the bar, and gathered on the floor at his feet, unmoving except for twitching tails, watching him. He did his best to ignore them, but after seeing the cats attack the dog last night he had to be uneasy. “Let’s talk,” he said.
I lifted a tabby with a white tail off a stool and obliged him. I sat silent. Whip wasn’t real happy with a silent woman staring him in the face. I figured he was used to demands, cries, or silence when bruises had been delivered. He was a man with a temper, known to respond to annoyances with his fists, gender and age of the recipient not respected. Everyone got the same treatment. He was egalitarian like that. But I was facing him like a man, one who gave off no fear vibes, and, for that matter, no respect vibes. I let an expression cross my face and pass through my body language to show him several things at once. My attitude suggested I could take him apart if I wanted, but I was a peaceable woman with a heart of gold. Then I smiled, and the last part vanished.
Whip blinked.
“We need to clear the air,” he said.
“Air’s pretty clear unless you take out that half smoked cigar and try to light it again.”
Whip blew out a breath. “Damn woman, you’re your old man through and through.”
“I am. And I’m Little Mama too, which makes me my own person, and my own threat.”
“What do I owe you to make up for . . . stuff?”
“I want ten bottles of that tequila you import every month.”
“What!”
I thought he’d come off his stool. The cats all tensed.
“For one year,” I continued. “One hundred-twenty, three liter bottles of the good stuff, unopened, no cracks, delivery to take place no later than the fifteenth of the month, every month, starting in January. That’s your personal responsibility. By my calculations, that’s less than the replacement cost of your bike.”
“Not by much. What does theclubowe you?”
I grinned, and I let my teeth show. So did all the cats, which poor old Whip noticed. “Backup. For one year, starting in January. I call, you come, with as many of your best fighters of either gender as I ask for. You provide the weapons. You provide the ammo. You pay the death benefit for the dead’s families. You don’t haggle, argue, or make a scene. You simply show.” I let the grin slide away to nothingness.
“Me personally?” he demanded.
“I’ll take your NE. What’s his name? Davis? Goes by Hammer? Or I’ll take Marconi’s kids Jacopo and Mina.”
“You can keep that Mina bitch. She’s trouble.”
Scuttlebutt was that Mina, Marconi’s psycho daughter, had stabbed Whip for copping a feel. But gossip being rampant in the clubs, who knew.
