“Emma?”
I turn my head slowly and glare at him.
He lifts both hands in surrender.
“Just guessing.”
Diesel and Knox walk over a second later.
The air shifts when they approach.
A couple of prospects straighten immediately.
Respect runs through the club like a quiet current.
Knox grabs a beer from the cooler.
“Gun run meeting.”
Good.
Business.
Business I can handle.
Business doesn’t crawl into my head and refuse to leave.
Riot leans forward on the bar.
“Same route as last time?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Idaho line through the canyon. Same drops unless something changes.”
Knox nods slowly.
“Convoy size?”
“Six bikes. Two trucks.”
Diesel crosses his arms.
“With the Reapers pissed about Emma, we should run extra eyes.”
That shuts down the last of the joking energy around us.
The Black Reapers aren’t some small-time crew.
They’re organized.
Mean.
And humiliation like that?
Doesn’t go unanswered.
I take another drink.
