“Nice try, man. It was five grand for the handguns alone,” Sway said.
If he was churning with unease like I was, he didn’t show it. But that was just the guy’s nature—laid-back, easygoing, hard to rile.
“But you also wanted three semis at two grand each. Which brings our grand total to, do the math with me here, boys, eleven grand.”
“That’s not what the other guy said,” Roach insisted.
“That’s exactly what the other guy said.”
“It’s not what I heard.”
“Then you weren’t fucking listening.” Still, Sway’s voice held no real malice.
Because sometimes shit went like this. Everyone wanted to haggle. No one wanted to pay full price. We were even given a little leeway to make deals like that if they were reasonable. But wanting to take the full crate of weapons for half what we were owed? That shit wasn’t going to stand.
“I only brought five grand,” Roach said with a shrug.Take it or leave it.
“Then you can take the handguns or the semis, but you’re not getting both.”
“I think I’ll take whatever—” Roach started, taking a step toward Sway that anyone with eyes would call threatening.
But just then, something off in the trees snapped.
And so did the band of tension between both our clubs.
“You surrounding us?” Roach roared, shoving his hands into Sway’s chest, sending him back a step.
It was fucking instantaneous.
One second, all seven of us were just standing still, waiting to see how the negotiations would go. The next, we were all on each other.
My fist landed hard on someone’s jaw, sending pain shooting up my hand and through my shoulder. Even as a fist caught me just under the ribs, stealing my air for a long second.
But there was no time to catch your breath in a street fight.
The air erupted with the sounds of bodies crashing together, of hisses of pain, and seething threats.
My lip split open, blood slipping into my mouth—copper, hot, thick.
My knuckles split too, even as the crunch of someone’s nose breaking filled my ears.
The man fell to his knees, cradling his face, blood spilling out from between his fingers.
This was the place where your morals told you to back off, that you couldn’t kick a man when he was down.
But there was no such thing as morality when you were possibly fighting for your life.
I leaned down, gathering the front of the guy’s shirt, already wet with his blood, yanked him up slightly, then landed a hard uppercut under his chin.
His body flew backward, landing at an angle that looked painful—legs splayed underneath him in a W that probably twisted, if not broke, something.
I straightened, sucking in a few quick breaths, trying to decide if I should rush to Raff’s or Sway’s aid first.
Both were locked in close-contact fights, grunts of pain and anger filling the quiet night air.
I saw it.
Just a metallic flash under the moonlight.
