It wasn’t like this was the first drop I’d been on for the club. Far from it. We’d done hand-offs with every kind of person or group you could imagine. Sometimes it was an individual—a suspected hitman, a woman who had a stalker, and even the occasional doomsday prepper. More often, it was small-time gangs, Irish, Italian, or Russian mob members, and even the rare bike club. Like our own. Like this one.
There was almost always an element of danger, since we so rarely had any sort of relationship with the people we did business with.
This was one of the very few times I felt a pit in my stomach, though.
An argument could be made for the fact that there were only three of us. That since this was another MC, they might show up with numbers.
Or maybe I was just restless and paranoid.
Still, my hand went to my hip, feeling the reassuring shape of my gun in its holster. There was a knife in a special slot in my boot. Sway and Raff were both armed as well.
There was no reason to panic.
“Over by the pull-off,” Raff said, jerking his head.
Sure enough, up ahead, there was a dirt pull-off between trees.
My stomach cramped again.
But it was too late now.
We were pulling up the dirt path.
And there was the club.
There seemed to be only four of them unless others were hiding behind the ancient, wide trunks of the trees that dwarfed the men gathered around.
Four wasn’t bad.
Even if shit hit the fan, we were skilled, experienced, and could all be ruthless. Though maybe a part of me kind of wished we’d brought Crow’s psycho ass with us.
It was too late for regrets now, though, as Raff put the car in park and cut off the lights but left the engine running.
With that, we all climbed out in unison.
I tried to ignore the way unease whispered in my ear, how it fisted around my heart, making each beat feel slow and hard.
Sway took the lead, being the most senior of us.
He strode up to the men, singling out the one he saw as the leader and offering his hand.
“Roach,” the man with stringy black hair and pits for eyes introduced himself.
Roach.
What a road name.
All the men wore denim cuts, but there were no patches on their chests, and no one turned so I could see what their logo or rockers said.
“Sway. We have your shit if you have our cash.”
It was rare that a drop contained any pleasantries. It was strictly business, with everyone involved knowing just how risky the items we were transferring were if we got caught with them. No one was in the mood for small talk. Everyone wanted to get the contraband somewhere safe as quickly as possible.
“Yeah, it was, what, five grand?”
That gentle tap-tap-tap of dread at the back of my mind grew louder with each passing second.
My gaze scanned the trees, looking for human-shaped shadows, wondering how fucked we were if this went from a misunderstanding to a fight.
