He leaned closer, fingers curling around the cold metal of the gate.
“It’s a question of when.”
Behind me, I heard Spade mutter something that sounded like, “Fuck math.”
Blackjack stepped up to the fence, close enough that if it hadn’t been there they’d have been sharing breath.
“You tell Tesauro this from me,” he said, voice gone low and sharp. “You tell him the Devil’s Aces don’t fold because someone throws more chips on the table. You tell him he sent Serpents into a junkyard and didn’t get his toy back. You tell him he sent cartel boys into the wrong yard and fucked with our allies. You tell him he wanted a war.”
He smiled then, slow and mean.
“And he’s got one. This? You driving past my house with your windows up? This is nothing. This is pregame. He keeps pushing, he’s going to find out exactly how bad it feels to have the deck stacked against him for once.”
The messenger considered him.
Then he laughed.
“Keep talking like that,” he said. “Makes it easier when we have to explain to our bosses why yourclubhouse is a smoking pile of rubble.”
He let go of the fence, took a step back.
“This was a courtesy call,” he went on. “There won’t be another.”
He turned and walked back to his SUV without looking over his shoulder. The Serpents by the bikes revved once. Doors shut. Engines flared. The little convoy then rolled away into the dark.
We watched until the taillights vanished.
No one spoke until the rumble had fully faded.
Then Blackjack’s phone rang.
The sound cut through the yard like a shot.
He pulled it out, looked at the screen, and grimaced. “Yes? Talk to me.”
We only heard his side, but that was enough.
“Slow down,” he said. “Is anyone dead?” His jaw clenched. “Good. Then breathe and explain.”
Pause.
“How bad?” His eyes went flat. “Fire? Or just glass?”
Another pause.
“Call the fire department if you haven’t already. Tell them it was a drive-by with kids and bad decisions, not a cartel warning shot. We don’t need the law sniffing.” He rubbed his forehead. “Yeah. I’ll send bodies to secure it.”
He hung up. The phone rang again almost immediately. He glanced at it.
“Rudy,” he said this time. “Let me guess. The Lodge?”
I didn’t need to hear the answer to know he wasright. His shoulders tightened.
“They shoot anyone?” he asked. “How many rounds?” he let out a huff. “Somebody upstairs likes you. Next time, duck lower. Board everything up. Keep the regulars away until we say otherwise. We’ll send replacements for any damaged stock.”
He ended that call, got a third before the phone even left his hand. Swore under his breath. Hit accept.
“Rich?” he said. “Please tell me our armory’s fine.”
