“Paid up front?” I asked.
His smile disappeared. “Large sum. Six figures.”
“For a bike?” I asked, looking at Prez in disbelief. Why would someone pay upfront, six figures, for a bike that looked average—in my tastes—at best?
Blackjack’s gaze cut to mine. I didn’t nod. Didn’t need to. Miami was already inside the crate, hand on the triple tree, eyes unfocused like he was listeningto something under the metal. He ran a thumb along the welds. Found the tank seam with his nail. He smelled it. He always did that. He claimed he could tell if a bike had a soul by the way the gas smelled on a cold night.
Snake Eyes drifted closer, half shadow, half ghost. “Feels wrong Prez,” he said.
“Everything feels wrong to you,” Spade interjected. He scratched at his knuckles, itching for a reason to bleed.
“Wrong can save your life,” Snake Eyes said. His voice was between a dry cough and a sermon.
“Prospects,” Blackjack called without looking. “Perimeter. Nobody new steps on this pier.”
“Yes, Prez,” Turnpike said, body already moving. Jackal slipped behind a stack of pallets and vanished. Badger’s eyes mapped fire exits and chokepoints. Raptor watched the water and forgot to breathe.
“Something wrong?” Salvatore asked.
Blackjack turned to him. Stared at Mirage for a brief moment before turning back to the capo. “You want us to move some stuff, including an item not on the manifest.”
“And that’s a problem for you? You’ve moved stuffunlistedbefore.”
Blackjack chuckled, tilted his head with a crack. “Not a problem. Just prefer a head’s up. You’ll owe us.”
Salvatore nodded with a smirk. “You’ll see some extra dough. Oh, and head’s up.”
Blackjack let out a single laugh that was more like agrunt.
The crane swung again. Another container clanged down and vomited cold air and the smell of oil. Mirage flipped through pages and tried to be unimpressed. Salvatore kept talking about numbers like numbers meant anything to metal.
“What’s the hurry?” 8-Ball asked him quietly.
“Storm coming,” Salvatore said. “We want to tuck this away before the wind changes.”
There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. I filed it for later.
Priest wandered close, rolling his shoulders, flexing hands big enough to break a jaw like a wishbone. “You want me to bless this crate, brother?” he asked Miami.
Miami didn’t look up. “Already holy.”
“You and I got different churches,” Priest said with a chuckle.
“Same god. Same speed,” Miami said. He looked over at me, eyes bright. “You feel that?”
“What.”
“Like it’s humming.”
“It’s a machine.”
“So am I.”
I smirked.
Salvatore watched us watch the bike. His men kept their hands in their pockets too long as a new car idled at the lot’s edge and left without coming closer. The night had a scratch in the vinyl.
Blackjack stepped in. “We’re not here to stand around. What’s thepull out?”
