CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
SHORT
Prez brings the gavel down. “Church is in session.”
We’re two men down and have six visitors. Bigfoot and Baffle obviously have seats, but for the rest of the New Mexico crowd, it’s standing room only. Grease, Jester, Dime, and Smooth lean against the wall.
Prez looks up. “First order of business is to officially thank New Mexico, who came and saved our asses last night.” His eyes narrow on our secretary. “Brother, why aren’t you writing this down?”
Piston looks up sheepishly and indicates his bandaged arm. “My arm ain’t cooperating.”
Prez turns his eyes to Stalker, who looks so pale I wonder if he should be here. But the brother just shakes his head. “My fuckin’ glasses got broken last night. Can’t see fuck all close up without them.” I notice he doesn’t mention his injury. Christ, Bron had been fishing for a bullet in his stomach last night, and yet he’s still standing. He doesn’t even seem to have a hangover from all the rum poured into him.
As one of the men who’d escaped with only a flesh wound, I raise my hand. “Don’t mind taking notes if that will help?” Piston slides his notebook and pen across, then sits back and awkwardly crosses his arms, wincing as he does so.
“Hey, Stalk, we’ll get you some new eyes soon,” Saint reassures him.
“Can he see to fuckin’ ride?” Rattler asks. Both he and Winchester are back from the hospital, Knight keeping guard on our two men still inside.
“My long distance is fuckin’ fine,” Stalker retorts. Then shoots him the finger. “As you well fuckin’ know.”
“Can’t ride anyway as he ain’t got a bike. Same as all of us,” Paint remarks, rubbing at the bandage around his head.
“That’s on the agenda,” Bullseye uses the opportunity to regain control. “We’ve got to see what we can salvage, then rebuild or buy new bikes. And we’ve got a bunk house to replace. That’s all taken as a given. But that’s our business, and we’ve got other things to discuss while New Mexico is still here. Don’t want to take up too much of their time, as they’re probably itching to get back home.”
“Don’t mind us,” Bigfoot drawls magnanimously. “Bikes and places to sleep are important. And that said, thanks, Short, for putting us up last night. Slept like fuckin’ babes, we did.”
“Your recliner’s quite comfy,” Jester inputs.
“Thank fuck someone had a good night,” Bullseye murmurs under his breath, but loud enough for me to hear, a reminder that he slept in his office chair. He rolls his eyes. “Nevertheless, we’ve got to talk about how last night went down, and how the fuck the MDMC could come at us with such numbers. Bigfoot, you’ve got something to enlighten us?”
The New Mexico prez sits forward, elbows on the table, and his hands clasped. “You know the Mojave Devils have strong links to the Rivera Cartel?”
Bullseye straightens, as do the rest of us. “How did we not know this?” He speaks for us all. His face firms. “Fuckin’ Griz held back on us.” For clarification for the New Mexico prez, he clarifies, “The MDMC member known as Skunk who infiltrated us.” Bigfoot nods. It’s not news to him.
“We didn’t ask the right questions,” Saint remarks.
Bigfoot shrugs. “Whatever, facts stand. The MDMC didn’t source all of the assholes who attacked you last night. Some of them were probably gang members courtesy of the cartel.”
As the implications hit, I feel cold seeping down my spine. Looking around, all my brothers are taking the news hard. One brother sums it up for all of us.
“The cartel itself will be gunning for us for killing their men.” Winchester sighs.
Baffle leans back in his chair, linking his hands behind his neck. “And your shot-up clubhouse and burned barn is evidence their men came here?”
“Fuck this,” Bullseye exclaims. “So, we’ve got the fuckin’ cartel on our backs now?”
“Who do you think wanted your land? Your base as a route over the border? You’re what, twenty miles from Mexico?” Grease states, quite accurately.
“As the crow flies. By road, it’s further,” Freak tells him.
Grease shrugs. “Ain’t roads they’re considering.”
“It’s okay, you don’t need to draw a picture.” Bullseye meets Bigfoot’s eyes, then lowers his head into his hands. “The fuckin’ cartel,” he repeats. “So that’s where they were getting their manpower.” He snorts a laugh. “So, we’ve taken out some cartel members.”
The New Mexico prez sits back in his chair. He raises a shoulder, then lowers it. “Can’t tell. MDMC were recruiting, so they might be all theirs, but it’s possible the cartel put some of their foot soldiers in just to make sure the hit was carried out.”
“I’ve got to bring Big Daddy in on this.” The gruffness of his voice suggests that’s the last thing Bullseye wants to do. Kings of Anarchy chapters are normally bound only to themselves, but in some circumstances defer to the national prez. I know Bullseye will be thinking it could be seen as an act of weakness on our part, but I’m not sure we can handle something this big ourselves.
