Steel pushed away from the table and knelt down beside the whimpering man. “I’m not buying your story, Jason. And when I think someone’s lying to me, it pisses me and my brothers off to no end. So we can play this a couple of ways. You can either tell it to us straight and live, or keep bullshitting us and after a painful couple of days, we’ll spread your ashes over the dump. The choice is yours. We got a lot of time. Think about it. I’ll be back, and then you can give me your decision.” Steel stood up. “Get his ass back on the chair. See if you can give him a taste of what’s gonna happen if he chooses noncooperation.” As Steel opened the heavy door, he heard Jason cry out in pain when Muerto and Goldie sat him down.
Outside, the moon hung full beneath an eclipse of blazing stars in the black sky above him. He breathed in the fresh air, then slipped his hand inside his cut and took out a joint from a small pocket. Cupping the flame with his hand, he lit the joint and inhaled deeply. Looking up, the brilliant specks carpeting the velvety blackness winked at him.
He wished the lanky kid would give up everything he knew. Steel had no problem killing someone who hurt or threatened the brotherhood, who disrespected his patch, or who betrayed him or his brothers, but he wasn’t enjoying offing an eighteen-year-old addict.
Fuck! I gotta find out who’s supplying the shit. I gotta stop this. Now.
“He’s ready to talk, Prez.”
He hadn’t even heard Goldie come out. Without saying a word, he stubbed out his joint and walked back into the clubhouse, descending the back stairs to see what Jason had to say. When he entered the cell, Jason sat slumped over, his hair matted in blood, his T-shirt soaked in dark red, and his arms covered in angry, red marks. Steel went over to him and pulled his head back. “Have you chosen to live or die?”
“Live,” he said in a low voice.
“Good choice. Now let’s do this again from the top.”
Over the next thirty minutes, Jason revealed that he got the drugs from a couple of guys who worked for Candyman. The two guys had spiked blond hair, wore blue jeans, and usually wore leather jackets or vests, but he didn’t know their names. He said that his pay was fifteen percent of the sale. Most of the money he earned went up his arm. Jason also revealed that he thought a biker gang was the supplier, but he wasn’t sure. He’d heard some talk among the other dealers about that. He’d sworn that was all he knew.
Steel believed him. Jason was a low-rung dealer who wouldn’t be privy to the internal workings of the network. “I’ll tell you what, Jason. We’re gonna put you on our payroll. And we pay better than fucking fifteen percent.”
Jason’s eyes widened. “You want me to work for you? What do you want me to do?”
Diablo kicked his chair. “First off, have some respect. You don’t fuckin’ talk to the prez until he asks you a goddamn question. You’re not a fuckin’ brother.”
Steel chuckled. “You’re gonna be the club’s snitch. We need to find out who’s dealing on our turf, and you’re gonna help us do it.” A flash of hope crossed Jason’s eyes. “Yeah. You’re gonna live, but it may only be for a short time if you double-cross us. Betrayal is not something we like, and the punishment is the betrayer pleading for death. You get my drift?” Jason bobbed his head up and down. “Good. You got anything you wanna say now?”
“Yeah. I don’t know if you’ll believe me or not, but I was planning to stop dealing ’cause it was getting harder to make enough money, and the food stamp card thing was starting to freak me out. I didn’t want the feds breathing down my neck. I’ll help you out.”
“Doesn’t seem like you got a choice,” Crow said.
“He has a choice. It may not be a good one, but we always have a choice. Isn’t that right, Jason?” Steel narrowed his eyes. The young man nodded. “Then we understand each other. Perfect.” He turned to Crow and pointed. “See this guy? He’s in charge of you. Don’t fuck this up. You don’t want to get on his bad side.”
“No, you fuckin’ don’t,” Crow said as he put his face a mere inch from Jason’s.
“We’re gonna untie you and you can wash up. It’s best if you spend the night here. You got a problem with that?”
He rubbed his wrists as Crow cut the rope from his ankles. “I need a fix bad. I’ll go through a shitty night if I don’t get something.”
“Life’s fucking tough. You’re going to have to man up to it. We’ll make sure you have a bathroom at your disposal for tonight.” Steel walked toward the door.
“Man, please. I can’t handle the withdrawal. I need something. Anything.” Jason’s voice hitched.
“One more thing. The dudes with the spiked blond hair, did you notice any patches on the front or back of their leather jackets and vests?”
Jason paused, his eyes rolling up. “Uh… yeah, I remember. They had a real cool patch on the back of them. It was a big ass skull with a hammer crushing it. I was gonna ask them about it ’cause I wanted to get one, but they weren’t the friendly type.” He wiped the sweat rolling down his face. “I need something bad.”
“Give him some joints to calm him.”
Steel walked out the door, went up to the bar, and hit his fist against Paco’s and Skull’s. “We got a fucking snitch on the payroll.”
“Yeah?” Paco asked.
Steel nodded. “I hope he doesn’t fuck up. He’s an addict, so there’s a big chance he will.” He threw back his tequila shot. “The motherfucking Skull Crushers are in on this. The kid described their patch. The kid picks up the drugs from them. He also thinks it’s a biker club supplying the smack. I gotta call Hawk in the morning to see if he’s heard anything. The Insurgents have access to more information than we do. The kid’s barely eighteen. Fuck.” He threw back another shot, intending to get good and drunk.
“The way I look at it, the Skull Crushers just signed their goddamn death warrant.” Paco slammed his fist on the bar. Skull followed suit.
“Yep. That’s the way I look at it too. We’ll call an emergency church for tomorrow early afternoon. The way these fuckers are drinking tonight, I need their asses sober and their full attention. I’m gonna head upstairs. I’m beat.” He clasped Paco’s and Skull’s shoulders, grabbed a bottle of tequila from the bar, and headed upstairs.
In the quiet of his room, he kicked off his boots and hung up his cut, then switched on the small lamp on his nightstand and killed the overhead lights. Turning on one of his favorite bands, Five Finger Death Punch, he settled into the chair, took a deep drink of tequila, and listened to “Bad Company.”
He closed his eyes, Breanna’s bright blue ones sparkling in his mind. A longing so intense filled him, and his chest cavity ached. He shook his head as if to dislodge her image from his mind.
And he did. Chenoa’s dark eyes came into focus, but they weren’t bright. They were dull, almost lifeless, and an icy fear wound around his spine. “Don’t leave me, sunshine.”
A thickness in his throat formed and he squeezed his eyes tighter, trying to make his mind go blank, to absorb the music, to not think.
He took another long drink and swallowed the lump in his throat, but his mind ricocheted between the sparkling blue orbs and the dark, dying ones.
He drank until he saw nothing but blackness.
