Chapter Nineteen
THE BARNsmelled of old hay, the lingering BO of generations of cows, and a sharp, mineral smell that Tag assumed was gun oil.
He knelt on the splintered wooden floor of the barn, bits of old straw sharp and hard under his knees, and watched as heavyset men unpacked a stash of guns from the storm cellar under the age-warped boards. Competent, black-gloved hands racked magazines and checked sights and then repacked them in crates below layers of paper and trays of fancy iridescent forks.
The short, gray-haired man who’d arrived in the back seat of a matte-black Hummer turned an ugly black semiautomatic over in his hand. Tag tried to run the numbers in his head, the ratio that figured out casualties versus injured through the rate of fire and bullets used. The answer always sounded exaggerated, even when it wasn’t.
“You said you had bump stocks,” the man said as he pulled back the slide. “I don’t see any.”
“I said I could get bump stocks,” Shepherd disagreed. “I still can. There’s just been a… hitch… in delivery. Never use UPS. They’re fucking unreliable.”
Shepherd grinned wide, with shining white teeth. It almost disguised the edge of black temper that pulled his upper lip tight and lingered around his cold eyes. If the buyer noticed, he didn’t care.
“So, it seems, are you.” He shoved the semiautomatic butt first into Shepherd’s chest. “I told you I wanted serious firepower. Not one that the local MILFs put their stamp of approval on.”
“I told you. I can get the stocks,” Shepherd said through his smile as he took back the gun. He flipped on the safety and tucked the gun into the front of his jeans. “Besides, what are you going to do? Get your men to unload again? That seems like a waste of time.”
They buyer glanced over his shoulder. “They’re bought and paid for, Shepherd,” he said. “Their time is mine to waste. If I tell them to unpack the vans, they will. If I tell them to kill your family, they’d do that too.”
The smile on Shepherd’s face faltered as he clenched his teeth, muscles in knots under his stubbled jaw. Behind him, the fat man who’d grabbed Tag outside the hospital growled and stepped forward, one hand under his jacket on his gun. Shepherd held up a hand to stop him.
“Don’t push it, Morales,” Shepherd said. “It’s a long drive back to the border.”
Morales glanced around at the bikers who slouched, arms crossed, in the shadows of the barn as they watched his men work. Their bikes were lined up outside, matte black and unremarkable.
“Luckily,” Morales said. “I can afford the gas.”
Shepherd glared. “You want the guns or not?”
Morales picked at his lower lip as he considered the question. “I’ll pay you half of what we agreed,” he said. “Since you did come up short on product.”
“You were already getting a good deal,” Shepherd said. “Pay up, and you’ll get the bump stock. You have my word on it.”
“Half,” Morales said flatly. “If you get the bump stocks, we can talk about the rest of the money.”
“Deal,” Shepherd gritted out through clenched teeth. “But I’ll remember this, Morales. Don’t come asking the Brothers for favors next time you need something.”
Morales chuckled as he reached into his jacket for his phone. He tapped the screen as he talked.
“Don’t try and gaslight me, Shepherd. I pay for your favors the same way I pay for an hour of a prostitute’s time. I don’t mistake either for friendship or love.”
Shepherd spat on the floor. It dampened a coin-sized spot of dust into mud. “That ain’t the song you sang last time your boys came up, Morales. Then we were all fucking brothers, weren’t we?”
“And you gouged me on the price for those grenades,” Morales said. “Now you need me more than I need you, and I’ve returned the favor. That’s how capitalism works.”
A stocky man in a dark suit came in carrying a suitcase from outside, his eyes squinted against the dim light in the barn. He walked past Tag, close enough that Tag could smell the sweat of the drive off his suit, but didn’t even glance at him. Morales took the suitcase and held it out to Shepherd.
“Half,” he said.
Shepherd took it. “Go fuck yourself.”
“Good doing business with you,” Morales said. “Oh, and when SSA Merlo arrests you, tell him I haven’t forgotten what I owe him either.”
He didn’t bother to wait on Shepherd’s reaction. He just turned and left. The Hummer growled to life outside, and then the noise of its engine retreated into the distance. His men packed the last of the guns into the crates, hoisted them up between them, and headed for the doors. One of the bikers stepped in front of them before they reached it, head down and bullish. The men with the crates slung between them paused midstep and reached into their coats.
Tag didn’t know if he should hope they’d start a gunfight or not. The chances he’d dodge all the bullets weren’t good, but it might still be his best shot at getting out of there. He closed his eyes and hunched his shoulders as that thought sank in.
“Let them go,” Shepherd snapped. “We’ve got enough fucking problems without Morales tattling on us to the cartels.”
