Page 7 of Bram

“I don’t,” I said. But I let him finish.

He grinned again, all wolf. “Run her out of Bakersfield. Turn her place into a high-class front and bleed her operation into our own. You don’t need her for more than three months. By then, we’ve got the cash flow, and she’s history.”

Kodiak’s face was blank as ever, but I saw his eyes flick to Rusty and then to me. “Or we take the deal as is, keep her on as a buffer against local heat. When the Scorpions make their move, she takes the first hit, not us.”

I looked at both of them, letting the balance tip in the air. Then I said, “Rusty, you’re on vetting. Get the numbers on her crew, see who’s been dropped and who’s still moving product. If it checks out, we take her up on the meet.”

He nodded, snapping the folder shut with one hand.

“Kodiak, go with Rusty to Buttonwillow. I want eyes on the whole fucking route, from the yard to her front door. Nothing comes back this way unless you’ve put hands on it first.”

Kodiak nodded once. “Timeline?”

“You’re on the road by nightfall,” I said. “I want a dry run done before tomorrow, and I want the hardware back here before dawn the day after.”

They both stood, neither waiting for me to get up. It was old habit—when I gave a run order, you moved. No need for ceremony or handshakes. They grabbed their cuts from the hooks by the door, and I heard the boots echo down the hallway.

I stayed behind, staring at the map, the lines and notations and the single word at the top: Bakersfield.

I pressed my palm flat on the table and closed my eyes. All I saw was the same road, winding west, same as it ever was.

Outside, the morning was already hot enough to burn, but the church room was cold, and it was mine alone.

***

Sniper and Trace made it to the compound before noon, burning up the desert blacktop and each other’s nerves. They came in through the back, same as always, but this time they didn’t take off their helmets until they hit the kitchen. I heard the door catch and the quick shuffle of boots before either said a word. Sniper took the lead, Trace a step behind, like a pair of dogs coming off the same leash.

I didn’t get up. Let them find me in the church room, same as their whole lives.

Sniper didn’t bother knocking, just stepped in and dropped a folded sheet of notebook paper onto the table, right over the spot where the map to Bakersfield used to be. Trace lingered in the doorway, knuckles white on the frame.

“Surveillance layout,” Sniper said. His voice was Navy SEAL tight, no wasted breath. “We’ve been watched for a week, maybe more. These are their points of approach, two-man teams, one rotating on the north fence, another on the utility easement. Both are within range of the east window at night. I put marks in red.”

I unfolded the page. Every line was tight, straight, measured. He’d even labeled the shadows and the cone of light from the overhead bulb. It was better than most blueprints I’d ever seen.

Trace said, “They’re not even subtle. We caught a Scorpion prospect making a phone video of our front gate. Couldn’t have been more than twenty. Told us straight up what they planned.”

“Which was?” I said, not taking my eyes off the drawing.

Trace came in now, elbows on the table. “Direct strike on the officers’ meeting. They think you and Rusty are the only ones holding this place together. Cut off the head, the rest falls down.”

He made it sound diabolical. I watched his face, jaw flexed, a new scratch just under the cheekbone. Trace always took things personally, even when he said he didn’t.

Sniper said, “If we keep rotating prospects on the gate, we’ll have two bodies before sunset. At minimum.”

I ran my finger down the list of times and approach vectors. Every shift, every gap, every lazy minute we’d left in the last week. Sniper was right. If they wanted to hit us, they’d have done it by now. They were waiting for the right angle, the perfect moment. They were waiting for the Colonel to be released. We all were.

I said, “Pull the prospects. Replace them with full patches, two at each post. Armed, and on radio at all times.”

Sniper nodded, no argument.

“Trace, you call every member. Every wife, every kid, every side piece who might be in the line of fire. I want everyone inside by nightfall, or at least somewhere I can find them when I need to. Make it a 72-hour stay.”

Trace grinned, all teeth. “What about the Santa Fe crew?”

“Tell them to keep quiet and keep their dicks in their pants,” I said. “We don’t tip our hand until we’re ready.”

Sniper said, “You want the shooters in the open, or on the roof?”