Page 346 of Devil’s Disciples

“Don’t forget that warrant,” I said, closing the door as I spoke. “Without it, I might mistake you for an intruder. We know how that ends, now don’t we?”

“Are you threatening me?” he asked.

I closed the door and turned the deadbolt.

I didn’t make threats. If he showed up without a warrant, he’d be the first to find out.

* * *

Seated across from Baker at a hole in the wall Mexican joint in Chula Vista, I sawed at my enchilada with a plastic fork. The bottom tine snapped off. I tossed the useless utensil toward a trashcan in the distance.

“I hate these little chicken-shit places,” I muttered.

He glanced at the Spanish-speaking patrons. “What are we doing here?”

“I’ve got some things to ask you about,” I said flatly.

“I’m guessing if our cell phones are in the city and we’re in this shit-hole that it must be serious.”

Any time a cop knocked on my door it was a noteworthy occasion. When a cop referred to me as a murderer, it went from noteworthy to a fucking nuisance. I pushed my plate aside. “Remember that listening device we found at your place a while back?”

“I sure do.”

“Anything ever come of that?”

He shook his head. “Nope.”

Baker wasn’t opposed to keeping secrets, especially if he thought it was in the club’s best interest.

I cleared my throat. “Anything you’re not telling me?”

His eyes narrowed. “Like what?”

“Like, is there anything you’re not telling me?”

He looked away and stroked his beard. After a few strokes, he shifted his eyes to meet mime. “Not that I can think of. Why?”

“Had a detective stop by my house a few hours ago,” I explained. “He was talking about a dead investigator. I guess he might not be dead, the detective said he’d ‘gone missing’. Cocksucker referred to me as a bank robber, a thief, a weapons expert, and a murderer. In that order.”

His tanned face went stark white. His gaze fell to the table. “Fuck.”

“Fuck’s right, Brother. He said he’d be back with a warrant. Last thing I need is a cop digging through my house with a fucking warrant.”

He looked up. “Anything in there to get you hemmed up?”

“Not that I know of,” I responded. “You know as good as I do that the Republic of California doesn’t look too kindly on men who own two hundred weapons whether they’re illegal or not.”

His eyes went wide. “Two hundred?”

“Don’t try to twist this around, you prick. Yeah. I’ve got two hundred fucking guns. Who gives a fuck? Tell me about this dead investigator. Or whatever it is that made you go pale when I mentioned it.”

He looked away. The muscles in his forearm tensed. His leg bounced. He met my stern glare with eyes weighted down with regret. “Cash and I were selling the gold from the job we did in Rainbow. Got about a block from the house and I realized I’d forgotten something. When we went back to the house, the door was unlocked. When we opened it, there was a guy standing in there with a gun to Andy’s head. Cash shot him right between the running lights. Fucker had a government issue Sig Sauer and a badge. My guess is he’s the one your guy is talking about.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Baker,” I said through my teeth. “You kept that from us?”

“From who?”

“The fucking club,” I snapped back. “We are a group, right? A brotherhood? It’s not you and us, is it? It’s a group, right? An MC?”