Page 7

Thank fuck, though, it didn’t become my road name. Instead, the club went with Gunner after they all got to see me shoot. My affinity for guns made me the perfect fit for sergeant at arms.

Pres cleared his throat to get our attention. “All right, so as you assholes know, we have been trying to expand our business into Tucson for years now. But without a partnership with the cartel and their express permission, we would be asking for a turf war. One, we would lose to Los Muertos. But they want to keep the Reapers out as much as we do, so Sergio has agreed to a trial partnership where we run their guns.”

The room began to cheer, and Pres’s eyes found mine. We had worked for this partnership for a long fucking time. Two goddamned years, to be exact. There were a fuck ton of reasons to pair up with the largest of the Mexican cartels. For the club, getting involved with Los Muertos meant gaining a powerful ally. Plus, the alliance would hopefully keep the Reapers in check.

The Skeletons of Society might be a one-percenter club, but the club didn’t fuck with hard drugs or the skin trade. Didn’t want to be a part of fucking up communities with that shit.

Gunrunning was this club’s poison of choice.

“This will be a good way to keep those slimy fuckers over at the Reapers MC out of our territory,” Pres declared, slamming his fist on the table. Stirring up another round of cheers. “Money makes weak men into monsters real quick,” he said, looking everyone at the table in the eye. His words were a warning. Anyone caught associating with the Reapers would be dealt with.

The Reapers worked for pieces of shit willing to buy women. Type of people who made everyone nervous—people with deep pockets and a long reach.

It was why Sergio didn’t want the Reapers in his territory. He wasn’t scared of the club; he was suspicious of who they dealt with. Besides, Los Muertos made plenty of money with their gunrunning and drug smuggling, and the cartel had staying one step ahead of the law down to a science. Skin trading would fuck that up.

I leaned forward in my chair, resting my arms on the table we all sat around. This was my area of expertise for the club, and I’d worked toward this partnership since getting here.

“Who are we going to be working with? Sergio? Mario?” I pried.

The word on the street was Mario was in charge of all gunrunning for Los Muertos. I hoped that meant he would be our point of contact. That way, I could work directly with the man himself.

That would make my job so much easier.

Pres ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper beard. “Last I spoke with Sergio, that was the plan. You and Dex will meet at their strip club in Tucson and go over our arrangement. Check out what their current operation is like. Suggest tweaks if you feel they need to make them. Get whatever information you need to get your jobs done.” Pres let the implications hang in the air.

An irritated grunt left my lips as I leaned back in my chair, my brain racing through all the things this meeting meant and the preparations I would need to make.

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll need to fucking make changes. How can you successfully run guns out of a fucking strip club?” I closed my eyes. Fuck. I knew this shit wouldn’t be as easy as I’d hoped. “I bet they’ve never even run guns out of Tucson. We’re going to be their goddamned guinea pigs,” I growled out.

The sound of my hand smacking the table echoed through the room. I was pissed my job now included reworking their system. I wanted to meet with Los Muertos and start the actual work. Not make revisions to a shitty arms-dealing operation.

Dex chimed in beside me, sounding way too cheery.

“I’ve heard they’re booming with business. The dude seems to know what he’s doing. All my contacts say they’re happy with their shipments,” he pointed out.

My brows furrowed. Of course that’s what Dex heard.

“No shit. Who’s dumb enough to leave the Mexican cartel a lousy review? That’s how heads end up in boxes shipped to loved ones,” I grumbled.

Dex shrugged, not at all concerned about the pile of shit that was dumped at our feet. Typical.

Los Muertos was way up there in the criminal world. No one dared cross them. In fact, the Four Families over in New York kept a tentative truce with the cartel. Neither organization was too sure who would win that bloodbath—if anyone. Unlike small street gangs, who fought over turf and disrespect, the big players only cared about the bottom line and avoiding jail time or deportation.

“Hey, children,” Pres barked, done with my shit. “Let’s remember, we might be in a partnership, but we can’t trust them. And it’s temporary—until we prove ourselves. Watch out for our own and use this deal in whatever way we can.” Pres eyed me again, his tone carrying a threatening edge to it. “Stay alert, learn what you can, and don’t give away any club business.” He held my gaze until I relented and gave a curt nod.

“All right, church is dismissed. Gunner, I’ll let you know the details of that meeting.”

I needed a beer. Or three.

All the patched members might have been my club brothers, but Dex and I were true brothers. Not by blood, but by trial by fire. He was always the one I called on to have my six. Plus, he wasn’t annoying as shit like some of the guys.

Soft leather gave as I plopped onto the stool next to him. Within seconds of my ass hitting the seat, red nails latched onto my arm, tracing the tattoos and making my hair stand on end.

Lolli’s nasally voice sounded in my ear, making my eye want to twitch in irritation. “Gunner, baby. I’ve missed you,” she purred, attempting to sound sexy.

I asked her once why she picked such a dumbass name. She claimed it was because she could suck a dick like a lollipop. For anyone else, that might have been a selling point. I glanced at the hand lingering on my bicep before taking the rest of her in. Her boobs were spilling out of her shirt, and her bleach-blond hair was piled on top of her head in what I heard the club bunnies refer to as a messy bun.

The woman was relentless. She wanted to be an old lady so badly she tried to get her claws into anyone she could. I wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot pole, but she refused to take the hint. I guess she felt eventually she would wear me down.