30. Logan

30

LOGAN

"How about we talk?" I ask. "Man-to-man. Nobody else."

Miguel scratches under his chin, tilting his head back. His gaze never leaves mine, eyes darker than coal as he sizes me up. He's younger, inexperienced despite the show he puts on. Like Mace, he took over an organization prematurely. Before he ever thought he would.

A few beats of us glaring at each other, and I've got him figured out. His whole story unfolds in his behavior and body language.

He tips his head at the others, signaling for them to leave. The hulking guy on his left with the tear tattoo on his face is the only one who hangs back.

"Go ahead, jefe . I have this."

The guy takes his leader's command, but not before he warns me with a murderous look. He's made his intention clear—if I fuck with Miguel, he'll be coming for me.

I remain unfazed. I've got more important shit to focus on .

"Have a seat," Miguel says, gesturing to the chair opposite him. "Would you like some tequila?"

"Depends. Is it really tequila?"

His laugh is short and brittle. "If this is about the situation the last time you were here, I'm not sure what you're expecting. If you'd like an apology, maybe you're in the wrong place."

"An apology," I repeat. My large hand curls around the glass of tequila he's poured. "You mean for what you pulled with my wife?"

"I had no hand in your wife visiting our bar."

"Cut the shit. She told me what happened."

"I had no hand in the situation. If that's what you have come to discuss, then we are done here." He half rises out of his chair.

"That's not what I came to discuss," I grit out. "But let's get one thing straight. I don't like you. I don't like your group. Matter of fact, I might make it my mission after this is all said and done to come for you. It'd damn sure be deserved. Lucky for you, I've got bigger fish to fry. More important enemies to go after."

Miguel doesn't sit back down. His fingertips graze the tabletop as he leans closer. "Then what are you here for? Rápido. Mi paciencia se está acabando ."

"I've got a proposition for you. It'll be in your best interest to accept."

"And what is this proposition?"

"Cards on the table. We both know you haven't been open with us about your affiliations."

"I owe the Steel Kings no loyalty. Our arrangement was business only."

"Maybe. But you knew we'd never do business with you if we knew the truth. You didn't want us knowing who else you entertain." I fold my arms behind my head and lean back in my chair. "Can't say I blame you, all things considered. You're about your money and your standing. Fuck everybody else."

Miguel narrows his eyes. "Where is this going?"

"Sit down and find out," I urge. "I'm sure you're aware our business partnership is over. Trying to kidnap and then initiate my wife into your gang will do that. But I've got a final proposition for you that'll work in your favor."

Distrust encircles the air between us. Miguel scratches his chin as he thinks on what I've said. His poker face needs some work; I see straight through him. He's interested, even if he wants to play hard to get.

Fine with me. I can work with that.

Slowly, he lowers himself back into his seat across from me. Taking a sip from his glass of tequila, he says, " Apresúrate. Dime ."

"You know the whereabouts of the Chosen Saints," I say, then quickly add, "Don't tell me you don't. I already know you do. I already know you've been doing their bidding. Matter of fact, I'm pretty damn sure you've been the ones taking people captive then selling them off. That correct?"

Miguel's lips pull back for a dark smile. "We work for who pays us. You know our policy."

"That's a yes. Fair enough. Well, consider this your latest payment. Not monetary. Something more beneficial. If you give up their location."

"Our interest is money only?—"

"You'll want this information," I interrupt. "Important info for your survival."

"How do I know this is real? How do I know I can trust this info? "

"You're just gonna have to take a chance. Just like I'm gonna have to take a chance you'll give me their accurate location."

He polishes off his tequila, then slams down his empty glass. " Dime ."

"We had a visit by some federal agents not very long ago. Your name came up."

"Federal agents? FBI?" he repeats. His disdain flashes in and out of his expression before he can catch himself. "What did they say? What do they know?"

"Gimme the location of Abraham and the Chosen Saints, and I'll share."

Miguel bares his teeth at me. The disdain returns, filling out his features, except it's for me this time. He reaches for the bottle of tequila to pour himself another serving. The liquor trickles into the empty glass drop by drop as if it's its own timer.

"Alright," he says after the long pause, "that I can give you."

I emerge from Zapote an hour later with no blood or bullet holes in me, armed with more knowledge than when I came in. A successful mission as far as I'm concerned.

Miguel gave up the location of Abraham's latest hiding spot. He's been operating out of an abandoned church in Boulder of all places.

Which means he's been closer than any of us realized.

No wonder he's been able to pull off what he has. He's practically been hiding in plain sight.

I take a quick second to text Mace and the others about what I've discovered .

My Super Glide launches out of the Zapote parking lot. I hit the highway on my ride back, nothing but me and the miles ahead. Plenty of time to mull over what I want to do and where I want to go from here.

I could return to Pulsboro so we can begin plotting the next steps in our revenge against the Saints.

The other option would be to pursue the lead I've got on the spot. Go straight to Boulder and scope out the compound Abraham is operating out of.

The reckless, hotheaded side of me demands the latter. Every minute counts, and I'm done biding time. I'm done being on the defensive when I should be on offense. I should be making Abraham regret the day he took me captive. He should be groveling, sniveling, begging for fucking mercy as I deny him any decency.

The same way he'd done to me and others countless times. The same way he'd done to Teysha .

The longer I spend on the road steeped in vengeful thoughts, the more I'm certain what I want to do. A taste for violence has sprung up inside me, uncoiling like a venomous snake. I'm not sure I can spend another night without knowing what it feels like to rip him to shreds…

I'm halfway between Jefferson and Pulsboro when two SUVs speed up from behind. They close in on either side, flanking me left and right. The windows are tinted, concealing their identities from view, but I don't need to see any faces to know what's going on.

Flashbacks of the last time this happened to me filter in and out.

I'd been on the highway riding after the Road Rebels. Our motorcycle clubs had been engaging in a vicious war. My father had sent me as the lead on a mission to retaliate, and I was prepared to stop at nothing to make him proud .

It only took seconds to be run off the road. As my bike spiraled out of my control, I ran right off a nearby cliff. My world blacked out after that.

When I woke up, I was in chains. A captive of Abraham and the Saints.

As these SUVs close in now, I clench the handles of my bike and bolt forward. I shoot out ahead of them in a burst of speed. They barrel after me, refusing to give up anytime soon.

That's alright.

We can do things the hard way.

I make them work for it. My expertise comes in handy. I'm skillful, keeping ahead of them, dodging their attempts to box me in. They charge toward me, about to rear end the back of my bike. I swerve left to keep them guessing, then slide across the road to force their hand.

SUVs don't move as deftly as bikes do. They zig and zag, tires squealing, rubber burning.

The one on the right loses control of the wheel and jerks into a wild spin. They don't regain it in time to avoid veering off road, where they crash into wooden fencing.

I toss a look over my shoulder to spot the rubble behind me.

And the other SUV that's still riding my ass.

I can handle one. If I can shake off the first vehicle, I can damn sure make quick work of the second.

Turning back around to reset my gaze on the road, my heart punches against my chest. I slam down on the brakes, but it's already too late.

A third SUV has crashed onto the scene and blocked off the road ahead.

The inevitable finally catches up to me.

Braking means the SUV closes in enough to force my hand. Their front bumper plows into the back of my bike, and it's over.

My body's ripped from the safety of my Super Glide, sailing through the air, landing in a bone-crushing tumble on the road.