CHAPTER TWELVE

Kyle—

Last time the guys followed a truck, it took this route, so we're staked out behind the gas station where the truck and chase car fueled last time.

Cole thinks they've been doing this all this time, and no one's caught on, so probably they'll use the same route.

We stand around smoking, waiting for the tip off from Billy, who's lying up in the hills above the landing strip, positioned to give us the signal they're on the move.

Twenty minutes ago, the plane landed, and they unloaded.

"Should be anytime now," Cole says. A moment later, his phone goes off. He glances at the text. "They're on the move. Billy's gonna follow us when he's sure everyone has left the site."

Everyone is on this one tonight, except the prospects. Cole, Crash, Wolf, Red Dog, Green, Shane, Jake, TJ, Billy, Reckless, Marcus, Rafe, and me.

We lie in wait, our bikes hidden, and watch the truck and chase car arrive. While they're gassing up, Wolf slips off his cut and ruffles his hair up, then approaches the truck driver with a stooped gait.

He puts his hand out. "You got any change for an out of work veteran, man?"

"Get lost," the driver snaps.

Wolf shuffles away and I watch him dig the tracker from his pocket and stumble against the truck, attaching the magnet beneath it.

The driver comes around the back. "Get the hell out of here."

"I'm goin'. I'm goin'," Wolf mutters, his head down.

The two vehicles finish refueling, and pull out.

While we wait for Billy to catch up to us, Cole calls Daytona.

"Hey, brother. How are you?" Cole looks at the horizon. "Doin' well. Thanks. Hey, we've got a problem." He puts the call on speaker as Wolf comes around the corner and joins us.

"What's that?" Daytona replies.

Cole tells him about the connection to our attorney, and how we got on the trail that led us to these flights bringing in product that's being hauled to Vegas.

"No shit."

"They're transporting in a dump truck full of gravel. One's headed your way now. We managed to attach a tracker. We're gonna follow at a distance—keep about five miles back. We need to find out where it ends up and what happens. I don't want to lose it in Vegas traffic."

"Give me details. I'll try to pick it up and tail it."

"It's a green dump truck. Says Smith Brothers Hauling on the side. I can't find anything on the company."

"Probably bogus."

"That's my guess. I'll send you a link to our tracking app."

"That'd be great. I'll get on it now."

"One other thing, Daytona."

"What's that?"

"The name Warren Drake mean anything to you?"

"Can't say it does, but my VP has a lot of connections on the strip. I'll check into it, Cole."

"Thanks. See you soon."

Cole checks the app. "Looks like the truck is moving at about sixty miles an hour. They're eight miles ahead of us now. Let's maintain the interval. Mount up, boys."

We roar out of the gas station and haul ass down the interstate, then settle in at the same sixty mile per hour speed.

Every so often, we pull off on an exit ramp, and Cole checks to make sure the truck hasn't made a pit stop.

They stop in Bakersfield and again in Barstow. When they do, we exit before we get close and grab food and gas.

It's a long haul on our bikes, but eventually, we make it to Vegas. With all the stops, it's almost two in the afternoon when we hit town.

We pull over at a big gas station, and Cole calls Daytona and finds out he's on their tail in an unmarked van. We stay put until he finds out where the truck goes.

Thirty minutes later, Daytona calls back.

Cole picks up. "Yeah?"

They speak for about three minutes, Cole pacing away as he talks.

When he finishes, he whistles and motions us over.

"They tracked them to a construction site north of town. Sign on the fence said Piedmont Developers."

"And?" Crash snaps.

"Piedmont Developers is a subsidiary of Sunrise Ltd. And that's owned by Barlow, Perkins, and Drake."

"Warren Drake?" Wolf mutters.

"Exactly. Come on. Daytona has some further information. We're meeting at their clubhouse."

We head north, far out of town until we're rolling down dirt roads in the desert. We finally reach the place, out in the middle of nowhere. It's elevated on a bit of a hill, and we climb the steps to the big, wide covered porch. We're led to the left and into a huge office that must take up half the building. Big windows overlook the view.

A couple of prospects carry in enough folding chairs for all of us, and then the door is closed, and we're left with Daytona, and his VP, Trick.

Daytona sits behind his desk, his hands folded, looking troubled.

Cole and Crash are in the comfortable leather chairs in front of his desk, the rest of us positioned around in a half circle.

"This is a complicated story, boys. Warren Drake is really Carlo Bianchi, Jr," Daytona begins. "He's got a connection to the Santorini crime family. Took over when they got rid of their last guy. Trick had a run in with them a few years back. They are no one to mess with. They are the real deal."

"What kind of a run in?" Cole asks.

"Trick's ol' lady was a witness to one of their hits. They went after her. Trick had to go to New York to make a deal with them to spare her life. If your attorney stumbled upon their operation, they'd have gotten rid of him without thinking twice."

"Santorini?" Crash asks.

Daytona's eyes shift to him. "They're out of Jersey and New York. Franco is the head of the family. Guy named Fat Tony used to run the show here in Vegas."

"Used to?" Crash asks.

"The FBI used their leverage, and he was flipping on the family. Mob found out, and he turned up floating face down in the Las Vegas Wash."

"I thought the mob was finished in Vegas?" Green asks.

"They'd like us to believe that, but no. They are alive and well. They leave us alone, and we leave them alone."

"Until now," Cole says.

Daytona drags a hand down his face. "I can see where you think they're running up against us, moving in on our turf, but I'd let this go."

"They killed our attorney," Crash states.

"Get another one," Daytona replies, then looks at Trick. "Tell ‘em, VP."

Trick leans against the edge of the desk. "No one gets to Franco Santorini. Everything goes through his man, Vito. I had the pleasure of dealing with them, like our prez told you. In my life, I've dealt with a lot of bad dudes, but these guys are a whole other level. We've got a tense truce between us, and it didn't come easy. They let us alone and we let them alone. Prez is right. You do not want to mess with these guys."

"They're running heroin through both our states," Cole snaps. "How is that staying out of our business?"

Daytona rubs his palms together and drops his head, then he leans back in his chair. "We haven't been in the heroin business since Taz went on a killing spree down in Temecula years ago, and you know it." He meets Cole's eyes. "Let this one go, brother. Or we'll all live to regret it."

Cole sucks in a long breath, his jaw clamping.

Every man in the room can tell how much this is costing him to let slide.

"Somebody's got to pay for Silver's death," he murmurs.

Daytona shakes his head. "I disagree. He was working a case that had nothing to do with club business. He fucked with the wrong people. That's on him. Let it go."

Crash looks at Cole. "Maybe he's right, brother. Two hundred grand is a lot of money, but it's not worth this kind of trouble."

"Two hundred grand?" Daytona frowns.

"His widow paid us to take out whoever killed her husband," Crash fills in.

"Jesus." Daytona shifts his eyes to Cole. "You in the murder-for-hire business all of a sudden?"

"It's more of a favor for a friend of the club." Cole stares off, his knee bouncing a mile a minute.

"Ain't no favor worth dying for, brother," Daytona advises.

Cole gets to his feet. "Let me think about it."

Daytona nods, not pressing for more.

And just like that, we all file out to the bar, still not sure where it stands.

Our chapter sidles up to the bar, grouped together and murmuring low.

"So, this goes right up the food chain to the mob," Crash hisses.

Cole nods. "And they're moving drugs right through our territory."

"We're fucked," Red Dog whispers.

"We've gone up against a lot of badasses, Cole. But the fucking mafia?" Green asks.

"I think the only way we do this is if we can make a statement under the radar, without them knowing it's us," Cole muses.

"This is the mafia, Prez. The mafia ," Green reiterates. "Cement shoes, floating with the fishes, the Godfather."

"I know who the mafia is, Green," Cole snaps.

Red Dog points a finger at our prez. "You are out of your mind, brother."

"I can't let this lie, Dog."

"For what? For Harry Silver's widow? For two hundred grand? It's not worth it. You'll put a death warrant on every single one of our backs. Daytona's crew, too." Red Dog drags a hand down his jaw.

Cole drains his whiskey glass. "We'll head home in the morning. I'm calling Church the minute we get back. We'll talk about it there."

The older members are pissed. It's clear on their faces they think retaliation is insane. I exchange a glance with the rest of us younger guys. They look shell-shocked and apprehensive, but if Cole gives the order, every one of us will head to our bikes and climb on like obedient soldiers.

"Let's play a game of pool," TJ suggests.

I follow, dreading what's coming and ruing the day Harry Silver's widow pulled onto our clubhouse ground.