Page 3 of Loving Smoke

Jameson’s jaw twitched. “You got nothing to say?”

“I had no idea about the prospect. Crank said he knew him from back in the day.”

“And guess what, my contacts at SDPD told me Crank and the prospect are nowhere to be seen. Word is they’ve already put them in WITSEC.”

“Fuck, so Crank was in on it too?”

“He brought the motherfucker in here,” Jameson yelled. “The DEA got to him and made him a deal. Another thing you might’ve noticed if you were around here taking care of business, but no.” Jameson gripped the back of a chair and pitched it against the wall. “You’re off in La Jolla shoving blow up your nose while some bitch sucks your dick.”

I drew in a ragged breath at Jameson’s accurate description. His temper was legendary. One time he got so pissed off at the L.A. chapter he broke every bottle of booze in their clubhouse.

“Look, I know this looks bad, but I’ll get our lawyer on it. There must be some kinda loophole, or some shit.”

“Loophole? There’s no fuckin’ loophole. Apparently, the rat prospect’s been feeding them information for the last three months. Pages and pages documenting all the shit that went on here. Then today they swept the place including the basement with the pallets of smuggled guns, dope, and every other piece of contraband you store down there.” Jameson dragged his hand through his hair. “It’s all over. You’re done.”

“Done?”

“I made my decision. This chapter is closed down.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, closed down?” I motioned around the room trying to make out what he meant.

“There is no more Royal Bastards in San Diego.”

Jameson’s words hung between us as realization crept over me. The place I called home for the last ten years was no more, but I refused to go down without a fight.

“That’s bullshit. You can’t just close us down. I’ll go to Colt and see what he says.”

Jameson barked out a rough laugh. “Ohhh, you really don’t wanna do that.”

“Why?”

“Cause he’s even more pissed off than me. If it was up to him you’d be stripped of your colors along with the tats on your back.”

“Fuck.” Five years ago I witnessed a guy get stripped of his club tats. There were two methods. Acid or gasoline poured over the tat then lit on fire. Not a pretty sight. If I concentrated I could still smell the sickening scent of burning flesh and the piercing screams of the six-foot-four biker.

“The bottom line is you and Blood got one hour to get whatever shit you want outta here, then this place is gonna be torched.”

“Torched?”

“The cops took plenty of pictures and samples, but the bulk of the shit is still in the basement. We can’t chance moving it, so I called in some favors and in an hour this place is gonna be lit up like a firecracker on the Fourth of July.”

“And then what?”

Jameson paused and rubbed at the scruff on his jaw. I knew his tell. It meant bad shit was on its way. Of course, how bad could it be after hearing my home of the last ten years was gonna be cinders and my club no longer existed.

Jameson drew in a breath. “We want you to set up shop in Tijuana.”

“Tijuana?” I was wrong. It was worse. Way fuckin’ worse.

“You can’t stay in Cali, and we’ve been looking to set up a base in Mexico.”

“But, Tijuana? It’s the asshole of the earth. Geez, fuck, you can’t even drink the water.” I pounded my fist on the table. “Forget it. I ain’t goin’ to Tijuana.”

“Fine.” Jameson shrugged. “Then you have two choices—gasoline or acid.”

Another long silence as I digested Jameson’s ultimatum. He wasn’t a man who made idle threats. He also didn’t give a shit which way this went because the man was all about business. A trait I usually admired.

“And what the fuck are we gonna do when we get to Tijuana?”

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