Page 19 of Vapor's Blaze

King adds, “Yeah, that’s why we’d best get to scrounging. On top of needing weapons ourselves our buyer has been calling repeatedly for the merchandise we promised.”

Someone said something else, but I couldn’t make it out because a truck came rumbling by. It sounded like they were discussing how short they were.

“The problem is,” King grumbles, “We don’t have enough to fill the order, much less for anything to be left over for our armory.”

The Legion has known for a long time that King was running short on weapons. Giving up even one weapon from their personal stock isn’t really an option because of the escalating conflict with us.

Shipping another load through their normal network right now was not possible so they resorted to a quick deal with someone they hardly knew. Regardless of the fact that Tracker had vouched for him, making a deal with Scud was a gigantic risk.

I long to take a draw off my vape as I watch King light a cigarette, but I don’t want to do anything that might give away my position. After a few quick puffs, King stubs out his smoke and tucks it in his pocket. This old man was meticulous about not leaving behind evidence. He was even wearing black leather gloves.

They all turn when they hear a vehicle approaching. Scud arrives in a beat up pick-up truck, dressed like a plumber in overalls and work boots. Dusting his hand across the front of his overalls, a cloud of dust flies off the pants, causing him to sneeze. I zoom in with my binoculars and adjust my earpiece.

He steps out to greet the president of the Hellfire Hounds. “I was expecting Tracker.”

“I know you usually deal with my grandson, but I wanted to meet you myself to establish a working relationship. Guess you heard what went down on Route Sixty?”

“I heard those fucking deputies arrested your men. I hope they don’t end up serving time over that shit.”

“We’ve got a damn good club lawyer. The rifles were mostly all legal. They might be able to get on an interstate transportation of weapons charge. Our lawyer is doing his best to work it out for us.”

Scud responds wryly, “I hope your attorney told them to keep their stupid traps shut. One person saying the wrong thing can implicate the others. They all might wind up serving time.”

“They’ve been warned by our lawyer to shut the fuck up.”

“That’s gonna be their best bet for avoiding a long sentence. If there’s anything I can do, let me know. You here for the shipment Tracker talked about?”

“Clearly, we need to replace the cargo that got impounded by the police. Like I said, it was all rifles. We need as many used weapons as you can get your hands on. If they’re a little dodgy, that’s okay. We’ve got guys who can fix them right up.”

“Tracker said you were interested in Colts. I’ve got fifty of them in my truck right now. I don’t know what kind of timeline you’re up against, but I can get more later this month. If you’re open to different models, I can fill your order faster. Hell, I even have a Remington with a mounted night scope and bump stock attachment but that’s not for sale at the standard price.”

I watch King scratch the back of his neck as he likely runs over the numbers in his head. Rubbing his chin, he takes a moment. My best guess is the old man is parsing out the details of the sale. Finally, he says, “I’ll look over the Colts you have with you today and I’ll probably take the one with the night scope. I’ll send Tracker to look over whatever else you can dig up for my club brothers. I’ll take the rifles you have for sale today as is, on a show of good faith, but my grandson will need to give all the used ones a test drive before purchasing them.”

King is smart. He’s not giving this shady arms dealer an opportunity to layer junk rifles into the next shipment.

Scud nods at that.

“The deal has to be cost effect or we can’t buy from you. Always bear that in mind,” King says as he walks toward the truck.

“That makes sense. If you want to come and have a look, I might be able to negotiate a little on the price if you buy them all, but I’m not gonna take a loss.”

“My grandson said you were honest, dependable, and always made a fair deal. Unless I find out otherwise, I’m gonna take his word for it.”

Scud’s body relaxes. It’s weird how I can tell that from so far away. It’s like he was standing straight as a board one second and the next his shoulders slumped, one leg moved into a more comfortable position and even his arms became looser. “I hope this is the beginning of a long and prosperous relationship between us, King.”

There’s silence as King starts rummaging through the weapons in the back of Scud’s truck. He picks up the rifle with the mounted scope and looks through it. When the weapon sweeps in my direction, I quickly step back and out of sight behind some foliage. The last thing I need is the Hound’s club prez catching sight of me. Right now, they have no idea we’re monitoring them, and I intend to keep it that way.

“I will see that our relationship is mutually beneficial on my end, Scud. If you ever need to unload weapons or supplies, call me first.”

After some more back and forth and a friendly handshake, they were on their way back to the clubhouse. The thing was, King didn’t seem happy with the situation. I didn’t know whether it was the limited number of rifles, being unable to fill that order they talked about, or the price he’d settled on that didn’t sit right with him. Whatever it was, put a frown on his face.

Again, I trail far behind using the tracking app so they don’t realize they’re being followed. He ends up back at the clubhouse and as soon as the prospects open the gate, King parks his bike and leaves the others behind.

Zen managed to hack into their security, so I pull up the live feed on my phone and watch King stalk into his office and slam the door behind him. He might be a sneaky fucker when it comes to weapons and not leaving any evidence, but he and his club brothers definitely don’t have any smarts when it comes to tech. Grabbing a burner phone, he puts a battery in it and dials a number. He was so deep in his own thoughts that he ignores Boone, who has cracked the office door open and slipped inside.

I had turned down the volume on my earpiece after King entered the clubhouse because there was much less background noise to contend with, but when whoever he’s calling answers, I turn my volume up all the way back up in order to hear what the caller is saying.

An older male voice with a country twang asks, “King, is that you? You still haven’t delivered my fucking rifles, and it’s pissing me off. Tell me that you have my rifles, asshole.”

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