Page 34 of Savage Fire

Stone scowled, nodding. “Didn’t ride all that way for a tea party.”

“And there was a promise of pussy, so I’m eager to get to that,” Killjoy, or Kill to his friends, the Stonecutters VP drawled, his salacious grin lopsided because of the long, deep scar running from his chin, by the corner of his mouth, and across the bridge of his nose. From what Fang had heard, the man got it in a knife fight with another man…after Killjoy had fucked the man’s teenaged daughter in the parking lot of the family’s Methodist church. Fortunately, the girl had been legal. Unfortunately, she’d also been a virgin, and her daddy hadn’t taken her deflowering by a biker all that well. He’d shown up at the Stonecutters’ clubhouse one day, challenged Kill, who’d taken him outside, handed him a knife, and told him he got the first swipe. The dad went for the pretty face that had seduced his daughter, and Kill, the virginity stealing asshole, had gotten that scar. The fucker wore it with pride.

Lick, the Stonecutters’ Road Captain, snorted. “Pussy is all you think about, fucker.”

“It’s all that’s good in the world,” Kill replied, grinning wickedly.

“Shut up, both of you. I have shit to do and that means you’re wasting something precious to me.” Stone looked about as pleased to be there as a whore in a confessional.

“Right,” Odin grumbled, looking around the table to meet the eyes of each individual man. Slamming the gavel down on the large conference table, he called the meeting to order. Each man in the room was a club officer, which meant that everything shared within the soundproofed, fireproofed, bombproofed walls was sacred.

“I called Church because Stone came to me with some information I believed critical to the continued well-being of this club.” With that, he gave a chin nod to Stone, who sat forward in his seat, the leather beneath him creaking from his weight. The fucker was like a literal stone.

“Last month our cyber man, Mad Hatter, heard some chatter from south of the border. Two of the Cartels down there have been pecking at each other, which isn’t what has me worried. Its that the bigger one has been making moves to come this way, looking to shuttle their products through Kingman and into Vegas. Since I know the Raiders don’t touch that shit, I knew you’d want a heads up.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time one of those motherfuckers thought they could bring their poison into our town. Problem is that even if we didn’t step in and shut them down, the Italians or the Russians would do it for us.” Grimm, as the Enforcer, had his fingers on the pulse of all the illegal dealings in Vegas. And it helped that the club-owned security company had connections with all the letters of American law enforcement. LVPD. FBI. ATF. DEA. NSA. Even the goddamn CIA. If he wanted to know something about someone, Grimm could find out.

Kill grunted, making all heads turn to him. “It’s the Russians buying the shit from the Colombians. They’re working on a deal—something shady as fuck—to be the lone supplier of high-grade coke to Vegas, LA, and San Diego.”

Motherfuck. Colombians. That couldn’t be a coincidence.

In seven years, he hadn’t heard hide nor hair of Jorge or the Calderone Cartel. As far as Fang knew, Jorge had kept his promise to make Javier Lopez a virtual dead man to anyone associated with the Cartel. Fang had left Colombia, created a new life in Las Vegas, and was damn well not looking to fuck it up by getting involved in Cartel shit ever again. If Jorge even thought to bring his shit here, he’d have to get through Fang first.

“Seems a little overconfident if they think they can take on Ms-13 or the Sons of Samoa. They damn sure won’t get their shit into Vegas,” Grimm scoffed.

“So the Medevs are ballsy enough to bring drugs into Vegas without brushing up against the Romanos? That’s some fucked up shit right there,” Hell Hound pointed out unnecessarily. “What else did Mad Hatter hear? Anything we can use to make them change their minds?” Translate: anything we can use to make sure Las Vegas is the last fucking place they think to sell their shit?

Stone grunted. “Only that the deal they’re looking to make is the flesh kind.”

“Trading in women?” Trouble growled, his face going hard.

“Nah. One woman. Looks like the Colombians are offering up one of their princesses in marriage to one of the Medevsovietniks. Tying them together by family will make them stronger. The Colombians and the Bratva together would be a bad deal for the Romanos who’re still relatively new to Vegas. Their hold in Chicago and New York is strong and long-lived. They didn’t move into the casino business until three years ago. Won’t take much to bring war the Romanos can’t win.”

Goddamn Motherfuck!

War? In Las Vegas? It would get bloody quick. And the losses would be catastrophic.

“Which Colombians?” Fang finally asked, dreading the answer, sweat beading on his forehead, his guts twisting beneath his racing heart.

“Mendoza,” Kill answered, and Fang’s chest nearly exploded from the force of his exhalation. Kill, taking note of Fang’s reaction, peered at him with searching eyes. He could search all he wanted, but Fang wouldn’t give him shit. His old life was dead, and unless Jorge made a move, it would stay dead.

Tessa could never know.

“I hate you!”

Fuck. She’d hate him more if she knew the truth.

“Mendoza and Medev…,” Lick mused. “Almost poetic.”

“Yeah, if you like your poetry with blood and death,” Grimm replied, rolling his creepy silver eyes.

“So, what do you want us to do?” Hawk asked, his focus on Odin who’d been largely silent, observing the conversation.

“I think we do some digging of our own. With as much as Hatter was able to get, I know we can get more. We stay quiet, watchful, and report anything we see or hear that can give us an idea of the movements of the Medevs. They aren’t all that quiet, but our contacts in the LVPD Organized Crime division will have informants we can mine for information.”

Stone leaned back, a look of respect crossing his face.

“You let us know what you need from us. The sooner we can nip this shit in the ass, the sooner we can get back to our own business. Hard to move guns when we have to watch our backs on our own turf,” Stone intoned.

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