Page 37 of Kyle

“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.

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