Page 60 of Miguel

“Finally catching on.”

I curled my fingers into my palms as I turned away.

If only to avoid flipping him the goddamn finger.

Chapter Twenty-two

Miguel

Ihatedtoleavethe state, but club business was club business and we had a weekend gun run to make.

The entire ride I spent with my ass clenched in nervousness. My eyes scanned our surroundings. My hands flexed against the handles of my bike. I itched to reach for my gun, but kept my head level.

I forced myself to push aside all outside thoughts that weekend. It didn’t matter that I wanted to let thoughts of Lorena Flores consume me. That I wanted to remember the way she looked on her knees with my cock shoved deep down her throat.

I couldn’t wait for this run to be done and fucking over with. To get back home to Zeke, who I’d left with Camila and Crank.

The drop was going to be made in Hidalgo. Little more than a weekend’s ride, and yet the hours seemed to drag. Being on the back of my bike was supposed to give me clarity, but all it gave me was turmoil. So much that by the time we arrived at the drop sight, I was on edge.

We parked our bikes, everyone somber and quiet. The fact that we’d had our original shipment stolen kept us all on high alert, scanning the shadows as if someone would hop out and start shooting to steal our shit again. But all was quiet, though with the tell-tale sounds of awaiting Raven Brothers speaking in low voices.

I gave a nod over at Mayan, Cubano, and the rest of the guys. We didn’t all come on this run–Loco stayed back at the club house–but we were enough.

Mayan grabbed several bags of product and slung them over his broad shoulders. Cubano and I did the same and we marched forward.

The drop was at a warehouse that belonged to the Ravens. While they resided states away, they still owned several properties throughout the country much like Los Diablos did. The Ravens had started off as a small street gang that had exploded over the course of a few decades. Now they were powerful, made men. The kind that had mafia money, cartel power, and the fast and dangerous lives of bikers. They were a firm mesh of all three things. Something vicious, deadly, and absolutely new.

Working with them was in Los Diablos greatest benefit, but if we ever got on their bad side, it would mean war.

There were plenty of suppliers the Ravens could have gone to but we were the best. Guns and drugs, we delivered the good shit and hadn’t had any complaints. It kept our pockets fat and people like them coming back for more.

The Ravens were dressed impeccably in their signature black pants and collared shirts as we entered the warehouse. Their fancy dress didn’t fool me or any of us. They were as deadly as they were well-dressed.

They stopped talking when they caught sight of us.

The leader of the bunch, a tall man named Iván, nodded in my direction, deferring to me as the highest ranking Diablo present. He was surrounded by his brothers, nephews, and sons. My gaze slid over each of them with slow calculation.

Iván’s sons were young, ranging from eighteen to twenty, and it was obvious from their fresh-faced, shit-eaing grins settling over their dark features. They lounged on the backs of their heels, rocking forward with their hands stuffed into their pants pockets. Silver chains with etched images of feathers dangled close to their throats, the edges glinting like knives.

We’d worked together before, and it was always the same song and dance. Iván, with his menacing scowl, his sons arrogant and threatening while the others looked on. Always dipped in caution, never trusting. To trust someone in our position, at this stage in the game, was pure stupidity.

And an easy way to find your back riddled with bullets.

“Mayan.” My voice was an order. A command.

Mayan walked cautiously forward, pulling the bags over his shoulders and tossing them in between the floor space that separated us. He walked backwards and, one by one, our members went forward to toss the product onto the floors.

Once we were all in our own formation, Iván nodded to his goonies who went to retrieve the product. They unzipped the bags, looking, counting, inspecting. I held my breath, fingers itching to flex towards my cuero to reach for the gun I had stashed there.

Iván’s goonies nodded once they finished inspecting everything, and after a signal from Iván, they tossed their own bags to the floor.

Cubano went forward, taking his time to count the stacks of money in each one. It was a slow, meticulous process. The longer the minutes dragged, the more sweat slid down the back of my neck. When Cubano finally finished, he nodded in my direction, slinging the bags of cash over his shoulders.

“We done here?” I asked, eager to get away, though I didn’t let the sentiment bleed into my voice.

Iván nodded. “I trust,” he began, his voice dripping low with the hint of warning, “that we won’t have issues with our product ever again.”

He was referring to the fact Loco asked for extended time. The implications of his words made my palms itch.

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