Page 47 of The Devil's Scars

“Oooooh, I know that tone,” Dawson said. “It’s Scars Innis playing it calm and collected as his temper starts to rise.”

“Yeah?” Scars rejoined. “And I know that tone. It’s Dawson Kinley killing time, dancing around the fucking point, because he doesn’t want to say what’s really on his goddamn mind.”

Dawson laughed again, but it was a far more genuine laugh this time. “Yeah, we can read each other like books huh?”

“Yeah.” Wolf held Dawson’s flat black gaze. “So drop the bullshit and say what’s what, or we’re out of here. Me and Scars came on the understandin’ that we’d give you one chance to say what the hell you want. You waste our time or dick around, we agreed to walk. And I gotta tell you, man, my feet are pointin’ at the door.”

“OK, OK.” Dawson held up his large hands. “Same old Wolf Connor.”

Wolf didn’t even respond to that. He just cocked his dark head, trained his steel-gray eyes on his ex-brother, and waited, utterly still and silent. Not so much a wolf right now, as a snake all coiled up and ready to strike – or not strike, depending on whatever happened next.

“Lookit,” Dawson said, and that was when Scars knew that, despite all his sneering bravado and ‘who-the-fuck-cares’ blustering, Dawson was nervous. Starting a statement with ‘lookit’ was one of Dawson’s big tells, and Scars felt his own blue gaze sharpen, even as Wolf’s stance became somehow more like stone. “We need to talk about cooperation.”

Neither man responded to that, which they knew Dawson hated with a passion. The man couldn’t deal with silence at all, and sure enough, he started to talk again.

“I don’t mean the super, heavy-duty illegal shit, OK, I know your boys are out of that, Wolf. I mean the more… well. The milder illegal shit. Illegal-lite.”

Wolf and Scars exchanged loaded glances, returned their attention to Dawson. Still said nothing.

“It’s the Highway Hellions boys out in Utah,” Dawson said. “Crusher Alcott’s people.”

Right away, Scars tensed. Crusher Alcott. Oh, shit. If Scars had to make a list of people he was thrilled to never have to be in contact with again since Wolf had pulled the plug on the Jensen work, Alcott would go to place number one, with a rocket. Known for his fondness for crushing grown men’s windpipes with his bare hands, Crusher Alcott was a living nightmare, even in the one-percenter world, and Wolf and Scars had both been relieved to be away from him.

Except maybe not, because here Crusher was, back as a topic for discussion, for some ungodly reason. Scars flashed back to his conversation with Sam, when his brother had said that maybe it was impossible to get away from his old, criminal life, no matter how hard he tried, or how well-intentioned Wolf was.

The resurrection of Crusher Alcott, no matter how brief or small, showed Scars how right Sam was about the past refusing to stay dead and buried.

Jesus Christ. Just let me get away from the darkness and the monsters. Please. C’mon, man, old Jesus, old boy. Do me a solid here.

“Crusher Alcott?” Wolf said, the words a low, menacing growl. “Anythin’ involvin’ that motherfucker ain’t illegal-lite, Dawson, so don’t even start the bullshit with me. What do you want?”

“It’s not what I want, OK.” Dawson sighed. “It’s what Alcott wants.”

“And what’s that?”

“You.” He gestured at Wolf. “He wants you.”

“Why?”

“Lookit,” Dawson said again. “He – he doesn’t trust me, alright? Doesn’t want me to come near Utah with the drugs that we traffic into Nevada.”

“Why doesn’t he trust you?” Scars asked, though he already suspected the answer. Turns out, he was right.

“Because… well.” Dawson shifted again. “Because I screwed you guys over, basically, by leaving and starting The Blood Crew. Alcott doesn’t understand much, but he lives for club loyalty, and he – he told me I can’t cross over into Utah anymore. None of my boys can. I guess we can try to sneak in and through, but it’d just be a matter of time before we got caught, and you know it. Someone would see us, or someone in Nevada would get word back to Crusher. Everyone knows everything, somehow, so no sense even taking the risk, not even once.”

“So?” Wolf shrugged. “Go through New Mexico and Arizona and avoid Utah altogether. It adds hours to the transport, I know, but if Alcott’s bein’ a blustery prick, just do it. What’s the issue?”

“There’s another problem.”

“There always is,” Scars said wryly. “What?”

“Alcott’s talked to Skulls Montgomery in Nevada, too. Got him on his side. Skulls doesn’t want us making the drops.”

“Ah,” Wolf said, almost amused now. “So… lemme see if I’m up to speed here, man. You fuck off on your brothers, start a new MC, go lookin’ to grab all the dirty work I’d just dumped – and now some of those dirty contacts doubt you’re a stand-up guy? Is that about right?”

Dawson nodded tightly.

“Wow, I do love irony,” Scars said. “So I’ll enjoy all this later. For now, what are you asking? Spell it out, loud and clear.”

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