Page 48 of The Devil's Scars

“Yeah, OK.” Dawson ran his hands through his dark hair. “I want to keep the Nevada contract with Skulls, and as much as he appreciates my drug contacts at this end, he doesn’t want to deal with me at that end. Crusher won’t deal with me at all, but he respects that Skulls has the need for the product, so he gets that Skulls will still buy from me, on behalf of both of them. That’s all square between them.”

He paused, took a breath.

“So the problem isn’t the demand or the supply… it’s the logistics. I have what Crusher and Skulls want and need, but I can’t take it to them.” Dawson stopped again, then plunged in at last. “I need you guys to do the deliveries. Crusher says if it’s you, you can go through Utah, no problem, and drop off the packages for the Highway Hellions instead of having to wait for Skulls to send the shit from Nevada. You can then cross the state line into Nevada, and Skulls will accept delivery directly from you.”

“And how much do you get out of this?” Wolf asked.

“Not anything like as big of a cut as we had with Jensen, of course, because we’d need to split it with you. I’d pay you way above market for delivery services, though, because without you boys on board, that whole contract goes away… huge hit to me financially, so the small cut is worth it.”

“Huge hit to your rep, too,” Wolf observed. “Losin’ two MC’s as major drug clients is nuclear, man. I mean, they’d have to scramble to find a good replacement supplier, but I’m sure that other groups are already circlin’ them, offerin’ what they got. They ain’t gonna be without a drug store for long.”

“I know,” Dawson admitted. “That’s why I’m talking to you. You’d drive, Wolf, just drive. Nothing else. Pick up, drop off, take your pile of cash. No stress or mess.” He grinned. “Illegal-lite, see?”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, I see.”

Scars glanced at his President, knowing that tone, knowing that Wolf saw clearly. People made the mistake all the time of thinking that Wolf Connor was stupid; they listened to his crap grammar and blunt speech patterns, and assumed that just because he was uneducated, he was a moron. But were they ever wrong: Wolf was the smartest, sharpest guy that Scars had come across in his life.

Yeah, his brother Sam was the most intelligent, and that went without saying, but Wolf was smart. Street-smart. Forged in fire, a School Of Hard Knocks graduate with honors, he’d pretty much raised himself on the street from the age of six. He read people like nobody’s business, spotted weaknesses in seconds, and like the primal predator that he was, he had the patience to quietly stalk his prey. Wait for them to fuck up, or relax, or turn their backs.

That was when Wolf pounced. Went for the jugular, ripping and tearing at the pulse. Left the body bloody and broken under a full moon as he howled in savage victory.

Wolf might be playing by the rules of society and law for the first time in his entire life, but he hadn’t been tamed. Not anything close to it… and now his ferocious gray gaze was nailed on Dawson. Scars didn’t feel sorry for Dawson, not even a little bit, but he did wonder if the man was starting to appreciate just what he’d done here.

Oh, shit, man. You made a mistake, bringing the wolf back to your patch and offering it a civilized tea and a cake-walk drug delivery job.

“So…” Dawson was good and unnerved, but he had to finish this, that much was clear. “What do you think, Wolf? Do you think we can – can cooperate? Set aside our differences and earn some good money for our clubs? Be good, strong Presidents and fatten up the treasuries? I mean, I know your personal bank account has taken a hit since you live exclusively off your legit earnings, I know your boys earn far less, I know not everyone’s happy about that – this arrangement will fix all of that. It’s win-win-win, a great thing for everyone. For all of us.”

“You think so, huh?”

Wolf spoke softly, and Scars tensed right the hell up. A quiet Wolf was the most dangerous version of the man, and automatically, Scars’ foot twitched: his second gun was there, in his boot, and he suddenly wondered if he was going to need it.

Yet again, just for a heartbeat and a blink, Scars thought about Sam’s words, about how there was really no getting away from this slimy, mucky underworld; he also wondered if he was about to take yet another life.

Maybe finally have his own taken.

“Yes, Wolf,” Dawson said, clearly sticking to his guns even as the house fell down around his stupid head. “I really think so.”

“No.” Wolf stood up and Scars followed suit. “Thanks for the meet.”

“Just – just no?” Dawson was stunned, got to his feet too. “Wait –”

“No.” Wolf grabbed his gun from the table, watching Dawson closely. “No way.”

“But –”

“No.” Wolf nodded at Scars, who picked up his own main piece. The two men backed up, not taking their eyes off Dawson for even one second. “Good luck, man. You’re gonna need it.”

“But why –”

“Because, Dawson,” Wolf said, as Scars got the conference room door open and shot a filthy, warning look at Patches, The Road Devils’ ex-manager at Blue Dragon who was now standing guard. He nodded at Wolf that he had eyes on the man outside, and Wolf returned his focus to Dawson. “We’re better off out of this life. I ain’t doin’ nothin’ to bring my boys back into it, you hear me? If they’re unhappy with earnin’ an honest paycheck, they know where you are, and they can defect on over here like the rest of my traitor ex-brothers you got in your crew. But as long as my people show up to tend bar, and fix cars, and do tattoos, I’m gonna assume they’re good with how things stand. That they already think I’m a good, strong President.”

“I’ll lose Skulls and Crusher,” Dawson said, almost desperate now. “I’ll lose a shit-ton – hell, man. I might lose everything.”

“Karma’s a bitch,” Wolf said coldly. “You made your decisions, and now you get to live with ‘em. You got some good stuff out of leavin’ The Road Devils, and now you gotta face the bad stuff, too. You’ll figure somethin’ out, man. You always do, when your back is against the wall.”

“You’ll be sorry for this,” Dawson said, taking a step forward, his expression furious. He was angry and reckless, beyond caring, and he proceeded to lose IQ points at an exponential rate. “This isn’t over, Connor. Not by a fucking long shot.”

“Listen up, asshole,” Wolf hissed, and Scars tightened his grip on his weapon, stared Patches down. “It is over. It’s been over for a year, but I guess you missed the fuckin’ memo that went around, so let me make this clear to you: we’re out of the life. I don’t give a shit how much money you throw at me, my answer is always gonna be ‘no fuckin’ dice’. End of. Here’s the thing, though… you threaten me or my people ever again, and I’m gonna forget that I’m a law-abidin’ citizen now. Just because I pay taxes don’t mean that I’ve forgotten how to make a man stop breathin’.” Wolf stepped forward, stood almost toe-to-toe with the smaller man. “So… you wanna test my memory on this point?”

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