Page 124 of Riding the Edge

Chapter Thirty-seven

You know things are bad when you arrive at the precinct only to learn your entire club has been sent to the Brooklyn Detention Center, where all the convicts go before they’re shipped off to Rikers Island. Parking the Charger on Atlantic Avenue, I drag my ass into BDC and spot Anthony and Nico huddled together, both of them looking equally dumbfucked. Scanning the room, I also notice Reina. Standing beside the club’s attorney, she appears to be in deep conversation with a man I’ve never seen before.

Keeping my eyes on the trio, I make my way towards Nico and Anthony. I don’t even bother greeting them before I jut a finger towards the suit standing in front of Reina.

“Who’s the stiff?”

“The best criminal defense attorney in New York, Jeremy Schwartz,” Anthony reveals.

“And how did we happen to strike the lawyer lotto with him?”

“Well, when we decided that you would stay with mom and I’d follow the guys, I figured they’d need a lawyer. I didn’t know who you guys had on retainer, so I called Vic’s old attorney,” he supplies, crossing his arms. “He kept Vic out of jail for twenty years.”

Yeah, until his luck ran out, and he advised the notorious gangster to turn himself in.

“How’s my mother?”

“She’s okay,” I say turning my attention back to him. “Lauren is staying with her.”

“Does she know what’s going on?”

“We didn’t want to tell her, but you know your mother,” I reply, raking my fingers through my hair. “Alright, so fill me in. Do they got anything to make these charges stick or is this another bogus attempt to fuck with us?” Even as the words leave my mouth, I realize how ridiculous they sound. If the cops wanted to fuck with us, they’d send some blue and whites. They were picked up by the ATF and the FBI—there ain’t nothing bogus about this shit.

“Apparently, they met with the Sinaloa cartel at some paper factory downtown. Something went down with Bas’ mother and his old lady and somehow word got out that there was a shootout going down at Pipe’s house,” Nico says.

“Pipe’s house?” I ask, trying to make sense of everything.

“Bas and his woman were staying at Pipe’s old house. From what we know, the cartel had guys stationed in front of the house. Bas’ mother and her club showed up and started shooting at them. One of those guys must’ve called the crew meeting with the club and they started firing away at our guys.”

“I’m not understanding where the charges come from,” I growl, slicing my eyes to Anthony. “They brought them in on a murder charge. Are you sure this don’t have something to do with the paramedic?”

“I took care of that,” Anthony insists, glancing around the room. “No one is finding that body. Not now and not twenty years from now.”

Holding his gaze, I bite the inside of my cheek and recall the detective who showed up at the hospital after Nico was shot.

“The detective didn’t buy Jack’s story about the first paramedic,” I point out.

“There is no proof,” Nico inserts. “There are no cameras at the garage and Jack left with the gun he used to kill him. This has nothing to do with the paramedics.”

“If you would let me finish, I can explain the fucking charges,” Anthony hisses. “Schwartz said the cops got an anonymous tip to go to the paper factory. When they found out the Sinaloa cartel was involved, the Feds took over because they’ve been building a case against them. They went to the factory and found three bodies. Two were cold and one was still breathing. Apparently, they got to the guy before he lost consciousness and he named the Knights as the culprit.”

“Wait a minute, you’re telling me they all got arrested because some douchebag named them in a shootout. That’s fucking hearsay. It’ll never stick.”

“They found a gun,” Nico reveals.

“I should hope they found a fucking shit ton of guns if they charged them with possession and intent to sell,” I grunt. “Still, those guns aren’t marked.”

We’ve been in the business of selling guns for quite some time and have mastered the exchange. Those fucking guns are concealed in shipping crates. They’re wiped clean of serial numbers and distributed with no trace.

“The gun they got isn’t an AK49, Wolf,” Anthony whispers harshly. “It wasn’t one they were planning to sell.”

“So, what are you saying they have one of our guns?”

They still can’t prove shit. Our guns aren’t registered.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Right now, it might all seem like circumstantial evidence but once forensics pulls the print on the gun, they’re going to know who fired it and killed those two guys.”

It begins to click, and I roughly run my hands over my face. Peering across the room, I glance at Reina and the two attorneys before turning back to Anthony.

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