Page 8 of Property of Tacoma
“Who you calling?” Bash asks, leaning against the closed door.
“Viper,” I reply, punching in the number from memory. The Miami Saints owe us a marker after we took care of that prick who was stalking his Treasurer’s old lady last fall.”
The phone rings four times before someone picks up. A young child’s voice comes through the speaker. Not what I was expecting at all.
“Lo?”
Despite the fucked-up situation, I can’t help but smile. The kid sounds like he can’t be more than four or five.
“Hey, little man. Is your daddy around?”
“Who this is?” The boy asks suspiciously.
My lips twitch.Who this is?Cute. “A friend. Now get your daddy, kid.”
I hear a woman’s voice in the background asking who’s on the phone. The boy replies casually, “My fwend.”
“Xavier Solis, you take that phone to your father right now.” I hear his mother scold. The sound of the boy’s feet thundering across hard floors echoes through the line.
A sharp pang of regret hits me unexpectedly. I missed these moments with Saylor when she was this age. My ass was locked up in Florida State while she was learning to talk, to walk, to call for her daddy. The five years I spent inside cost me more than just my freedom.
“What?” Viper’s gruff voice snaps me back to the present.
I roll my eyes, wondering how his old lady puts up with his surly ass. “Got a problem.”
“Tacoma.” It’s not a question. “Sounds like a personal issue,” he drawls, sounding bored.
“I’m calling in my marker, asshole,” I say, cutting through the bullshit.
The line goes quiet. So quiet that I pull the phone away from my ear to check if the call is still connected. It is.
“What do you need?” Viper finally asks, his tone completely changed. He’s all business now.
“A cleaner. And fucking fast.” What I really need is a miracle, but I’ll settle for someone who can erase the evidence that the mayor was executed here in our club.
Viper grunts. “I’ll have someone there in a few hours.” Before I can thank him, the line goes dead.
I toss the burner on the desk and meet Bash’s questioning gaze.
“He’s sending someone,” I confirm.
Bash nods, his posture relaxing slightly. “Who are they sending?”
I shrug. “Didn’t say. Better be someone good, though. This is a goddamn mess.”
I look around the small office at the framed photo of the original Kings of Anarchy members. There’s one of my pop and Rukus at one of the first rallies in Anarchy, California. Beside it is a photograph of me and Big Daddy smoking a J at the mansion. My eyes land on one of my pops and Uncle Red and linger. They built this club from nothing, established our territory in this sleepy beach town, and turned it into something that’s supported three generations of Bensons.
Now some unknown player is making a move against us, and I’ll be damned if I let them take what’s ours. The Kings of Anarchy have ruled Odin for over forty years. We’re not about to be dethroned now.
Especially not by someone who doesn’t even have the balls to show their face.
CHAPTER TWO
“If you don’t get your ass out of those blinds, I swear to God I’ll donate your furry butt to a petting zoo,” I growl, watching Panda’s little black paws destroy yet another set of custom mini-blinds. He freezes, his beady black eyes locking with mine through the RV window, before deliberately—and with what I swear is ayeah right bitchsmirk on his face—yanking down one more slat.
I yank the nozzle away from the pump with more force than necessary and lift the lever. My platinum credit card—the one registered to a shell corporation three layers removed from anything that could be traced back to me—has already been processed inside the store. One hundred and fifty gallons of diesel at $4.89 a gallon. Can you believe that shit? It’s highway robbery, but then again, this is Panama City Beach. They’re always ready to stick it to the tourists.
Panda taps on the window above my head. “You’re a little shit, ya know that?” I mutter affectionately.
