Page 7 of The Games We Play
“Nothing but trees and sky,” he mutters. “Would be a great night for a jump.”
I look up at the sky, seeing nothing but stars for days. I’ll take the ex-Navy SEAL’s word that it’s a good night to drop out of an airplane.
I scan what I can see of the tree line. It’s dark. The buyers are Russian. Not gonna ask them what these weapons are for, but I hate the idea they might work their way back to Russian soil. They’re bringing cash. It’s an experiment, selling to them. We don’t know these guys. They’ve got one shot to prove they are legit. Well, as legit as you can be in an underground weapons world.
Once the deal’s done, we’ll review if we should do business with them again.
“I can taste whiskey,” Halo mutters. “Gonna drink a bottle of it and pass out when we get back.”
“I’ll grab tequila and join you,” I say. I love three things. Power, Patrón, and pussy. The power I get from being a true one percenter. Living my life by my own rules. Riding or dying with my brothers. And a night with a great bottle of tequila and high-end ass after a long hard ride on my bike is as good as it gets.
“Two bikes and a van,” Switch tells me.
I pass the news along. “They’re here.” When I tip my chin at Niro, he sits up straighter and tucks his phone back into his shirt pocket.
King stamps out his cigarette in the dirt, fixes the waistband of his denim, and runs his hand over his Glock. I prefer my SIG. One is in the small tool compartment on my bike, handle up, ready for me to grab it if required. Another is holstered beneath my cut, but you can bet I’ll have that fucker out, aimed, and fired in less time than a man can blink.
“Prez,” I caution as he steps towards them.
“Sorry, Mom,” he says. But knowing I hate it when he gets ahead of me at these things, he takes two steps back anyway.
When the bikes and van pull into the clearing, they leave their headlights blazing at us. Obscuring our vision. It’s a dick move, and I pull down my night sights. Don’t give a shit if I look stupid. They cut the glare, and I can make out the guys. Both bald. Both jacked. Neither gets off their bike. A guy climbs out of the van.
“Name?” Prez says.
“Viktor,” the guy says with a heavy Russian accent.
We don’t do the pat down shit; it’d be fucking stupid. We all know we’re packing. And there are more of us than there are of them.
“You got them with you?” Viktor asks.
King nods and directs him to the back of our van. “This way.”
Viktor walks with King. The two bald guys make me nervous, but I know Switch and Halo have our backs. I give them a hand signal to let them know to watch them while I cover Prez.
They’re making small talk about something as King opens the doors.
I hear a fluttering of a bird’s wing, followed by the rustle of leaves. Then I hear a creak. Like a rusty hinge. It’s slow. I glance over to King. The Russians aren’t touching their van. Niro is still seated inside ours.
I glance over to Tweedledee and Tweedledum.
What was that fucking sound?
“You see shit?” I whisper so Switch and Halo can hear.
“Nothing.”
“Rear doors,” Halo says. I can’t see them from where I’m standing.
“King,” I say in warning.
He looks my way, and in the heartbeat it takes him to look up, Viktor pulls his gun and points it at King’s skull while yelling a single word into the night. The van opens and more men pile out.
It’s a Trojan fucking horse.
I see the red dot on Viktor’s head. “Go,” I shout.
Viktor falls to the ground—shot from Switch’s rifle—as I open fire. Bullets from their weapons shatter the glass windows, but Niro is no longer there. He appears on the opposite side of the hood, using it for cover, and I run behind the van to get to King.
