Page 13 of Sinful
"Sorry," he says, grabbing a beer from Phantom's cooler without asking. "Fucking heifer decided todaywas a good day to get stuck in mud up to her belly. Took four of us and a winch to pull her stubborn ass out."
"Get her out?" Phantom asks.
"Eventually. Lost two hours and probably ten years off my back." Blaze drops into the chair on my other side, the wood groaning under his weight. "We talking about Los Coyotes?"
"We are."
"Good. Because I'm tired of losing people and product to that piece of shit Sebastián." Blaze drinks half his beer in one go, like he's trying to wash away the taste of the day. "Three drivers dead. Three good men. Manuel had a wife and four kids. Cisco was two weeks from retirement, had a fishing cabin in Colorado all picked out. And Tommy..."
He trails off, shakes his head. "Tommy was nineteen. Prospect who wanted to make full patch. Now he's in pieces on a highway because we didn't see this coming fast enough." The anger in his voice is justified.
When you run a club—really run it, not just wear the patch—you're responsible for your people.
Their deaths are on you. Their families are on you. Their blood stains your hands even if you weren't the one holding the knife.
Everything is on you.
"That's why I'm sending Bravos to Florida," Phantom says.
Blaze looks at me, assessing. "When?"
"Tomorrow morning. Early." Phantom leansforward, elbows on his knees, beer dangling from his fingers. "Runes called two days ago. Wants a meeting—him, Damon from Reapers Rejects Nevada charter, and us. Forming an alliance to push back against Los Coyotes before this gets worse. Before we're all bleeding out on highways."
"Why Florida?" I ask. "Neutral ground makes more sense."
"Because Raiders got hit hardest. Their territory, their rules. Plus, they've got the facilities—secure clubhouse, safe places to meet, enough manpower to protect everyone during the meeting." Phantom's face does something complicated. "And because I'm not setting foot in the same state as Runes if I can help it."
The old grudge. I don't know all the details—happened before I prospected, back when Phantom and Runes were younger and apparently stupider.
Something about a deal gone wrong.
Money or territory or pride, maybe all three.
Whatever it was, they've hated each other for twenty years and counting.
The kind of hate that's personal, that runs deep enough to override logic. "So I'm going instead," I say.
"You're going instead." Phantom meets my eyes, and his are hard, unyielding. "You speak for Shotgun Saints. Whatever you agree to, we honor. Whatever you refuse, we refuse. You have full authority to make deals on our behalf."
That's significant. Most clubs wouldn't send anyone but the president or VP to something this important.Too much at stake, too much that could go wrong. But Phantom knows I won't let personal shit cloud my judgment. Know I'll negotiate clean, think long-term, make the moves that need making without emotion getting in the way.
That's why I'm a Nomad.
Why I've been handling sensitive situations for years. Because I don't get attached.
Don't let emotion drive decisions.
My dead eyes aren't just trauma—they're an asset.
"What are the terms?" I ask. "What are we willing to give?"
Phantom thinks about it, takes another pull from his beer. "Alliance is fine. Coordinated action against Los Coyotes is fine. Sharing intel, resources, manpower—all fine. We pool information, hit them together, cover each other's backs. What we don't do is give up territory or profit. This is mutual defense, not charity. We're not bailing out the Raiders or the Reapers, we're protecting ourselves by working together."
"And if they want more?"
"Then negotiate. You know what we can afford to lose. You know what crosses the line." He pauses, watching a bat swoop past hunting insects. "But Bravos? We need this. We can't fight Los Coyotes alone, not with Sebastián in charge. He's too aggressive, too willing to burn everything down to prove a point. We need allies or we're dead in six months. Maybe less."
The admission costs him.
