Page 28 of Jasper
When he hangs up, I stay crouched, switching back to recording.
They’re not acting like a new crew testing the waters, which leads me to believe this isn’t a quiet expansion. It feels like they are simply setting up shop and think no one’s going to interfere. I have a sinking feeling that someone important gave them the green light.
I quickly hit Slate’s contact again, and as soon as he begins to greet me, I interrupt him. “Call off the ambush. Tell the brothersto pull back and monitor only. I want to gather intel first. Come to me and we’ll talk in person.”
Slate growls, “Are you fuckin’ sure about this? ‘Cause I think this is our moment.”
“It’s not. Trust me on this, brother. I’m your VP, and I’m giving you a direct order.”
“Fuckin’ hell. Give me a minute, and I’ll be there.”
I come to my feet on the roof and watch my club brothers all veer off in different directions. Some seem to disappear, and others take up watchful positions where they can’t be seen.
Ten minutes later, I hear Slate’s bike down the block. He parks out of sight and comes around the alley to join me on the roof. We both crouch low behind the chimney and watch.
“Shit,” he mutters when he spots the commercial-sized mixers. “What the fuck are they doing?”
“I think this is what they’re doing for front money. Either that or they’re using a cement business as a way to launder money.”
“That makes perfect sense. It’s a cheap way to earn cash, stay visible without drawing heat,” Slate states.
“Here’s the thing that caught my eye—they’re strutting around sporting cuts with our territory on the back, and no one is doing a goddamn thing about it. It took Dad close to a fuckin’ decade to earn enough trust from the good citizens of this town that we weren’t being harassed every damn time our rubber hit the road. Don’t you think that’s strange?”
Slate shrugs. “Maybe our club paved the way, brother, and everyone thinks other clubs are like us.”
“They’re walking around like they own the place, and I think the reason is because someone local had to help make this happen. Zoning like that doesn’t go unnoticed.”
He nods grimly. “I’ll make some calls. See if anyone on the city side’s been cozy with outside investors. We’ll make getting intel on this concrete company a priority.”
I glance back towards the house. Tessa’s probably still inside. Maybe baking again. I haven’t seen her since she went back in, and I don’t blame her. This isn’t her world, but it’s leaking into her yard now.
“We shouldn’t move until we know more,” I say. “Dad would blow a gasket if we fucked up by pissin’ off some local politician and this all blew up in our faces.”
“That’s a good call, brother,” he admits gamely. “I can see that now.”
I put my hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your chance to tear into them soon enough. But in the meantime, I want someone watchin’ that place. Round the clock.”
Slate nods. “I’ll see to it.” He leaves without another word, already typing out instructions as he goes.
I pick up my hammer and get back to work. But my eyes keep drifting towards that warehouse. My gut tells me that something’s coming. And it’s not just some regular, run-of-the-mill turf war. It’s something smart, organized, and sophisticated. Somehow, this new threat sprang to life right under my nose without me realizing it—and that terrifies the fuck outta me.
Chapter 11
Tessa
“Lunch!” I call out, making sure my voice is loud enough to carry over the hammering.
There’s a pause, then the ladder creaks under the weight of several bodies making their way down. Jasper is wearing the first set of boots that hit the ground. He’s got a streak of dirt across his cheek, his shirt clinging to him from the heat, and sawdust in his hair. He looks exhausted, but he’s all eager smiles, clearly remembering that chicken pot pie I made for them.
Amused, I point to the side of the house, telling him, “The water hose is to the left. I keep a bottle of hand soap on the top. You and your crew might want to dust yourselves off and wash up, because we’re having sandwiches.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he tells me with a grin. “That’s mighty generous of you.”
One of the younger guys grins like he’s just been handed a winning lotto ticket when he sees the food. “Holy shit!” he mutters. “Are those homemade?”
“Yes,” I tell him proudly. “I even baked the bread myself,” I say, pulling the clear wrap off the platters. “I hope you like them.”
“I can virtually guarantee we will be brawling over who gets the last sandwich. I’ve never had one made with fresh bread before.”
