keep Grand River out of the clusterfuck of lawlessness. Masking his mounting worries, Bishop asked, “What'd she say?”
“Says the Shugs get their crack from a drug cartel in some South American shithole.” Taking Bishop's lead, Coyote moved away from the blinds and sat down in one of the spare chairs. He fiddled with a pen as he continued to relay the fresh intel, “Then it gets transported up north via literal sugar deliveries.”
“ Literal sugar deliveries?”
“Yeah, like, you better make sure your mama's borrowed cup of sugar from the neighbor ain't actually crack.”
“Huh,” Bishop settled back in his chair, eyebrows furrowing. A particularly loud shriek from a power tool caught his attention for a split second. As it died away, he turned back to Coyote. “How'd the Skulls get into this?”
“They're all Mexicans. My guess is networking.” The green-eyed man shrugged noncommittally. It didn't matter how they got into it. The fact was that the Sugar Skulls were fringing on Seven Tribesmen territory. If they didn't do anything, their turf would be threatened. “The Shugs have a gunrunning business, so the hot theory is they pay for the snort with A.K.s or some shit.”
“Makes sense.” Bishop inclined his head, the sounds of the garage were beginning to rise in decibel. “We got proof?”
“Other than Miss Firecrotch, no.”
Bishop leaned back, his thoughts lolling. As soon as this information was made public, the lady would have a target on her back. Especially if the Sugar Skull's vice-president has some ties or claimed alcohol as his vice. Then again, he'd probably get gutted for putting his MC in danger. Light drinkers and loose lips never mixed well with outlaw gangs. Even without evidence, the fact she was willing to talk could be problematic. “Think she'll be safe in Fairview?”
“Why do you think Howler and Crow are still snoozing?” Coyote's grin took on a lurid light. Bishop chuckled and shook his head. Howler and Crow were far from possessive, but the woman had to be quite a sight for the two to share with each other. At least his men had the foresight to bring her back with them. Bishop's amusement was short lived as Coyote added, “You weren't the only one hitting it last night, boss.”
His irritation flared back to life suddenly and painfully. It sunk into every synapse of his brain, making every thought poisoned with annoyance. Bishop stood and leaned over the desk. His hand shot out, nerves hot with anger, and grabbed his vice president by the collar of his shirt. Coyote's eyes bugged, and he jerked backward, but his strength was nothing compared to Bishop’s. Half hauling the lanky man over the desk, Bishop narrowed his eyes and lowered his head. Locking his grey gaze with Coyote's bewildered eyes, the president snarled, “Coyote, drop it or I'll skin you.”
Shrieking sirens punctured the heavy tension in the room. Bishop instantly dropped his vice president and rushed to the exit. Just as he flung the door open, two cop cars skidded into the garage's parking lot. Red and blue lights flashed over the garage, the sirens keening through the air.
Officers scrambled out of the cars, hands on their holsters. Another car rolled up behind them. Bishop knew who it would be before the woman climbed out. Over the megaphone, Agent Stella Holmes announced, with crisp professionalism, “Richard Holloway and Nathaniel Williams, come out with your hands up!”
Instant tension weighed on the garage as dark annoyance skittered through all the employees. Not everyone wore a kutte, but everyone employed by the garage was a friend of the Seven Tribesmen. Grand River was wrought with families who needed a little monetary help from the 7T or individuals who needed to feel safe in a world of bullies. The Seven Tribesmen were there for them, and, likewise, most of the citizens had the club's back.
Overhead, two pairs of feet
“Says the Shugs get their crack from a drug cartel in some South American shithole.” Taking Bishop's lead, Coyote moved away from the blinds and sat down in one of the spare chairs. He fiddled with a pen as he continued to relay the fresh intel, “Then it gets transported up north via literal sugar deliveries.”
“ Literal sugar deliveries?”
“Yeah, like, you better make sure your mama's borrowed cup of sugar from the neighbor ain't actually crack.”
“Huh,” Bishop settled back in his chair, eyebrows furrowing. A particularly loud shriek from a power tool caught his attention for a split second. As it died away, he turned back to Coyote. “How'd the Skulls get into this?”
“They're all Mexicans. My guess is networking.” The green-eyed man shrugged noncommittally. It didn't matter how they got into it. The fact was that the Sugar Skulls were fringing on Seven Tribesmen territory. If they didn't do anything, their turf would be threatened. “The Shugs have a gunrunning business, so the hot theory is they pay for the snort with A.K.s or some shit.”
“Makes sense.” Bishop inclined his head, the sounds of the garage were beginning to rise in decibel. “We got proof?”
“Other than Miss Firecrotch, no.”
Bishop leaned back, his thoughts lolling. As soon as this information was made public, the lady would have a target on her back. Especially if the Sugar Skull's vice-president has some ties or claimed alcohol as his vice. Then again, he'd probably get gutted for putting his MC in danger. Light drinkers and loose lips never mixed well with outlaw gangs. Even without evidence, the fact she was willing to talk could be problematic. “Think she'll be safe in Fairview?”
“Why do you think Howler and Crow are still snoozing?” Coyote's grin took on a lurid light. Bishop chuckled and shook his head. Howler and Crow were far from possessive, but the woman had to be quite a sight for the two to share with each other. At least his men had the foresight to bring her back with them. Bishop's amusement was short lived as Coyote added, “You weren't the only one hitting it last night, boss.”
His irritation flared back to life suddenly and painfully. It sunk into every synapse of his brain, making every thought poisoned with annoyance. Bishop stood and leaned over the desk. His hand shot out, nerves hot with anger, and grabbed his vice president by the collar of his shirt. Coyote's eyes bugged, and he jerked backward, but his strength was nothing compared to Bishop’s. Half hauling the lanky man over the desk, Bishop narrowed his eyes and lowered his head. Locking his grey gaze with Coyote's bewildered eyes, the president snarled, “Coyote, drop it or I'll skin you.”
Shrieking sirens punctured the heavy tension in the room. Bishop instantly dropped his vice president and rushed to the exit. Just as he flung the door open, two cop cars skidded into the garage's parking lot. Red and blue lights flashed over the garage, the sirens keening through the air.
Officers scrambled out of the cars, hands on their holsters. Another car rolled up behind them. Bishop knew who it would be before the woman climbed out. Over the megaphone, Agent Stella Holmes announced, with crisp professionalism, “Richard Holloway and Nathaniel Williams, come out with your hands up!”
Instant tension weighed on the garage as dark annoyance skittered through all the employees. Not everyone wore a kutte, but everyone employed by the garage was a friend of the Seven Tribesmen. Grand River was wrought with families who needed a little monetary help from the 7T or individuals who needed to feel safe in a world of bullies. The Seven Tribesmen were there for them, and, likewise, most of the citizens had the club's back.
Overhead, two pairs of feet
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