the Grimm’s vice president. The third man remained by the door, near Jester.
“Shiv, Striker.” Jackal nodded at them. This wasn’t the type of encounter where you shook hands and asked about each other’s families. They’d be civil for the sake of business and the preservation of both their clubs, but there was no love lost between the men.
“Where’s Snake?” Striker asked of the Grimm’s VP.
Something that looked a lot like fear clouded Jackal’s eyes. “He’s taking care of some other business.”
Striker didn’t buy it. Something wasn’t right, but it was too late to back out now.
“We need you out of Crystal Rock.” Shiv didn’t waste any time or breath on pleasantries. “I get that it’s a pain in the ass for you to transport your shit around our town, but it’s just too damn bad. It’s always been that way, and that’s the way it’s gotta stay to avoid bloodshed.”
Shiv paused, and Striker jumped in. “Cops in our town know we don’t deal in Smack or Molly or whatever shit you’re pushing these days. They’re getting wind of product coming through our town, and are starting to sniff around. We have a handle on them for the most part, but it’s only a matter of time before a do-gooder cop gets tired of it and calls in the Feds. We’re both fucked if that happens.
“You need to move your shit through Scorpions Trail like always and keep out of Crystal Rock. I know you don’t want a war any more than we do, and if the Feds show up, I promise we’ll steer them right to your door.” Scorpion’s Trail was a path through the mountains the Grimms had been using for years to transport drugs. It was difficult traveling, but the mountainous terrain kept them off the grid, and made it very difficult for the cops to set up a sting. The Grimms typically hired illegals to run the drugs from Mexico through the mountains with the promise of a place to stay.
In a surprisingly vulnerable move, Jackal ran his hands over his face. On closer inspection, the man looked weary and haggard. His long hair had grayed and deep wrinkles were set in his thin face. Jackal was only forty-seven, but he had the look of a man who’d lived his life hard and wild.
Jackal turned to the man on his left and jerked his head toward the door. The man stood and walked to stand by Jester and the other Grimm, near the door, leaving Jackal alone at the table with Shiv and Striker.
“I’m having some trouble with a few of my members,” he said while he stared at Shiv.
“Snake?” asked Striker.
Jackal gave one nod but didn’t elaborate.
Was he for real? Striker couldn’t believe what he was admitting to them. It was time for Jackal to stand down as president. Clearly he didn’t have control of his club anymore.
Shiv appeared just as unimpressed as Striker. “You need to handle your shit, Jackal. It’s not my problem that you can’t keep your little boys in line. Get your club under control. We’ve got plenty of contacts down in Mexico ourselves, wouldn’t take much to mess with your supply from that end. No more popping in our bars after a run, no more surprise visits to our hospital. Keep your men out of our territory. Stick to Scorpion’s Trail or I make some calls.”
That was the threat that would be most effective. The majority of the Grimm’s money came from running drugs. It was a bit of a stretch to let Jackal believe they could fuck up their supply with just a few phone calls, but it was true they had plenty of MC contacts down in Mexico, and with some effort could probably damage the Grimm’s imports.
Jackal nodded and stood. “Consider it done.” He motioned to his men and left the bar.
Shiv looked at Striker. “This shit stinks worse than a six-week-old wank sock.”
Striker grimaced at the image, and swallowed down the last of his whisky. “I hear you, Pres. There is definitely some shit in that cesspool. We did what we could for tonight. I think the threat of lost money will keep
“Shiv, Striker.” Jackal nodded at them. This wasn’t the type of encounter where you shook hands and asked about each other’s families. They’d be civil for the sake of business and the preservation of both their clubs, but there was no love lost between the men.
“Where’s Snake?” Striker asked of the Grimm’s VP.
Something that looked a lot like fear clouded Jackal’s eyes. “He’s taking care of some other business.”
Striker didn’t buy it. Something wasn’t right, but it was too late to back out now.
“We need you out of Crystal Rock.” Shiv didn’t waste any time or breath on pleasantries. “I get that it’s a pain in the ass for you to transport your shit around our town, but it’s just too damn bad. It’s always been that way, and that’s the way it’s gotta stay to avoid bloodshed.”
Shiv paused, and Striker jumped in. “Cops in our town know we don’t deal in Smack or Molly or whatever shit you’re pushing these days. They’re getting wind of product coming through our town, and are starting to sniff around. We have a handle on them for the most part, but it’s only a matter of time before a do-gooder cop gets tired of it and calls in the Feds. We’re both fucked if that happens.
“You need to move your shit through Scorpions Trail like always and keep out of Crystal Rock. I know you don’t want a war any more than we do, and if the Feds show up, I promise we’ll steer them right to your door.” Scorpion’s Trail was a path through the mountains the Grimms had been using for years to transport drugs. It was difficult traveling, but the mountainous terrain kept them off the grid, and made it very difficult for the cops to set up a sting. The Grimms typically hired illegals to run the drugs from Mexico through the mountains with the promise of a place to stay.
In a surprisingly vulnerable move, Jackal ran his hands over his face. On closer inspection, the man looked weary and haggard. His long hair had grayed and deep wrinkles were set in his thin face. Jackal was only forty-seven, but he had the look of a man who’d lived his life hard and wild.
Jackal turned to the man on his left and jerked his head toward the door. The man stood and walked to stand by Jester and the other Grimm, near the door, leaving Jackal alone at the table with Shiv and Striker.
“I’m having some trouble with a few of my members,” he said while he stared at Shiv.
“Snake?” asked Striker.
Jackal gave one nod but didn’t elaborate.
Was he for real? Striker couldn’t believe what he was admitting to them. It was time for Jackal to stand down as president. Clearly he didn’t have control of his club anymore.
Shiv appeared just as unimpressed as Striker. “You need to handle your shit, Jackal. It’s not my problem that you can’t keep your little boys in line. Get your club under control. We’ve got plenty of contacts down in Mexico ourselves, wouldn’t take much to mess with your supply from that end. No more popping in our bars after a run, no more surprise visits to our hospital. Keep your men out of our territory. Stick to Scorpion’s Trail or I make some calls.”
That was the threat that would be most effective. The majority of the Grimm’s money came from running drugs. It was a bit of a stretch to let Jackal believe they could fuck up their supply with just a few phone calls, but it was true they had plenty of MC contacts down in Mexico, and with some effort could probably damage the Grimm’s imports.
Jackal nodded and stood. “Consider it done.” He motioned to his men and left the bar.
Shiv looked at Striker. “This shit stinks worse than a six-week-old wank sock.”
Striker grimaced at the image, and swallowed down the last of his whisky. “I hear you, Pres. There is definitely some shit in that cesspool. We did what we could for tonight. I think the threat of lost money will keep
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