Page 119 of Monk

Benedict’s grin widened. “I don’t fuck around,” he said. “When I say something’s clean, it’s clean.”

I nodded slowly, letting the silence stretch for a moment. Then I glanced at Whisper one more time. He gave me a slight nod right before I turned back to Benedict and extended my hand. “We’ll take it,” I said.

Benedict’s grin didn’t falter. He stepped forward and clasped my hand in a firm, steady grip.

His eyes locked on mine, and for a moment, we just stood there, two men who understood exactly what this handshake meant.

This wasn’t just a transaction. This was a partnership. An alliance. A mutual agreement that we could do business together without bullshit, without games, without betrayal. “Pleasure doing business with you, Monk,” Benedict said, his voice low and serious now.

I held his gaze. “Likewise,” I said, and I meant it.

We loaded the crates into the truck Blackjack had driven separately. Another precaution in case we got pulled over on the way back. The last thing we needed was to be caught with a truck full of illegal hardware and no plausible explanation. Splitting up the cargo and the drivers gave us options if things went sideways.

Benedict and his brothers helped, working quickly and efficiently. They moved like a well-oiled machine, each man knowing exactly what to do without needing to be told. Years of running their operation had taught them the value of speed and silence. The less time we spent out in the open, the better.

When the last crate was secured and the truck bed covered with a tarp, Benedict walked over to me, his expression more serious than it had been all night. The easy smile he’d worn earlier was gone, replaced by something harder, more cautious.

“Monk, a word of advice,” he said, his voice low enough that only I could hear. He glanced around, making sure his brothers were out of earshot. “Watch your back. There’s a rumor going around that you got trouble. Federal trouble.”

I stiffened slightly, my jaw tightening. This wasn’t the kind of news I wanted to hear, especially not now.

“What have you heard?”

“Nothing specific,” Benedict said, shaking his head. “Just whispers. You know how it is. Word on the street is that someFED fucker is looking to make a score. Your name came up in a conversation I overheard at a bar last week.”

I nodded slowly, processing the information. It wasn’t surprising, really. I’d been operating long enough to know that eventually, someone always came sniffing around.

“Thanks for the info.”

Benedict’s gaze was steady, his eyes searching mine.

“Just watch your back,” he said again, more emphatic this time. “I’ve had my own problems with those fuckers before. They play dirty, and they don’t care who gets caught in the crossfire. They are worse than the fucking Biker Federation, and that’s saying something.”

“Noted,” I said, my mind already racing through possible scenarios and contingencies.

Benedict clapped me on the shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. “You need anything else; you know where to find me. I mean that. We take care of our own.”

“Appreciate it,” I said, meaning every word. In this business, reliable contacts were worth their weight in gold.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Monk

The sun was already climbing higher in the Texas sky, the heat radiating off the asphalt in shimmering waves. Benedict and his brothers stood nearby, watching us make our final checks with the casual efficiency of men who’d done this a thousand times before.

“You’re good to go,” Benedict said, walking over to shake my hand one last time. “Safe ride back.”

“Appreciate it,” I said, gripping his hand firmly.

Whisper was already on his bike, his helmet in his lap, checking his phone.

Blackjack checked the tarp one last time, then turned to me. “We splitting up at the border?” he asked, his voice low enough that only I could hear.

I nodded. “Five miles out,” I said. “Shadow, Trigger, and Judd will be waiting. You take the farm roads back with them. Whisper and I will stay on the main highway.”

Blackjack’s jaw tightened. “You sure that’s smart?” he asked. “If the Feds are watching?—”

“That’s exactly why we’re splitting up,” I said, cutting him off. “If they stop us, they won’t find shit. And if they stop you, you’ve got plausible deniability. Just a bunch of brothers out for a ride.”