Page 55 of Smitty

Then, another click.

The image was grainy, but the flashes coming from inside the car were unmistakable. “They opened up on Prez before he even knew they were there.”

“They were wearing masks.” Drifter crossed his arms and grumbled under his breath. “Bad enough they blindsided him, but the cowards did it without showing their damn faces.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Ace snarled. “We’ll find them.”

“He’s right. We’ll find ‘em, but they aren’t making it easy,” Mercy replied.

“Had no plates, and the car was stolen from a parking garage down by the mall. It was called in early yesterday afternoon.”

“Damn.”

The room fell quiet. This wasn’t just some random hit. It was planned, and it was planned well. Whoever had done it wasn’t just trying to send a message. They were trying to bury a man and his club. Mercy turned the monitor back around and sighed.

“Got nothing solid yet.” Mercy leaned back in his seat. “I’m pulling cameras from businesses along the route and other street cams. I just need to catch a glimpse of them before they put on the masks.”

Drifter’s eyes narrowed. “You think you’ll be able to track them down?”

“Can’t make any promises, but I’m not giving up until I do.”

That was all he said. No cockiness. No promises. Just flat-out confidence. It was what the club needed. It was what Stone needed. Drifter knew that as he gave him a nod. “That’s what I needed to hear.”

I watched the two of them, both knowing exactly where this was headed before anyone else said it. Drifter broke the silence when he warned them, “War’s coming.”

“No, brother.” Ace looked at him dead in the eye. “It’s already here.”

They continued talking for a few minutes longer, and then Ace told Drifter they had rooms ready for us at the clubhouse. Drifter thanked him and told him we’d be back in the morning. We headed out to the truck, and since he knew the way, Drifter drove us over to the clubhouse.

It was well after midnight before we finally pulled through the gate. It looked different from ours, smaller and more rustic, but it felt the same. A heavy mix of cigarette smoke, bourbon, leather, and aftershave lingered in the air, and it made me feel right at home.

Most of the guys had gone home for the night, and those who were still there had already called it a night. One of the prospects showed us to our rooms, and I was quick to kick off my boots and climb into bed. I pulled out my phone and was pleased to see that I had more messages from Brooke.

Brooke:

Do you remember those peanut butter and banana sandwiches?

Me:

The ones I used to make? Because yours were terrible.

Brooke:

Yes. I’m talking about yours.

Me:

Yeah, I have them all the time.

Brooke:

I've tried making them for Anslee, but they were never as good as yours.

Me:

You always used fresh bananas. They have to be at least a little brown.

Probably didn’t smash them enough either.