Page 36 of Last Mile

Boone chuckled. “Forget it. B always paces before a fight.”

I gave the two of them a sheepish grin. “I didn’t even realize I was doing it.”

Mac stubbed out another cigarette. “I sure as hell wish this was just a fistfight. Somehow I think we would have better odds than waiting around to chitchat.”

“With you smoking like a fucking chimney, you’d be passed out in the first round,” Boone quipped.

“Shut up, fucker,” Mac snapped before taking another long drag on his cigarette.

As I chuckled, I felt some welcome relief from the tension. Unfortunately, the feeling didn’t last long because just then one of the Virginia Raiders stuck his head out the door. “All right, boys, you’re up.”

Mac cursed under his breath as he threw his half- smoked cigarette to the floor. After stomping it out, he made the sign of the cross and muttered, “Amen.”

After exchanging a surprised look with me, Boone reached out to stop Mac as he started for the door. “Seriously?” Boone questioned.

“Frankly, we need all the help we can get,” Mac replied matter-of-factly.

“Good to know we’ve got such a good Catholic boy on our side,” Boone mused.

The moment we stepped inside the room, the door closed and locked behind us. Smoke hung heavy along with the smell of stale alcohol and sweaty road-worn men. Around the massive mahogany table sat the presidents and vice presidents for the Southeast states.

While we represented the north Georgia chapter, there were also chapters from central and south Georgia as well. Boone, Mac, and I squeezed in to stand behind the chairs where Rev and Deacon sat.

At the head of the table sat the Southeast president, Rory “Rambo” Smithwick. With his long white hair and beard, he could almost pass for Santa Claus— if it weren’t for multicolored ink all over his neck, arms, and chest. We’d never had any issues with Rambo.

Back in the day, he and Preacher Man had gotten along really well. Their bond was cemented over the fact that they had both been in service. Although they were in different units, there was something to be said for a shared experience of being in combat.

It made strangers into a band of brothers.

Rambo let his gaze flicker around the table for a moment before clearing his throat. “The next item to discuss is a the

While many of the men were nodding in agreement, a lone voice

of dissent spoke up. “I have an issue with the way you disposed of

your gun trade.”

All eyes turned toward a scraggly looking man with a wiry salt-and- pepper beard. Although I had never met him, I knew who he was. Easy Eddy Catcherside was the east Louisiana president.

Throughout the years, he’d spent more time on the inside of a prison cell than he had on the outside. His club could be considered ragtag at best with many choosing to patch over to the Diablos when they started sweeping through the Southeast on a forceful membership drive.

After taking a sip of water, Rev calmly questioned, “What is your issue, Eddy?”

“You boys made a pretty sweet deal with the Rodriguez cartel.”

My breath hitched as I cut my eyes over to Rev’s profile. He clenched and unclenched his jaw several times before replying. I knew he was thinking about the reasons behind aligning ourselves with one of the Mexican drug cartels. It had ensured Annabel’s safety from Mendoza, the psychopath who had held her as a sex slave.

Rev stared Eddy down for a few seconds to collect himself. “Yeah, Rodriguez and I made a deal. Considering the parameters,

I wouldn’t exactly call it a sweet one. It’s not like we pocketed any money from it.”

“You want to explain why you didn’t offer your gun business to your brothers first?”

“I don’t see how the deals we make are any of your business,” Deacon growled before Rev could respond.

Eddy smirked at Deacon. “I wasn’t addressing you.”

“I’m a patch-wearing member and officer, cocksucker, so anytime you question my chapter’s judgment, I have the right to answer.”