Page 39 of Iggy

“I have to assume with a head like that, you’re Skull,” said a man walking toward him. Skull smirked and nodded.

“You must be Nutt,” he said extending his hand.

“That’s me. That’s my second, Plum and my road captain, Wood.” Iggy frowned looking at the men and then back at Gunner and Razor. They weren’t going to question the names, but Iggy just had to.

“Hold on. You’re Nutt, he’s Plum, and he’s Wood.”

“That’s right,” said the man staring directly at him.

“You’re fans of a ballet. You like the Nutcracker?” asked Iggy.

“You got a problem with the ballet?” asked Wood. Iggy held up his hands shaking his head.

“Not at all. A friend of ours owns a ballet school and was a former ballerina.”

“We know,” said Nutt. “Our daughters all went to the school with Lissa. They’ve been performing the Nutcracker since they were babies. They gave us these names.”

“Coolest shit ever,” smirked Iggy. The tension eased and the men all chuckled, nodding their heads.

“Take a seat. Beer?” asked Plum.

“It’s a fucking mess out there, brother. Just hot coffee for me and a sandwich if they can make one,” said Skull.

“Already done,” said Nutt. “Ghost said y’all were the one’s coming. We knew we had to have food or get our hand bitten off.”

The food and hot coffee appeared out of nowhere and the four men took advantage of some personal fuel. Skull looked at Iggy, who still seemed somewhat confused.

“Iggy, the Swamp Rats have been considered a one-percenter club for almost twenty years,” said Skull.

“Considered?” frowned Iggy.

“Boy is smart,” grinned Nutt. “We’re not much different than y’all. We carry a fine line between legal and not. Except we’re more inclined to be on the not side and more inclined to not give a fuck. We focus specifically on true one-percenter clubs.

“We don’t run drugs, we don’t traffic women or children, and we sure as fuck don’t hurt innocent people. We stop those that do in a very discreet way. That’s why we agreed to the loan to the Graveyard Saints. We knew Neela couldn’t pay it back and we want them out of business.”

“Did the feds know?” asked Iggy.

“Nope. We don’t care much for the feds or any of the alphabet soup agencies. They had their informant on the inside, we had ours.” Iggy frowned staring at Wood, then at the others. “Tank was one of ours. He went over to their side more than twenty years ago.”

“So, the plan is to make her think you’re coming for Olive and get your money?” asked Iggy.

“Something like that,” said Skull. “We’ll get to all the details. All you need to know is that all of these men were former military or first-responders. Wood is one of the best fucking paramedics ever in New Orleans. He saved hundreds of lives after Katrina.”

“That’s fucking cool, brother,” said Iggy. “Never met a medic I didn’t like in the Corps. Those bastards weren’t afraid to take fire while patching us all up. I just have one favor to ask of all of you.”

“What’s that kid?” asked Nutt.

“Keep my future wife alive.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Rain came sideways across the yard, needling through the porch light and turning the gravel drive into black soup. The palm tree at the ditch bent until its fronds scraped the flooded grass. Somewhere beyond the houses, a transformer coughed blue and the whole neighborhood blinked.

Neela shoved her arms into the borrowed yellow slicker and pulled the hood tight, hoping she wouldn’t be recognized.

“You’re not going anywhere.” Tank filled the kitchen doorway behind her. Bare feet. Gray T-shirt. One hand curled around the doorframe hard enough to whiten his knuckles. The generator’s uneven growl pulsed under his voice.

She kept her back to him and checked the plastic freezer bag inside her backpack. Four banded stacks. Twenty-five thousand dollars. Dry, so far.