Page 38 of Savage Saint

“Pulled over two young girls out partying. Gave them a lecture on how those in charge care—how to support their efforts. He called it Operation Safe Independence.” At the name, I shake my head. Stupid fucking idiots. “Campaign bullshit without calling it campaign bullshit.”

“You sure?”

“We were two cars back. They didn’t pay us any attention.”

“Was the Santo Domingo commandante there?”

“No. Just his people. Six squad cars in the area, though.” Flow pauses for a second. “The guy speaking kept bringing up their boss’s name. Thanked a few private sponsors, too. All businesses out of the capital.”

“Has the video been posted?” I ask.

“Yes. I have it saved on my phone.” Flow pulls out his phone, brings up the video, and hands it over. It’s just as he said. Overeager and excited—lambon—and the two women are only there for views. Tight tops with their tits nearly popping out while their glossy lips pout inside a convertible BMW.

They’re not from here. It’s staged.

On the windshield, there’s a rental decal confirming it. One that does not have locations here and can only be found inside the capital’s airport. The company name is clear to see when I zoom in.

Capital Rent-A-Car—Santo Domingo.

“Why would a businessman from the capital with enough money and political connections have any reason to care about holiday traffic in Puerto Plata?” Kaos grimaces, his eyes on the screen. “That asshole is the brother-in-law of the country's president. I’ve seen him before. Know he likes his cueros and keeps more than one mistress while the wife raises the kids at home.”

“You do love a good bochinche, Kaos.”

“No. Mom does.” He tries to stretch a bit, but the moment it pulls at his wounds, he stops. Grits his teeth. “It was all over the midday gossip show she loves for weeks. Caught it a few times while visiting her for lunch.”

Interesting.

“And now his money is helping put Santo Domingo police inside my territory?”

“I’m with you, Saint.” My brother adds, “It’s not a coincidence.”

My tracker nods, turning his computer my way. “I made a quick search on him, and his name keeps popping up next to the commandante’s name. Fundraisers. Public events. Charity shit that’s not real, just a way for the wealthy to look good.”

“Find out why, Trojan?”

“Yes, Presidente.”

“Good.”

For now, that’s all we have. There are too many moving pieces inside the same territory, and I’m not going to force them together because it makes for a convenient answer.

Facts first.

My attention shifts to Kaos. Every man at the table follows.

He’s lightly sweating, medication weighing heavily on his eyes, but he’s here. Sitting in his VP seat when Doc would’ve preferred him unconscious and resting in his room. That earns more than respect.

I tip my chin toward him in a show of respect, and Rizos follows, then the rest.

No words are necessary. Royal Bastards’ blood was spilled today, and yet he’s here—still shows up for his club.

“What do we know about the shooter?” Toro asks a minute later, meeting my gaze.

“Not enough.” It’s the truth. The man who put a bullet in my brother didn’t survive long enough to give us a name. His body’s with Henry. His cellmate until tomorrow’s interrogation.

“No identification. Nothing useful on him,” Trojan says, his fingers flying across the keys. He’s the best tracker/hacker I know. A feral dog when it comes to getting me the information I need. “I ran what I could before church, but no match yet. He’s definitely a foreigner, high possibility of being Russian.”

“Would make sense,” Onyx, the club’s enforcer, says. He’s been quiet tonight, and I know it’s guilt mixed with his ire. He wasn’t there. He’d been with Flow and Toro on the port run.