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A man, big but not as huge as his buddy, Hulk, hovered by the back door, arms folded across his chest and a bored expression on his mustached face. The double steel doors behind the bar would lead to a kitchen, which probably had its own emergency exit to the outside. No one guarded that door, but it didn’t mean someone wasn’t waiting in the kitchen. Behind them, another thug lingered at the door they’d entered through. And, of course, Hulk waited outside, keeping an eye on the other Handlers.
Next, the significant players fell prey to Scott’s assessing gaze.
Two men sat at a table in the far-right corner of the bar. One had to be Lobo, and the other Scott didn’t recognize. One man stood behind the bar, but he went about his business, drying glasses. The owner, maybe? Low on the threat scale. There were the two guys guarding the exits and two others. One sat at the bar, watching Scott and his brothers with a keen eye, and another stood near Lobo’s table. All were armed and wore pinched expressions like they hadn’t taken a shit in a week.
Fantastic.
“Pat ’em down,” a man with a Hispanic accent spoke from the back table. It had to be Lobo.
“We’re unarmed,” Scott said. It was the truth. They hadn’t bothered with weapons, knowing they’d be searched. Okay, fine, Scott had a hidden compartment built into his favorite boots. He kept a knife in it. Not that it mattered. He knew more than a dozen ways to kill these posers with his bare hands. But he spread his arms and legs like a good boy—no point in pissing all over this meeting before it got started.
Curly and Ty mirrored his stance. After a quick and frankly ineffective pat-down, the guy nodded at Lobo. Scott snorted. He could’ve had half a dozen weapons stashed on his person, and this joker would’ve missed them all.
“Welcome,” Lobo said with a smarmy smile. “Have a seat.”
A quick unspoken conversation went on between Ty and Curly, where Ty nodded then hung back while Scott walked to the table with his prez. He kept his expression tight and menacing, but when Lobo pulled out a Colt revolver and placed it on the table, it took all his strength to keep from laughing. This guy was a child, playing at being an outlaw—someone who’d seen too many mafia movies and now thought he owned the goddamn streets.
A hundred snarky comments tried to burst from Scott’s mouth, but he was there as the muscle, so he kept fucking quiet. Curly got to do the talking.
The prez scooted along the bench seat. After a final sweep of the room, Scott followed.
“Curly,” Lobo said with a nod. His gaze shifted Scott’s way. “And you must be Spec. You’ve put more than one of my men in the hospital.”
“The fuck you talking about? I’m a goddamn teddy bear.” Okay, maybe he couldn’t completely keep quiet.
Lobo’s expression hardened. “Watch yourself, Spec. You’re in my house now.”
“Are we here to fucking socialize, or did you have something to discuss?” Curly cut in. “Because I’ve got shit to do, and having a playdate with you toddlers wasn’t supposed to be part of it.”
Scott kept his attention on Lobo. The man didn’t enjoy being insulted. Who did? But this was more. Fire flashed in his eyes, and his jaw ticked. On the table, his fingers curled into fists. Had to be the toddler comment that pissed him off. The asshole was young to be in charge—late twenties, maybe.
Scott would bet his left nut the men he commanded were about as loyal as a rock. Any sign of weakness in their juvenile leader, and they’d either mutiny or flee. This whole situation was a ticking time bomb. Something would fucking blow soon. It was just a matter of what would go first. Would Lobo’s guys fight for his spot at the top of their food chain, or would the man himself make a critical error in judgment?
“You have one of my men,” Lobo said with ice in his voice.
Curly nodded. “I do. But that’s not why we’re here. We took him after he told us about this meeting. After he stopped my enforcer and his ol’ lady on the road. So why the fuck are you wasting my time?”
Lobo vibrated with the kind of anger that could flip to violence in a blink—Scott’s specialty. He shifted, muscles tensing in anticipation of action. But Lobo kept himself in check. Barely.
“I have a deal for you,” he ground out. “One-time offer. You agree now, or it’s off the table.”
Curly leaned back against the bench, folding his arms across his chest. “Let’s hear it.”
His apparent interest cooled Lobo’s anger. A grin broke out across his face, and he leaned across the table, beady little eyes hungry with greed. “Money, Curly. I want to offer you money.”
