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With a nod to Dex, Reed focused on Jay. “Don’t crouch. Come slowly while he’s at my side and let him smell the back of your hand. He just needs to meet everyone before he can relax.”
Every Bull on this run was a dog owner, and Brutus was fucking gorgeous, so they all lined up for their turn to meet the twitchy dire wolf. With each person, he glanced up at Reed, then gave a long sniff, and finally allowed an ear or head scratch. Zach held off to the end, and he could feel the dog relaxing, his big brush of a tail sliding a bit on the patio, an almost-wag.
“Hey, Brutus. Good fella. I’m Zach.” After he let the dog sniff his hand, he scratched between his ears, and then, because he thought he felt a little lean-in to that touch, he caught an ear and gave it a good scratch. Yep, Brutus leaned in. He was a good dog, just too well acquainted with the shittiness of human beings.
“Okay, Brutal,” Reed said, “You’re clear.”
That must have been a familiar command, because Brutus stood at once and trotted through the new people out the the gravel yard, toward his doghouse. It was much more than a doghouse, actually. More like a dog oasis—a nice, hand-built house, a big wood crate of toys, a bigger water trough, all arranged under a bright canvas canopy. That dog was a member of the family. Zach liked the Haddons better already.
“Let’s talk, brothers,” Eight said, gesturing with his bottle toward the Adirondacks and fire pit.
They all sat—all the Bulls, including Christian, and Ben and Reed.
When Reed sat, Zach saw he wasn’t the only surprised Bull in the circle. They’d talked about Ben, but his son?
Before anybody could ask, Eight said, “I asked Ben and Reed to sit with us not just because we’re leaning on their hospitality, but because they’re both interested in applying to the new charter, and what I’m about to say could affect things in that charter.”
“Adversely?” Gargoyle asked.
“Maybe. Could be a ripple, could be a wave. One of those big ones surfer boys jack off to posters of. Wash knows about the new charter.” As the rest of the circle reacted to that news, Eight continued, “I tried to brush it off, but he wasn’t havin’ it. And he is about as pissed as it’s possible to be without his head blowing straight off his shoulders.”
“How’d he hear?” Dex asked. “This is the first time anybody outside the Bulls has heard shit about it.” He looked around the circle. “Right?”
“The Bulls and the Volkovs,” Eight corrected and turned to Ben. “But yeah, we haven’t made any formal move yet. Apollo and Jazz are still doing the legwork.”
They’d been talking about a fall launch, so the legwork period was drawing to a close—which was probably why Eight had been willing to bring Ben in. And, apparently, his son.
“Does that mean there’s a leak somewhere?” Zach asked.
It had been six months or so since Nikolai Volkov, in exchange for helping them out with a simmering cartel problem they’d had, had demanded the Bulls streamline their shipping routes, removing some of the players—specifically the Silver Dragons, a club he thought was too small and not verifiably trustworthy enough. The Bulls had vetted the Dragons carefully and tapped them because they had all the bona fides for this work—an outlaw history, a member they knew and had worked with before, and a member with a border patrol officer, stationed at the Canadian border, in his family.
Niko wanted the Bulls handling the full run, all the way to Canada. That was the point of the new charter. It was too great a distance for one crew to safely run the whole way.
The Bulls had not told the Dragons they were getting aced out, and they hadn’t intended to share that news until they were ready to take the whole run over. Eight had been working with Niko on what Eight called a consolation prize for the Dragons: a regular fee, paid every run, for safe passage through their turf and retaining access to the CBP officer.
That would be substantially less than they earned actually covering the long last leg of the run, but it was something. Still, they all expected the Dragons to be just as pissed, and possibly vengeful, as they themselves would have been, which was why they’d decided to say nothing until everything was in place.
If the Dragons’ president heard about the plans before Eight could tell him himself, then add betrayal to the equation. Betrayal on both sides: the Dragons getting blindsided, and the Bulls having a leaker. A traitor.
“I’m trying this new thing where I don’t go off half-cocked,” Eight said. “So somebody tell me if there’s another way Wash could’ve heard. He wasn’t givin’ up his source, and it wasn’t the time to press him hard.”
“It’s not us,” Jay said. “There’s nobody in the Bulls who’d do something that stupid.”
“There’s you,” Eight said. “You start doing stupid shit every morning before you have your Coco Puffs. Did you say something to somebody, Jacob? Spill more than your jizz with some rando chick you banged? Tryin’ to be a tough guy?”
Jay sat rigid in his chair, his wide eyes shining with the lights in the tree above them.
“No way, Eight,” Zach said. “Jay didn’t. He wouldn’t. He knows better.”
Eight looked his way. “You vouching again, Zach? That weight gettin’ a little heavy, ain’t it?”
Jesus. Until this minute, Zach hadn’t realized how frayed his brother’s line was. Yeah, he was still working out his immature impulses, but even Jay wasn’t reckless enough to talk about the club where he shouldn’t.
But with their president’s eyes on him, and that question in the air, Zach understood that he wasn’t sure enough of his brother to vouch for him now.
As if he understood that himself, Jay spoke before Zach had to answer. “I don’t fuck out of the clubhouse anymore,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “And I don’t talk to sweetbutts except to tell ‘em what to do. It wasn’t me.”
Eight studied him for several dire seconds. Then he nodded. “Okay.”
