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He eyes me sideways, distrust growing in his eyes. "Why?"
"Personal reasons," I say.
His scowl deepens, his dark eyes narrowing on me. He's an old-timer, someone who's been around and seen enough to trust his gut. And I'm guessing his gut is throwing up smoke signals right now. He knows I'm not just a delivery boy. I'm not getting through the door unless I give him more.
"It's about the Savages."
That gets his attention. His nostrils flare. "Follow me," he says, his tone clipped. "But you pull any bullshit with my old lady here, and I'll be sending you back to your club in that little old cooler, you feel me?"
"I'm just here to talk."
He holds the door open, letting me into the clubhouse.
Jesus. This place really is goals. It's neat, clean, and expensive as hell. I'm pretty sure one of the couches costs more than half the furniture in the Kings' clubhouse combined.
"Yo, Cash! Get your ass out here!" the old biker shouts, not taking his eyes off me.
"You want to take this cooler off my hands or what?" I ask him, cocking a brow.
"Uh, fuck no." He laughs. "I do a lot of shit around here but carting around horse cum ain't one of them. Just set it down and I'll call someone from the ranch over here to deal with it."
I shrug and set the cooler by the door.
Two minutes later, Jason "Cash" Montoya comes stomping down the hallway, his tie undone, and his shirtsleeves rolled up. Jude Despora is hot on his heels, his blue suit impeccable. They both look ready to commit murder.
"Jesus Christ, Rulie," Cash says as soon as he sees me. His tight expression eases, the violence in his stance falling still. "I thought the goddamn Vipers were here, not a cop."
"He's a cop?" The old biker—Rulie—runs his gaze across me. "Could have fucking fooled me. Says he's with the Diamond Kings."
"He is." Jude Despora sighs heavily. "At least he's supposed to be."
"Which begs an important question," Cash mutters, crossing his arms over his massive chest. "Why the fuck are you here when those assholes are still running free?"
"Because I need you to stop breathing down my fucking neck and give me a little breathing room before you blow my cover and the whole damn case," I say, point-blank. "And I need a favor."
Cash and Jude exchange a what the fuck is with this guy look. Johannsson has been kissing their asses for months. I'm not him. I bark back. Pushed far enough, I bite. But that's not why I'm here. We're on the same team. Hell, under different circumstances, I'd even appreciate their position here. Their women are caught in the middle of this, and for men like them, nothing stings more. But I can't fix the situation with their boots on my neck. Forsythe is going to blow my fucking cover if he keeps blowing up my phone because they're blowing up his.
"Andreas Romano's girl," I say quietly. "I need to speak to her."
"Absolutely not," Cash says immediately. Which is exactly what I expected. I'm not an idiot. It's precisely why I asked. Rule one of negotiation: never start with exactly what you want. Start with what you know is off the table. It makes the actual ask a lot easier to digest.
"Fine, then I need you to talk to her," I say…which is my actual request. I know damn well they aren't going to let me speak to her. They guard their women closely, especially Catriona Grady. Her brother is the VP of the Hell's Vipers, an outlaw MC with familial ties to Satan's Savages. He's also a police informant. They don't know that. No one does. As far as Cash and Jude know, he's in deep and she's in danger because of it. I can't tell them any different and risk blowing his cover. I can't go to him for the info I need and risk blowing mine.
She's my best bet right now.
"For what?" Cash growls.
"I need to know if she's ever heard the Vipers talking about anyone in the Savages who wasn't strictly down with the things they do," I say. "Someone I can flip."
"You need a snitch," Jude says.
"Yeah, I need a snitch." I glance between him and Cash. "Unless I find one, this could drag on a lot fucking longer than any of us want it to drag on."
"Jesus Christ," Cash mutters, pushing his dark hair back from his forehead. He mutters a curse, looks up at the ceiling, and then down at his feet. "Playboy is going to flip his shit."
"Maybe not," Jude says.
Rulie snorts. "He's going to flip his shit about that little lady."
