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Fist
“Goddammit,” I mutter as I slam out of my room. “Fucking fuckers want to encroach on our turf, want to push into our business. Let’s go!” I raise my voice to a bellow as I stride through the main room and out into the sunshine. Bow and Ghost scramble behind me as we get ready to ride.
“Is Alo sure about the tip?” Ghost asks as we straddle the bikes.
“As sure as he ever is,” I reply. “He’s been a damn good tipper, one of the best we’ve ever had at the Flathead Reservation. If he says we got a poacher, then we got a poacher.”
“We’ll follow you in,” Bow tells me as we prepare to leave the club. I nod and roar out of the parking lot, the others behind me.
I let the wind whip over my skin, reveling in it and the sun that beams down from a cloudless sky. I haven’t been out in the daylight too often lately. Instead, I’ve been staying inside, skulking in the shadows while I try to drink my problems away.
Maybe it’s time to be done with that. We race down the highway toward the Flathead Reservation. I push all thoughts from my I and just enjoy the ride. Almost before I realize it, we’re cutting our speed as we slide onto reservation land.
Alo is waiting for us at his cabin, standing on the porch with his arms crossed. He nods in greeting as we step up to join him, then leads us inside.
“Beer,” he announces, pulling four ice-cold bottles from the fridge. He passes them around, and we all take a long pull before settling in for business.
“Tell me what you know,” I say abruptly. “We need to get this taken care of so we can get back.”
Alo nods. “Been seeing this guy around the past three or so weeks. I didn’t think anything of it at first. You know how people come and go. Campers, hunters, hikers, what have you. Anyway, this guy just kept being seen. And I started hearing about some good shit being passed around by someone new. Lower, introductory price, all that shit.”
I frown. “Fucking bastards,” I snarl. “Go on.”
Alo lights a cigarette and blows a smoke ring before continuing. “I haven’t got a name, not a real one. I’ve heard two different street names, so I don’t even know if one or both of those are real or not. But he’s about six feet even, dark brown hair, dark eyes. Has a knack for wearing shades on the top of his head.”
“Where’s he staying?” My voice is sharp as a whip.
“In a cabin just outside the reservation, on property that butts up to the northwest property line. It’s small and isolated, sits right beside a small creek.”
“Let’s go,” I order Ghost and Bow. “Thanks, Alo.” I clasp his hand, and he nods, giving me a brief smile.
We kill the engines three miles from the cabin and coast to a stop, leaving the bikes grouped under a pine as we go the rest of the way on foot. No need to announce our presence until we’re ready for them to know we’re there. Using hand signals, I make my intentions known, and my two brothers nod.
With a sudden, silent swiftness, Ghost and I hit the front door together, kicking in unison and splintering the frame. Bow rushes past us, gun drawn, as Ghost and I immediately draw our pistols and sweep the room.
Empty. Empty except for the bags of coke sitting on the coffee table, all lined up in military precision.
Whoever this fucker is, he’s made my job easy.
After officially clearing the cabin, Ghost stands guard at the door while Bow slices open a bag and takes a hit. He licks the residue from his lips with a smack.
“Holy fuck, Fist, that’s some potent shit. That’s high grade,” he says in admiration.
I turn a package over in my hands, slowly inspecting it. Our label isn’t on it, but there’s a small black flag in the upper right corner. A quick look tells me that the same black flag is on every package.
“Caribbean?” Ghost asks from the door.
I raise my eyes to his. “Could be.” I shrug. “But how would Caribbean product be getting this far inland?”
“Good question,” Bow mutters. “What do we do now?”
“We’ll let Alo keep finding out what he can, and we’ll send a lesser-known brother up this way to see what he can ferret out. For now, let’s load this up and head back. Prez will want to know what’s what.”
Within minutes, we have the coke stashed in our saddlebags and are back on the road. Flathead Reservation is behind us, and we’re cruising down 90. I’m feeling mostly satisfied with the day’s work—the only thing that would’ve made it better is finding the fucker and making him talk—but I know that’ll happen soon.
A state trooper’s SUV screams by us, lights flashing, followed by an ambulance. Soon, it’s apparent why. There’s been a bad accident just before Exit 200, the same exit we need to take to get home. Annoyed and frustrated, we make the turn and head for 141.
