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“Fuck, yeah.” Rattler fist pumped.
“The problem is Ajax,” Cobra continued. “He and that other fool, Blaze, jumping you in the parking lot is bullshit. They’re clearly out of control, and I want them out of Vegas altogether.”
“I’d think torching their body shop would’ve given them a hint.” Rattler smirked.
“Some of them scattered, but Ajax and Blaze have been shooting off their mouths and making threats about retaliation.”
“We gotta take a firm stand.” Joker agreed.
Cobra looked to Mamba. “Normally, this wouldn’t be a consideration after all that’s gone down, but I’m sure you have an opinion on how we handle taking down Ajax.”
As much as Mamba hated Ajax and would love to see him six feet under, he was the only brother Mandy had left. Bad enough, Mamba put Achilles in a wheelchair; he wouldn’t be responsible for taking out her other brother.
“There are a few ways we can handle this,” Cobra continued. “But I vote for carting his ass out to the desert, giving him a beat-down he won’t soon forget and a warning to stay out of Nevada. Let him know if he steps one foot over the border again, he’s done.”
“That could work.” Boa tapped on his laptop. “Beat his ass, then drag him over the Arizona border and dump him. Give him a little head start in the right direction.”
The others laughed at Boa’s uncharacteristic sarcastic humor. The computer wizard worked with practical knowledge in the here and now and usually didn’t have jokes.
“All right, settled then.” Cobra raised the gavel. “Boa and Python will take this job.” He rapped the mallet against the wood, and there was a knock on the door. One of the prospects stuck his head in with a worried look. “Somebody out here to see you, boss.”
CHAPTERTWENTY-TWO
“I’ll be out in a minute.” Cobra stood, and the door swung wide as Samson’s bulk filled the opening.
“I need a word,” Samson’s gruff rumble filled the room.
Cobra’s expression gave away nothing, but Mamba knew his prez wasn’t happy. “Either my prospect can’t relay orders, or you can’t follow them.”
“Orders and me usually don’t get along.”
Samson and Cobra locked eyes as the other brothers pushed away from the table. They were all alphas, but no one wanted to get in the middle of this pissing contest.
Samson shifted his gaze to Mamba. “Stay. I want you to hear this.”
When the door closed behind the last brother, Cobra strode around the table. He didn’t offer Samson a chair as he closed the distance between them.
“What’s so important that can’t wait?” Cobra folded his massive arms over his chest.
“I wanna know what you plan on doing with that fucker, Ajax.”
“It’s being handled.” Cobra would never relay club business to a non-member.
“How?” Samson barked out the word.
“It’s being handled. That’s all you need to know.” Cobra shifted his feet. Another tell that he was close to popping off.
“If you and your guys aren’t up to it, I got people who can handle it.”
“Who the fuck do you think you are”—Cobra rarely lost it, but when he did, his voice lowered to a deadly pitch—“walking into my clubhouse and telling me how to handle my business?”
“This shit lands on me too.” Samson jerked his chin at Mamba. “When he fought at our place in Searchlight, he developed a hot following. Some of our guys came in from LA, and even more arrived from New York. They liked his style and the money they made off him even better.”
“So far, I don’t see the problem.” Cobra’s stony glare never wavered.
“Well, there’s a huge fuckin’ problem. The biggest fight of the month—the one all these guys came in for and hoped to make a shit-ton of money from—never happened.”
“Wasn’t his fault.” Cobra jerked his thumb at Mamba. “He was ready to go. Fuckin’ happy to beat that punk’s ass.”
