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Viper slammed a fist on the table, leaning forward. “Whoever attacked that truck knew what merchandise would be on it.”
“Agreed,” Manic added. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
Sighing, I worried we had a rat in the club. Someone fed intel to an outside source. It was the only explanation. No one outside the club knew the details. When I found out who it was, I’d make them hurt for fucking with my club and its income.
“We gotta deal with this, pres,” Cowboy pointed out.
Yeah, knew that already. It was the fuckin’ reason I called church to begin with and hauled everyone’s ass in here so fast. Received the call informing me about the shipment after I handed off our little captive. I knew the brothers with me were trustworthy since we spent the last twelve hours dealing with Homer and his bullshit.
“What did they take?” I asked my V.P., ticking my chin at Raiden.
He scratched his jaw, his fingers smoothing over his reddish-blond beard. It didn’t escape my notice that his fingers twitched slightly, betraying his anger. “Five total from the inventory, including the Tesla.”
Fuck!
“And the new contract with Huber Trucking?”
“Still waiting on the paperwork, pres,” Forge answered. As secretary and I.T. for the club, he kept up with all the documents, notes, and payroll. If it had a paper trail, Forge maintained it. “Just need those final signatures.”
Shit. More delays. The last fucking thing we needed.
I blew out a breath, frustrated about the hit on the transport, but that wasn’t the only problem. Two weeks had passed since I last spoke to Mike Huber. He promised we’d have this shit cleared up in a few days. And now we had more significant issues since some of the vehicles had been stolen on our motherfuckin’ watch. This shit was bad for business.
We needed this contract. The job provided us with income, and part of the payment was made in regular fuel deliveries. Motorcycles didn’t run without gasoline. My job as pres was to ensure the club had what we needed. Our livelihood depended on our ability to protect what was ours, and we provided the same service to those in need for a fee.
Like Huber Trucking.
Gas prices were at an all-time high, and the deliveries we received helped the club’s bottom line. We had a lot of bikes on this lot and they were always in use.
That was the main reason we took this gig in the first place. The second was the high wage.
Add in the fact that, in theory, we wouldn’t have to exert more than a bit of muscle, and the job seemed a good fit and easy money; it was far less stressful than runnin’ drugs or guns.
We’d gotten out of those contracts and worked hard to establish the club with legit ways to earn. Didn’t mean we were pussies, though. This club was still a 1 %er, and we had our hands in all kinds of dirty little pots.
“Then I guess I’m payin’ Mike Huber a visit,” I announced with a snarl, cracking my knuckles.
A few nods around the table proved my brothers agreed.
“What about our other problem?” Raiden asked, folding his arms across his chest.
He wanted to discussherright now? Did it matter? I wanted that girl desperate and bored out of her mind, ready to get us whatever we wanted. I planned to make her hate that room we stuck her in.
“What about her?” I replied coolly.
“We need to learn everything we can about this girl. She’s in our fucking clubhouse, pres. That shit makes me antsy.”
He wasn’t wrong. Getting her here was only the first part of the plan. Now we had to put pressure on the girl, and the only way to do that was to dig into her life and hope we discovered some shit to make her talk. Combined with the boredom and being cut off from everything and everyone she knew, it should force her to open up to us.
“Forge.”
Glancing up from his laptop, the brother in question awaited my orders.
“Do a little digging. See what you can find out about Henrietta Fields and Amelia Stone. Report back to me as soon as you learn anything useful.”
“Will do, pres.”
I turned to the table, gaining the attention of all the officers present. “No one fucks her. She’s not here for pussy.”
