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Chapter One
Where the Bodies Are Buried
Gate
“That gator slide gets full, I got some boys up in the mountains who know how to hide a body,” Judge Bartholomew Hawthorne said.
“Hide?” Gate asked, wondering how in hell the right honorable judge knew about the Dragons’ seldom, but sometimes necessary, trips to the Okefanokee Swamp over in Waycross.
The oldest superior court judge in Chatham County leaned across the desk of his mahogany and leather office. “Hidemight be too general a term,” the judge went on. “Disappear is probably more accurate.”
Gate leaned back in his chair. “Gotta ask, Judge. What’s doing with the offer?”
The judge chuckled, a dry sound at his advanced age. He stood and rolled up a tailored shirt sleeve, revealing ink as he went. Black shaded dagger over an MC rocker.
Gate whistled and looked up, “Daggers out of Tennessee.”
“Charter member. I’m older than dirt, but that robe,” he nodded toward the black cloth hanging just inside the door, “hides a lot.”
“So when you say you know boys in the mountains….” Gate let his question hang.
“I mean I know some grown ass men who can handle some grown ass business.” The judge sat and started the roll down with his sleeve. Then he went on, “Not saying you and your boys need the help, Gate, but it’s in my best interest to keep Blaine Freemont and his drugs out of my town.”
Gate’s eyes narrowed, “Freemont?”
“Don’t play stupid,” the gray judge countered. “I know more shit that’s gone on in this state than you could ever dream of. When an old fart like me says he knows where the bodies are buried….”
“You mean it,” Gate finished for him.
“Literally,” The judge said. “Smokey Mountains are big. Some of ‘em haven’t seen a human in half a century. Some of them never. All you gotta have is a brass set of balls and a lot of lime. People get lost up there every day.”
Gate leaned in, elbows to knees, “Not to put too fine a point on it, Judge, but drugs are already here. Been in Savannah a long time.”
“I know,” the judge agreed. “And you and your boys used to run them.”
Gate wondered if there was anything about his club the judgedidn’tknow.
“Been out of that racket for a while now,” Gate said.
“And Spider picked up where you left off.” The judge waved off Gate’s indrawn breath. “Which is all fine and good. People want to pollute their bodies and fry their brains, that’s their business.”
“Spider only sells what the Mancini’s have on tap,” Gate countered.
“Salvatore Mancini. Haven’t seen the bastard in ages. Runs a tight ship and keeps his boys under control.”
“So this is all about the devil you know,” Gate guessed.
“The Mancinis are an old family. Old money. Old connection. Straight from Sicily. This Blaine Freemont upstart thinks he’s got power. He’s got Atlanta in his pocket, so he thinks to make a play. Don’t like his drugs, don’t like his methods. Don’t like him coming to my town and thinking he can take women away from their kids and get away with it.”
Holyyyyyy fuck, Gate thought, scrubbing a hand down his face.
For the judge to be an absolute relic, he knew some serious shit, and while Gate sat, having a meeting of the minds in Judge Hawthorne’s corner office, he puzzled through just how the judge came to know all that he knew.
“Just what exactly are you after here?” Gate asked.
Judge Hawthorne stood, which Gate took to mean the meeting was over. The brother had said what he’d needed to say. He gestured to his desk, “This is what it is. But I want that Freemont son of a bitch kept out of my town.”
Gate joined the judge at the door, “And in return?”
