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Ryder had already wondered the same thing. Whoever Talon’s thief in Europe was, she was the shit.
Ryder checked his phone for the time. Not quite eight o’clock with some daylight left.
“Soon as the semi shows, you head on home. I’ll handle this end.”
“Who’s driving?” Smoke asked.
“Ricky. He’s solid.”
“Gonna call Gate, but I aint’ gonna let grass grow.”
“Hate for you to miss a meal, big man,” Ryder joked.
Smoke was roughly the size of a mountain, and his brothers never let him forget it. But since his woman loved to feed him as much as he loved to eat, all was good.
Smoke pulled out his phone while Ryder watched the sunset over the trees.
“Yeah, man, heading home as soon as the semi shows. Ryde says he’s got this.”
Ryder smirked when Smoke paused and then spoke again, the good natured ribbing between brothers evident in his voice.
“Chicken pie, asshole.”
Smoke paused again, then, “No, I’m not saving you any casserole. Shit, find your own woman to cook.”
Ryder chuckled at the jokes. As long as Smoke bragged about his wife’s cooking, they’d give him shit about it.
An engine rumbled in the distance, and Ryder elbowed Smoke.
Smoke kept Gate on the line, “Hang tight. Somebody’s here, and it ain’t a semi.”
The two bikers ducked behind the metal shipping container and watched. They were in the most remote section of the container yard, so anyone approaching was either looking to hide some shady activity or completely lost.
And Ryder wouldn’t bet on lost.
Two box Chevys pulled through the loading lane and parked in the next section of the yard. A blacked out SUV followed with a Humvee bringing up the rear.
“I’m looking at box Chevys, Gate,” Smoke whispered. “Handing off to Ryde so I can check this out.”
Smoke passed his phone to Ryder and disappeared around the corner of the container.
Ryder put the phone to his ear and caught the end of Gate’s growling tirade. “Stay your ass where you are, you hardheaded son of a bitch!”
“Sorry, Gate, he’s gone,” Ryder said, careful to keep his voice low.
“You see who’s there?” Gate asked.
Ryder paused and saw the flash of a White Sox leather jacket as thugs poured out of both cars. “Shit, it’s Spider,” he whispered.
“I want that motherfucker. Who else?” Gate growled.
“Suit getting out of an SUV. Older guy, money. Younger dude in a Hummer. Maybe early twenties, and they brought some muscle.”
Ryder waited while Gate yelled instructions in the background.
Gate told Deuce, Tex, Tank, Hatchet, and Nine to roll out for the docks, and he had
Rooster calling Talon and Brick.
