In the showroom, he had been transfixed by the beautiful, gleaming bikes, some looking like nothing on the road. He’d struck up a conversation with Blue Fordham and had spent the whole day there. Blue had invited him to the next party. Trick had started hanging out right then.
He’d never ridden a motorcycle before. When he started asking about prospecting, Connor had taught him, and all the patches at the time had given him no end of shit—the quiet, brainy vet with the piercings and dreads doing circles in the shop lot.
He’d been at UCLA then, struggling to figure out his major. He’d always liked to draw, and he’d thought it would be cool to be an artist, but he liked to draw spaceships and weird, fanciful vehicles. There wasn’t a place for him in the Department of Art, where they’d sneered and called him a doodler. He could do the kind of art they wanted, but it didn’t feed his interest. Or his soul. He didn’t want to do what other people wanted. He’d had his fill of that.
He liked the aesthetics of the manmade; a flower, no matter how beautiful, was less interesting to him than the smooth curve on, say, a fender—the way something could be made, honed, changed to be geometrically perfect. Some of his brothers rode out to the desert to find their peace, others to the mountains or the beach. Trick found his peace in beautiful buildings, like the Powell Library at UCLA. Or the Griffith Observatory.
For a minute, he’d considered engineering or architecture as a major. He was good at math, too. He was good at pretty much everything he directed his interest toward. But engineering didn’t interest him. He’d wanted both, the art and the machine.
So he’d chosen a major that interested him and hadn’t worried about what it might train him to do. That was why he’d wanted college anyway; he’d simply gotten caught up in all the administrative bullshit about choosing a job first and the major that matched it.
It was hanging out at Cali Classics that he’d figured out what kind of job he wanted, how he could merge his talents and his interests into something he could spend his life doing. He’d studied all the mechanics working in the shop, the builders and fixers both, pestering them with questions in the clubhouse while he poured them their drinks—but learning to ride, learning to understand the power between his legs and in his hands, had been the most important lesson he’d ever gotten in how to build a bike.
It had also been the beginning of the most important friendship he’d ever had.
Immersed in the club, he’d found a home, when he’d been cast away by everyone else. So he always loved riding in formation, surrounded by his brothers. It didn’t matter where they were going. They were his family.
~oOo~
They met Wade Ferguson at a cabin on Big Bear Lake. They weren’t on Serrano tribal land—Hoosier had refused, for obvious reasons—but the Horde remained wary. They were a couple of hours from home, and though Ferguson and his goons were less likely to cause a scene away from the protection of their land, the last meeting between these parties had gone badly.
Ferguson was waiting when they pulled up. There were three black SUVs parked in a row in front of the cabin, and Trick counted ten men in addition to Ferguson himself. He’d brought a lot of company, but whether to start an offensive or simply for protection, they didn’t know. They backed their bikes in and parked. If they had to leave quickly, they were ready.
Ferguson came forward, his hand extended toward Hoosier. He looked a lot older than Trick remembered. His dark hair was threaded with grey, and there was a deep crease between his brows.
The past few years had not been kind to him, Trick knew that. Ferguson had played on the losing side in the war between the Águilas and the Castillos, and La Zorra exacted painful penance on her vanquished foes. Closer examination showed that those black SUVs were showing real wear, and the men surrounding Ferguson seemed somehow less impressive than Trick remembered his security being.
At Trick’s side, Ronin grunted quietly and turned, pulling both his blades from their sheaths on his sides. Ronin hated guns and virtually never used one. He preferred his hands and his blades: quiet, personal weapons. When they were in real battle, while the rest of the Horde armed with assault rifles, Ronin almost always carried two swords. He brought blades to gunfights, and somehow had managed to more than hold his own.
Now, Trick saw that they were being flanked, and Ronin had noticed before anyone else. He drew his own sidearm, a Glock, and pointed it at the Serrano asshole coming up on the other side.
Hoosier and Connor both turned, and then all the Horde were drawn. Ferguson’s men drew, too, and they were at a standoff before any pleasantries had been exchanged.
Drawn on Ferguson, Hoosier said, “What…the fuck, Wade?”
Ferguson, the only man not holding a weapon, folded his hands in front of him. “You’ll have to pardon my caution, Hoosier. When we last met, it didn’t go well.”
“Y-you…d-double…double-crossed us.”
Connor shifted warily at the sound of his father’s struggling speech, and Trick shifted in response, moving his attention to Connor. That was who he’d follow. They’d protect Hoosier, who had started this run tired and now, after almost two hours on the road, was contending with the adrenaline rush of this hostile welcome. He was not at his best.
Giving Hoosier a narrow-eyed consideration, Ferguson nodded. “I had no choice.”
“Always have choices, Wade. And look where yours got you,” Connor answered.
“Yes.” Ferguson turned his attention to the Horde SAA. “Look where it got me. Do you know what La Zorra did to me? To my people? She gutted us. I mean that literally. She killed four of my closest associates—one of them my own brother. Came onto our land and tore them apart, then left them like garbage in front of the casino. And then, for all this time, she’s had her fist clamped on our line, starving us. So you’ll pardon me for being ready for her henchmen to be here to deliver fresh trouble.”
Hoosier opened his mouth to speak, but Connor put his hand on his father’s arm and spoke for him. Trick saw Ferguson notice that nonverbal communication between father and son. “We’re not her henchmen, Wade. We’re her partners, doing her a favor. And you know we’re here with an offer, not a threat.”
Ferguson laughed. “This is how the conquerors always do it, isn’t it? Destroy what was there before them, crush the natives under their boots, then wrap more subjugation in pretty trappings and call it a gift.” His eyes sought out and found Lakota, standing in the midst of the Horde. “You stand there on the side of the oppressor?”
Behind Trick, Lakota, a full-blooded member of the Oglala Lakota tribe, who’d been born and raised on the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota, laughed. “Dude, this isn’t Wounded Knee. You’re a thug who runs a casino. Fuck you.”
Lakota was right. But what Ferguson had said resonated with Trick, too. Ferguson was also right. When they’d started working with Dora Vega, she’d been an upstart usurper, besting bad men at their own game. They had forged an alliance with her largely because she had been wresting power from men who’d gone mad with it, and she had plans to remake the cartel world, to instill order in it. And she had done exactly that. But she had done so by pushing everyone else beneath her, and now she had all the power.
Trick hadn’t realized it until this moment, but this offer to Ferguson and the Serranos wasn’t an olive branch Dora was holding out. It was a dictum. Implicit in the offer to come work for her was a threat about the consequences of refusal.
Oh, she was good. She was Machiavellian good. It was exactly what she’d done to get them—him—to agree to assassinate Allen Cartwright. Make it a request, offer handsome payment, offer even sincere appreciation and gratitude for a job well done. But make it clear that refusal came with a steep penalty. Then let her subjects make their ‘choice.’
Ferguson hadn’t responded to Lakota’s dig. He was staring at the ground before his feet. The ground here was covered in rusty-red pine needles, and the air was rich with pine scent.
&
nbsp; Connor spoke next. “Let’s holster our weapons and go have a sit. The offer is good, Wade. Let’s lay it out.”
Ferguson laughed and lifted his eyes to Hoosier. He waved his men to stand down and answered Hoosier’s son, all the while with his eyes locked on the Horde President. “We don’t have to sit, Connor. I know the offer. We’ll take it. We’ll do her bidding. It’s not the first time my people have held out their hands for their own destruction.”
~oOo~
After the Horde came down the mountain, Trick, Connor, and Demon broke off from the rest of the group. Sherlock had called with intel on Mark Stiles, and they three were going to deliver a message to Juliana’s ex.
Stiles lived in Upland, on a tidy, upper-middle-class street. All the lawns were landscaped, and all the driveways had luxury SUVs and sedans. A neighborhood where doctors and lawyers lived, but the staff doctors and associates, not the plastic surgeons and partners.
And, apparently, their investigators.
When they arrived, pulling their bikes up along the street around the corner, no one was home at Casa Stiles. So they loitered at their bikes. Trick called Sherlock again and got him to trace Stiles’ phone. Finding him on the move, Sherlock threw out an ETA of five minutes or so.
“What’s the plan, T?” Connor lit a cigarette as he asked.
“Persuade him that threatening Juliana or the Horde would be bad for his safety and welfare.” He nodded at Connor’s smoke. “Your old lady know you’re still sucking on those things?” Cordero had been on him to quit for months.
Connor flipped him off and took a long drag.
Demon stepped up onto the sidewalk and asked, “You think that name Sherlock gave you’ll be enough?”
Sherlock didn’t yet have any kind of intel that he knew for sure would make Stiles vulnerable, but he’d been digging and, acting on a hunch, he’d floated a name and suggested they use it and see how Stiles reacted.
“I don’t know. It’s all we got, though.”
“That and our winning personalities,” Connor chuckled.
“Yeah. That should do it.”
“So Juliana, huh? The chick that stole my karaoke trophy. Gotta say, brother, I didn’t figure you for sleeping with the enemy.”
“She’s so much better than you, bro. That trophy was never yours.”
“Might need a rematch. Just sayin’. She’s coming to The Deck with you Saturday, right?”
It was a big weekend coming up. Friday night was Hoosier and Bibi’s anniversary blowout at the clubhouse. After everything they’d been through in the past year, there was a lot to celebrate—like the fact that they were even able to have an anniversary.
Then Saturday, Cordero and Connor were having a joint bachelor party—which defied the purpose and tradition of the bachelor/bachelorette parties, as far as Trick understood the rituals, but those two did nothing the normal way. Besides, they’d met at The Deck.
“She’s got her little girl this weekend. It’ll just be the barbecue for them.” They were starting the Saturday festivities off at Trick’s place, grilling at the pool and recovering from Friday.
“Gold Lexus, you said?” Demon gestured toward the street.
Trick’s eyes followed Demon’s arm. Though sunset wasn’t far off, the light was more than sufficient to confirm that it was Stiles’ vehicle. Two figures were silhouetted in the windshield. “Yeah. That’s him. Looks like his wife is with him.”
“That change anything?” Connor dropped his smoke and stubbed it out with his toe.
“It doesn’t. Let’s go.” The Stileses lived one house down from the corner. Three abreast on the wide sidewalk, Trick and his brothers turned and headed for their target.
As Stiles and his wife opened their doors, the Horde stepped up behind the SUV, still three abreast, Trick in the middle. Stiles saw them and immediately turned back to the car, moving like he meant to lean in and grab something.
“Ah.” Connor said, making the sound clearly discouraging and raising his voice only enough to be heard. He reached into his kutte and rested his hand on the grip of his gun. “No. Stand tall, man. Hands out front.”
“Mark?” The woman, a pretty blonde, had her hand on the door; she’d been about to close it. Now she seemed paralyzed.
“Go inside, Nikki. Now.”
“No, Nikki,” Trick said, sending her a smile he hoped was calming as Demon went to her and blocked her path to the house. “Better stay put.” He turned to Stiles. “Close the doors, then cross your arms, both of you.” They were standing on the guy’s driveway; they needed to try to make this look like a conversation rather than an ambush.
“What the fuck do you—” he cut off when Connor took a stride toward him.
“This’ll go faster and easier if you cross your fucking arms.”
He did. Then Connor turned to Trick, giving him the lead.
“I’ll make this short and sweet, Stiles. You’re done making threats. And you are done hurting Juliana. You back off her and the Horde, or you will pay dearly for your mistake.” He turned and focused for a moment on Nikki, just long enough to let the threat to her be implied. It was an empty threat, but the Horde reputation made it seem full.
“Mark?” Nikki asked again, her voice quaking.
Stiles didn’t respond to her. His eyes on Trick, he snarled, “Who do you think you are? Do you know what I can do to you? I can take you all down with a keystroke.”
Trick strode to him and punched him in the gut, under his crossed arms. Connor caught him before he could fall and sent Trick a look, asking if he wanted Stiles held so that he was open for more punishment. Trick shook his head, and Connor let Stiles go.
“As I said, you are done making threats. We can grind you into dust, Stiles. We have our keystrokes, too. Ours turned up Jason Devore. So ask yourself what we can do to you.”
Trick didn’t know who Devore was, but Sherlock’s hunch had been a good one. Stiles, who had been still gasping from the blow, went still.
“How—” Stiles’ mouth slammed shut on the question.
“Don’t underestimate the power of our contacts. You make the tiniest noise like you’re planning to hurt Juliana or us again, and we will bring our power to bear.”
“Lucie has a father. She doesn’t need another one.”
With that, Trick knew that Stiles had been neutralized, at least until something new pissed him off. They had time, though, to strengthen their leverage against him. “I’m not trying to be her father, man. As long as you’re good to her and you leave her mother alone, I’m not in your way.”
Stiles hesitated, then nodded, and Connor gave him an affably hard punch on the arm. “Good talkin’ to you. Nice ride. Not sure about the gold, though.” As he walked back to the end of the driveway, where Trick and Demon were waiting, Connor gave Nikki one of the smiles he thought of as charming. “Nice meeting you, ma’am.”
Trick rolled his eyes.
The three walked away, putting Mark Stiles at their backs. They were tense and ready, in case he went for the piece they all knew he had in his front seat. But the rhetoric of turning their backs on him was an important finale to that encounter—important enough to risk getting shot in those backs.
When they got to their bikes, Demon asked, “Who’s Jason Devore?”
“Sherlock didn’t know. He’s got a hunch, he says.”
“He’s somebody who shakes Stiles up, though. No question,” Connor mused. “This problem looks solved to me, but we should figure that Devore angle out, just in case.”
Trick agreed.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Do you see that over there?”
Knife & Flesh (The Night Horde SoCal Book 4) Page 16