Lead (The Brazen Bulls MC, #8)

by Susan Fanetti

  Jimmy blinked up at him. “I really need some good-faith payment on the account.”

  Becker heard his dwindling conviction. “The good-faith payment is that you’re not bleeding right now.”

  “You’re threatening me?”

  “I don’t want it to be a threat. I want you to believe me. The Bulls don’t leave their debts outstanding. Any debt. Do you get me?”

  More blinking. Finally, he nodded. “Okay. I can ... I can work it out.”

  Becker backed off with a pat of Jimmy’s shoulder. “Good man. I knew we’d get on the same page. Get him into a private room right away, right?”

  “Yes. As soon as I can.”

  “Before supper, Jim.”

  “Right, before supper.”

  Becker went back to Fitz’s room with a genuine smile. At least this, he’d managed to make right.

  ~oOo~

  The stall door slammed against the wall. Becker reeled in and barely made it into a crouch before he was hurling into the public toilet. Automatic hand dryers, running taps, flushing toilets, and the indecipherable blare of gate agents supposedly giving flight information over the PA made up the soundtrack as his guts tore their way out through his throat. It was a goddamn cacophony. Every one of his nerves jangled.

  Since spending the first eight years of his adulthood in the Oklahoma State Penitentiary, he was not a fan of tight spaces he couldn’t get out of. No, he was not. Tight spaces he couldn’t get out of, thousands of feet in the sky—that was what his hell would be.

  He’d survived—barely—the two-hour flight to O’Hare and never, ever wanted to do it again, but shit, he was going to be back in that tin can tomorrow. He should have brought something with him to take the edge off. He’d tried to do it with tiny bottles of whiskey, and here he was, on his knees now, his face buried in an airport toilet.

  Once he was empty, he eased his way back to his feet and tried not to shake and stumble too much while he made it to the bank of sinks. The mirror showed a sweaty, pale, sad man who looked like he might be in the process of croaking. Other men, strangers, fellow passengers, looked askance but said nothing, offered no help or consolation. They probably all had more experience with air travel than he did—and they could fucking keep it. After this trip, he was keeping his feet on the ground where they belonged.

  The faucets had to be pressed to keep running, but he managed to get a good stream and stick his face in it. Damn, he hadn’t felt this bad since he’d walked out of the penitentiary, eighteen years ago. Anxiety was holding a fucking rave in his head and belly.

  It was more than claustrophobia, more than whatever a fear of flying was called. That was plenty bad enough. But here he was in Chicago, on his way to meet with Irina Volkov, the queen of Russian mobsters, and demonstrate to her he was a worthy leader of the Brazen Bulls MC and a worthy partner for her business. Partner, not gopher. Not bitch.

  He didn’t even believe that he was worthy to lead the Bulls. Never in his life had he wanted to be in charge of any damn thing but himself. He’d taken the gavel because nobody else had wanted it. They needed a leader, and his brothers had handed the burden to him. But he didn’t have the first start of an idea about what he was doing. So how in the deep-fried fuck was he supposed to convince Madame Volkov that she could trust him like she’d trusted Delaney?

  Shit, he needed to puke again. He spun back to the stalls. The one he’d used before was occupied, so he skidded into the one beside it. This one hadn’t flushed all the way, somebody else’s paper floated halfheartedly at the bottom of the bowl, but Becker didn’t have time to be fussy. He heaved some more—not much left but Jack Daniels-flavored bile. And damn, that burned going the wrong way.

  “You okay, Beck?” Simon was behind him.

  Becker made an effort to pull himself together. “Yeah, yeah. Just ...” He yanked some paper from the roll, wiped his mouth and blew his nose, and stood up. “I’m glad that’s over.”

  He dropped the paper into the bowl and flushed away what he hoped was the last he had to lose.

  “I didn’t know you had such trouble flying.”

  “I didn’t either. Never had a need to do it before.” He hadn’t been surprised, though. Trapped in a metal tube thirty-something thousand feet in the air? That had never sounded like anything but horror.

  “I know somebody in town. I can give him a call tonight, get you something for the flight home.”

  “Yeah, good.” At this point, he’d take anything that would get him through another flight without losing his shit. He washed his face and hands, swished some water from the tap around in his burning mouth and spat it out. “Where’s Apollo?”

  “He went on to the car rental desk. We can meet him there.”

  A cage in the sky, now a cage in a strange city. Becker sighed. “Okay. Let’s get on with this.”

  Simon dropped a hand unto Becker’s shoulder. “You look like death, Prez. You sure you’re good?”

  He hated hearing that damn name. And he was not okay at all. But they didn’t have time for him to have a breakdown. “Yeah. Let’s roll.”

  ~oOo~

  Simon drove; he’d been born and raised in Chicago, and though he’d been gone a very long time and didn’t have much to do with his family here, he remembered his way around. Becker was more than happy to sit in the bitch seat and let him take over. The traffic here was absolutely insane, and he was already halfway to crazy himself. Apollo sat in the back seat and talked to Jacinda, checking in on how their baby girl, Athena, was doing. She’d been born at the end of September, several weeks prematurely, and though she was pretty healthy for a little girl with such a hard start to life, she had some lingering issues.

  When he heard Apollo sign off, Becker looked back. “Everything good?”

  “Yeah, yeah. She’s got a cold, and her lungs aren’t as strong as they should be yet, so gotta be extra careful, but Jacinda had her at the pediatrician this afternoon, and she looks okay.”

  “She’s a tough little girl.”

  Apollo grinned. “Yeah, she is. She’s a fighter like her mom.”

  “Read me the address again?” Simon cut in, and Becker looked around. They were down in the thick mess of downtown Chicago streets. Cars lined all along every curb, down every street, people filling the sidewalks. The sun shone and the temperature had the gentle kiss of early summer, with a light breeze, probably coming from Lake Michigan.

  Becker missed home.

  Though Simon was a Chicago boy, he hadn’t recognized the address Alexei had given them any more clearly than to know it was ‘downtown.’ Becker assumed it was a hotel or office. He checked the paper he’d written the address on and repeated the information to Simon.

  Simon nodded without taking his eyes off the street ahead. “Okay, we’re close. I’m gonna find a parking lot. They’re expensive, but getting a spot on the street is hell.”

  On the hunt for parking, they passed the address. Simon pointed it out. A long awning over the sidewalk proclaimed the place to be a Russian tea room. Becker laughed. Of course it was. Irina was based in New York, but she had reach all over the country. For all he knew, she owned this place. And where else would she appear most at home, besides her own home, but a Russian restaurant?

  They found a spot on a lot that wanted an offensive amount of money to put their rental car in a gravel space, but they didn’t have time to quibble or look more.

  “Colors?” Apollo asked as they stood behind the rented Chevy.

  That was a good question. They hadn’t shown colors for the flight, because the new TSA had all sorts of rules for who could be doing and wearing and saying what in airports, and they’d decided that wearing their kuttes was asking for trouble these days.

  But they were on club business. In Tulsa, or anywhere in the West, they would obviously have shown colors on a meet like this. But here in Chicago, where the Bulls had no presence?

  Becker didn’t know the answer—but Simon and Apollo both look
ed at him, waiting. Because it was his call.

  So he made a call. “Yeah. We show colors.”

  ~oOo~

  In their jeans and boots and leather kuttes, the three Bulls were significantly underdressed for this fussy restaurant. The décor was all deep crimson and soft cream, dark wood, white linen tablecloths, brass chandeliers, gaudy Russian tchotchkes, huge floral arrangements, ornate mirrors and brass sconces, and—shit, Becker was pretty sure the wall hangings were Soviet propaganda posters.

  The host sneered subtly at them, and Becker prepared for an argument with the skinny asshole, but then a beast straining the seams of a dark grey suit—the dude looked like a bald gorilla—came forward, and the skinny host backed immediately off.

  Comrade Kong stood there, looking fierce and impassable. Becker couldn’t decide if he was scowling or if his face had just frozen that way. But he knew why he was there, and he lifted his arms.

  Kong patted him down thoroughly, pulling the switchblade and brass knuckles from his kutte pockets and the micro Sig from the holster at his back. He dropped it all into a black drawstring sack. Simon and Apollo got a similarly invasive and disarming treatment. They were defenseless, should Irina want to be offensive.

  The gorilla turned and walked toward the back of the restaurant, and Becker followed. Alexei stood up from a curved red booth, and Becker saw the woman of the hour herself, sitting primly in the booth. Irina Volkov.

  She was a tiny woman, no taller than Sage. She was old, older than Delaney. Her hair was soft and white. She was chubby. And she was the scariest fucker Becker knew. Even the notoriously vicious Salvadoran Abregos were in her thrall.

  Alexei’s greeting was subdued. Where Delaney would have merited a hug, Becker got only a handshake. Same for Simon and Apollo. At that moment, for the very first time, Becker realized that every one of them was brand-new to Irina, at this level. Not he, nor Simon, nor Apollo had ever before been high enough on the chain of command to warrant this kind of meet with her.

  Delaney was retired. Dane and Ox were dead. Rad was the only patch left who’d sat with her before like this. But Delaney had advised him not to bring Rad.

  His empty stomach rolled, and Becker took the longest, deepest breath he could without showing what he was doing. What he really needed to do was hyperventilate.

  “Please, sit.” Alexei indicated the booth, and Becker saw that he meant to trap all three Bulls in the interior of the curved seating. He meant to trap them.

  Shit.

  With the subtlest glance he could manage, he tried to send Simon a sign to keep on his toes, but the sign wasn’t necessary; Simon had understood the same thing. Becker slid in and scooted around to Irina’s side. Simon and Apollo followed. Then Alexei sat again, closing off the side. Kong stood near Irina, protecting her flank.

  There were at least six other mutant gorillas stationed around the room. Other diners took their meals as well, like it was any restaurant in Chicago, but Becker would have been shocked if every single patron wasn’t vividly aware that mob dealings were going on here in the corner. The Volkov sentries were not working incognito.

  Not until everyone was settled did Irina speak. “We will have vodka before begin,” she said, her voice no louder than necessary to cross the table. As if she’d muttered magic words, a waiter materialized beside the table, bearing a tray of slender shot glasses holding liquids of varying colors.

  They each took a glass, and Alexei said the Russian toast they always said at the beginning of meetings, va something or other. Becker didn’t try to repeat the words—he didn’t understand them and didn’t want to get them wrong and say something offensive instead—but Simon and Apollo both sounded confident in their pronunciation.

  His vodka tasted weird. It had some kind of spice in it. But he drank it down and set the empty glass before him.

  “Now we talk business,” Irina said. She turned to Becker directly. “You know I not like this change in Bulls. There is no faith in me for you. My agreements, they made with Brian, not you.”

  Becker’s heart beat so hard he felt sure it showed under his kutte. He could fuck up everything if he got this meeting wrong. “Due respect, Irina”—the temptation to call her ‘ma’am’ was strong, but he decided to use her name, as if they were equals—“your agreements were made with the club. D was our president, but he didn’t make our decisions. We voted everything.”

  A tight smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. “Yes. You Americans love your democracy. For me, I built with Brian. He had my trust, and he broke it. Now you tell me why I should stay with you. You”—she made a point to look at the flash on his kutte, as if she didn’t know his name—“Becker. Not the Bulls. You. Why I should trust you? To me, this matters only.”

  “You should trust me because my club does. There’s no reason for you not to trust the Bulls. We’ve been solid allies for years. We’ve never fallen down on a promise. We are the club we’ve always been.”

  “No. Brian Delaney built club that was. He walked away. What you are now, this is different, and I have no trust with you. Prove to me I should build something with you.”

  Becker saw an opportunity. It made his stomach roll again to contemplate it, and it was thin ice to walk—calling her on her stance of superiority and throwing Delany under the wheels—but if he could make it work ... “You said it yourself: Delaney walked away. We’re the ones who stayed.” When he saw the barest hint that his comment had made an impact—just a twitch of a single blue eye—he leaned back against the padded booth, showing an ease he didn’t feel, and continued, “Irina, I’ll be blunt. Everybody at this table knows this isn’t a one-way street. You need us. All the years of building your infrastructure out West—the Bulls are the axle it all spins on. Rebuilding would take years. You could do it, sure. But it’s millions of dollars lost and spent. Why not use the routes through Tulsa we’ve made?”

  Alexei chuckled softly and covered it with a soft cough. “You are bold, Becker.”

  No, he wasn’t. He was desperate and afraid. The Bulls were starving without the Russian work. But if he showed his true feelings, showed how much they did need her, he’d hand the club over to Irina like a gift. They’d lose every piece of their independence. Maverick said she had her hands around their balls now, and he was wrong, but if Becker conceded that they were desperate, then she would get hold. Without killing them, she could still crater the club every bit as thoroughly as she’d taken down the Dirty Rats and the Bone Wolves. Simply by turning them into her bitch.

  Irina waved her lieutenant’s compliment—if that was what it had been—off. “Bold words are nothing. Only acts matter. You wish to imagine yourself my equal, da?”

  Becker didn’t answer. It seemed best to let silence speak, and suggest the comment warranted nothing else. Fuck, he hoped he wasn’t screwing this up. The temptation to look to Simon and Apollo, for emotional support if nothing else, was a hand pushing against his cheek, trying to turn his head in that direction. But he fought it off and stayed on Irina.

  They sat in that silence long enough that Becker nearly broke. But it was the Russian queen who gave it up first. “You say I need you. I agree you are convenient, and that convenience is value to me. I know as well you need. There is not so much work for you now, with automobile shop closed. This is true.”

  “We have work. I’ll keep my people whole. And the station will open again.”

  Another twitch of a smile. “But you suffer. I know this. And that is convenience to me.” She turned to her lieutenant. “Alexei, continue.”

  Moving his attention to Alexei gave Becker the chance to see Simon and Apollo, both of whom looked at him with something like shock—not stark, but enough that he could make it out, and Becker wondered what the hell he’d done wrong. Which part had been badly played? All of it?

  He couldn’t focus too long on that because Alexei had picked up the talk. “You know, I hope, of our work in Mexico?”

  “You’re riggin
g the game down there.” Becker didn’t know a better way to put it. “Starting a war.”

  “We secure our interests. That project continues, but we make great strides. We make progress as well at the borders. They will be open to our commerce again soon.”

  For the first time since he’d stepped onto the jetway in Tulsa, Becker took a full, satisfying breath. Those runs would make them whole. “So you’re ready to open the routes again. Good. We’re ready to run them.”

  But Alexei shook his head. “With our interests secured in Mexico, our need to move the same product in the same direction is not so great. What we need, Becker, is to move cargo in the other direction, from the border. And new routes as well. From Amarillo.”

  Drugs. Alexei was talking about the Bulls muling heroin and cocaine from Mexico, and crystal meth from their factory near Amarillo. The Bulls had thrown the idea around, but not seriously yet. Becker hadn’t felt ready to take that explosive question on. Now, though, he read this table and decided that Irina didn’t need to know that there was some willingness in the club to take on such work.

  “The Bulls don’t run that cargo.”

  “Brian Delaney’s Bulls did not,” Irina said. “What do Gary Becker’s Bulls do?”

  Becker took the risk that it would make him look weak, and he turned to his officers. Simon and Apollo gave him nothing to work with—their eyes were riveted but their expressions showed nothing but interest. He had to find this answer on his own. What was right?

  He understood Delaney’s refusal to work drugs, but he’d never agreed with it. The line between arming a drug cartel and muling their product was made of little more than vapor. They were in the business, taking the same risks, dealing with the same lowlife types, putting their lives on the same lines every fucking run, and earning half what they could have been.

  That half was sizable, and most of the Bulls made more money than they spent. Those who’d been at the table longest were comfortably off, and they’d weather this current rough spell with little more trouble than tightening their belts a bit.