That made two of them. “I got a friend who does woodworking. He’s got a tent here.”
Isaac Lunden had called him the day before and asked to meet. He hadn’t wanted to say more on the phone, which meant it was business and probably trouble. He hadn’t wanted to meet at the clubhouse, either. So Becker had suggested to Sage that they take Lemmy out to the park for the day.
“Ah. Is this a leather friend?”
“Can we call it something different? That sounds like the kind of friend I definitely wouldn’t have.”
He loved to hear her laugh again. Getting her away from the house, away from the choppy rhythms of her overturned life, had lightened her mood considerably. Just these few miles of distance seemed enough.
“Is he a biker friend?”
“Yeah. Not local, but yeah.” He took her hand. “C’mon, let’s see if we can find him.”
It took forty-five minutes to find Isaac’s tent, because Sage could hardly pass a single one without either browsing through it or stopping to make a snide comment about the items. By the time Becker spotted Isaac—he was a big, long-haired, thick-bearded ape of a man and hard to miss—Sage had three new leather bracelets, several pairs of silver earrings, a small framed watercolor painting, and a damn heavy set of glazed stoneware dog bowls, and Becker’s wallet was getting a bit thin.
Isaac had a wide assortment of wooden knickknacks arrayed in his tent. From what Becker could tell, it was good work. Looked good, anyway, but he wasn’t a knickknack guy. There was a beautiful chessboard on the table that served as a sales desk, however, and that looked like actual art.
There weren’t any browsers or buyers in the tent when Becker stepped in, and Isaac didn’t notice him right away because he had a willowy blonde on his lap, the stacks of silver bracelets on both wrists tinkling as she smoothed her hands over his head. Isaac had his hands in the back of her jeans.
Becker watched for a second, amused at the impromptu softcore peep show he was getting. Just as he meant to clear his throat, Sage came in behind him and sighed loudly. “Sheesh, get a room.”
The willowy blonde writhed up to her feet and turned around—and shocked Becker by being obviously his own age, which was considerably older than Isaac. Well damn, the big Horde president was a boy toy. Who’d’ve thought.
He could see it, though. She was a looker. Clothes like a hippie but the body of a porn star. Very nice tits. A bit too tall for his taste.
Sage punched his arm. “Staring? Really?” Before he could say anything, she turned to the blonde. “Real classy. Nice business practice.”
The blonde’s smile slithered up to her cheekbones. “Don’t need notes from a little troll.”
Isaac came up and took her arm. “Lucinda, go on. I’ll catch you later.”
“You know you don’t have to catch me, baby. I’m not runnin’.” Standing right beside him, she blew him a kiss and fluttered out of the tent.
The big man might actually have been blushing; it was hard to tell under the beard. “Sorry about that. I got waylaid.”
Sage snorted. “That’s what you call it?”
Isaac gave her a confused look, wavering between irritated and amused. Then he noticed Lemmy and dropped to a crouch at once. “Hey, little guy.”
Despite all the cause he had to be wary of people, Lemmy loved everyone, and immediately tried to climb onto Isaac’s lap. Laughing, he helped him, and let the pup snuffle all over his beard.
Sage had told Becker all she remembered about what Denny had done to her, including how it had started. Watching this puppy’s enthusiastic affection for a stranger, how much he loved to be loved, made him want to dig Denny up and kill him some more. What kind of human skidmark tortured a puppy for laughs?
There had been others that day: Denny’s friends. None that had touched Sage, though. As much as he now loved Lemmy, he wouldn’t kill a man for a dog. Not even when the dog was so obviously superior.
His warm and unreserved friendliness with Lemmy changed Sage’s attitude toward Isaac, and she was smiling when he stood again and held out his hand. “Hi. I’m Isaac.”
“Sage.” Her hand disappeared into his. She was eye to navel with the guy, and staring up at him with wonder in her eyes.
“My old lady,” Becker added, feeling a sudden urge to assert his claim.
A dark eyebrow went up, but Isaac’s smile didn’t falter. “Very nice to meet you.”
Becker set his hand on the back of Sage’s neck, under her ponytail. “You mind taking Lem for a little walk, hon? I need to talk to Isaac for a minute.”
She popped a hip and held out a hand. “Ditching me is gonna cost you. There’s a leatherworker next store.”
Becker laughed and pulled out his wallet. He was going to have to find an ATM soon.
~oOo~
Isaac had hung a Back Soon! sign and closed the walls of the tent, and now they sat together behind his sales desk.
Becker leaned back in a rickety lawn chair and shook his head. “I can’t let you do that, Isaac. The peace in Tulsa was hard won.”
“Due respect, Beck—I value our friendship, but I didn’t want to see you so I could ask permission. I’m giving you notice. That’s it.”
While he was here playing hippie artisan, Isaac intended to kill Ray Abbott. The second-in-command of the Street Hounds. Isaac didn’t even know Abbott. But he owed a favor to a crew boss in St. Louis Becker had never heard of.
“And I’m giving you notice that I can’t let you do it. If that kill lands on the Bulls’ back, we’ll be at war on our own streets again.”
“It won’t land on your back. I know what I’m doing. I’ll be in and out. They won’t know it was me, and it won’t be connected to you. It’s not connected to you.”
Becker laughed. The kid was smart and tough, and he’d been president of his club more than a year longer Becker had worn his own flash. But he was naïve as a fucking toddler if he thought his six-foot-seven-inch, pale-ass carcass could lumber into Northside Tulsa like Horde-zilla and kill a Street Hound captain without being noticed.
“You’re connected to us. No, Little Ike.” Becker had meant the nickname to be a blow, and it struck true. The man’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You will not. It’s not happening.”
“It has to happen, Becker. I don’t have a choice. You do what you need to do, but I’m gonna, too.”
Isaac would get himself killed, and the Bulls would be left to fight the war he’d started. What Becker needed to do was stop Isaac. He sat forward and rested his face in his hands, so he could take a minute and think. There had to be a way that would avoid war and blood and death.
“Tell me everything about this hit. Details, everything you know.”
“That’s not your business, Beck.”
Enough of this shit. Isaac was seven inches taller and at least seventy pounds of pure muscle heavier, but Becker wasn’t intimidated. Isaac was a friend, but that only went so far. This was his field they were on. He leaned in close to make his point and put every ounce of threat he could muster into his voice.
“This is Tulsa. You are on my turf, fucking with my home. So you will tell me, or I’ll see to it that you don’t see your home again.”
~oOo~
“Prez, we got guests.” The bathroom door shook with the force of Simon’s fist.
“Yeah, okay.”
Becker lifted his head and met himself in the mirror over the sink. Fucking hell, what was he doing? Why had he thought he could pull this off? And in their own fucking house? The cold tap ran full force straight into the drain; he cupped his hand under it and sucked water into his mouth to rinse out the puke.
That was where he was now—puking again because he was so outmatched by the goddamn flash on his chest.
He rinsed again and then filled both hands with cold water and splashed it on his face. Okay, time to sack up.
Simon was still waiting a discreet few feet from the bathroom door. Rad was farther down the hall, at the
entrance to the party room.
They weren’t partying today. On this Sunday evening, Becker was playing The Godfather or something. Not a role he was qualified to play—but what other choice had there been?
“Who’s here?” he asked Simon as they walked to the front.
“Gary Samms and Ray Abbott. They brought muscle.”
Having expected nothing less from the Tulsa chief of the Street Hounds and his second, Becker nodded. “No Lunden yet?” They were in the party room now, and Becker could see for himself that Isaac wasn’t here. Besides every free, able-bodied Bull, the only souls in the clubhouse tonight were the five Hounds their prospect was pouring drinks for at the bar.
“No. I bet he comes in with Berry.”
“Yeah.” And how many of their crews would come along? Had Becker’s grand idea left the Bulls outnumbered in their own house?
Muscling all his doubts and anxieties off to the side of his mind, he went straight for Samms and held out his hand. “Gary”—they shared a first name, but Becker hadn’t used his in years—“I’m glad you’re here.”
Samms shook, but his face remained a wary mask. “Didn’t sound like there was another good choice.”
“No, don’t think there is.”
“Don’t know how I feel about doing this here, though. Neutral turf would’ve been better.”
There was no more neutral turf in Tulsa. The Bulls had annexed it in their treaty. They’d beaten the Hounds badly and made them pay hard for the damage they’d done.
“The Bulls are neutral in this. We’re letting you into our house as a show of good faith. Now, Rad and Gun are gonna pat you down. No weapons here tonight.”
Ray stood up, and the movement flipped every Bull, and then every Hound, to high alert. He pushed his hands up in a calming gesture, and Samms threw out an arm to either shield him or hold him back.
“I’m just sayin’, it’s my head on the block. I ain’t good with sitting down here at all with these assholes, and I damn sure ain’t good doin’ it without a way to defend myself.”
When Ray said his piece, Samms focused on Becker again. “How do I know we walk whole from here tonight?”
Becker no longer had to try to keep his voice strong. “My word. Everybody will be unarmed.”
“Even the Bulls? In your own house?”
“Even us. Everything locked up.” Rad had not been okay with that plan. But it was the only way Becker saw this working. If there was any way it could work.
“And you with the key. I’m supposed to trust that shit?”
“Yes.”
Becker didn’t offer an explanation or defense; he simply held Samms’ look until the chief Hound blinked and heaved a sigh. “This blows up tonight, all of Tulsa’s gonna burn.”
“I know. Nobody wants that. That’s why we’re here.”
“Before you take our weapons, you show us you’re clean.”
Becker nodded at Rad and then held open his own kutte, to show he wasn’t wearing his holster. He lifted his own shirt, showing his belly. He turned around to show his back. The other Bulls followed his lead.
Isaac came in while the Wally and Gargoyle were locking up the Hounds’ weapons. Behind him were five black men Becker didn’t know. Until last night, Becker hadn’t known that this trouble pitted one black crew against another.
And Isaac had come to this alone. He was the only man here without real backup. Maybe he was considering the men with him to be backup, but they weren’t his crew.
Maybe he was considering the Bulls to be his backup, leaning on the years of friendship between them and the Horde, but yesterday afternoon, Becker had told him flat out that he’d kill him before letting the hit go down. So he had to know that, tonight, he had no allies but the tenuous link to the men he’d brought.
His already considerable respect for the young president increased significantly. Isaac Lunden had balls of tempered steel.
A man about Delaney’s age, of similarly average size, walked in immediately behind him. He wore a tailored suit. Kenyon Berry. The men with him were dressed as the rest of them, in jeans and t-shirts, but the leader of the Underdogs was dressed like a businessman.
Becker hadn’t known much at all about the Underdogs, a small St. Louis crew with a long history, until last night, when he’d put Apollo on finding out all he could. Now he understood their complicated history with the Street Hounds—that gang with a national presence had started out, way back, in a rebellious schism from the Underdogs and then gone on to eclipse and overpower their parent.
Isaac had brought old family trouble into Tulsa, and Becker had brought it into the Bulls’ house.
Rad, Gunner, and Maverick made a front between Isaac and the Underdogs and everyone else. “Gotta pat y’all down before you come in,” Rad said.
“Boss, this ain’t right,” one of the Underdogs muttered. “It’s a fuckin’ ambush. These white boys don’t belong in our business.”
But Berry held up a silencing hand and cast his glance beyond the front of guarding Bulls until he lit on Becker. His mouth remained closed, but his eyes said he wanted to hear from the leader here.
Becker walked up. “Nobody’s carrying. Weapons locked up. You’re gonna have to take that on faith.”
Isaac gave up his weapons first. And then Kenyon did the same, and with a gesture to his men compelled their compliance. When all the weapons were locked in their locker room, Becker gestured to the bar. “We’ll all share a drink, and then we’ll sit. We’re opening our chapel to you.”
The Bulls had fought about that for a solid half hour last night. It would hardly be the first time that non-members sat at their table, but it would be the first time somebody else’s trouble was brought into their chapel. This was the Bulls’ problem only because of their connections. Becker didn’t give a shit about Ray Abbott’s life. But he did care about Tulsa. He cared more about his club, his family. They could not survive another war.
And he didn’t want to kill a friend. He wasn’t close to Isaac, they weren’t confidants, but the Horde and the Bulls had been allied since the beginning. Becker had killed his share of men, but not one of them had been a friend. He didn’t want to start now.
So when they’d all shared a drink, he led all these men and their trouble into the chapel. He meant to broker a solution that sent everyone home whole.
Whether he was capable of making that happen—well, he was about to find out with the rest of them.
~oOo~
“Let’s start by hearing the cause.” Becker turned to Kenyon Berry. “I assume you have one.”
Berry nodded and turned his attention directly on Ray Abbott. “I do, and he knows what it is.”
“Enlighten the rest of us,” Becker said. “Say it out.”
“That man killed my nephew.”
Becker shifted his eyes at once to Abbott, who glared steadily at Berry, and Becker saw the truth in his look. He didn’t mean to deny the charge; he meant to defy it.
More interesting was Samms’ reaction. This was news to him, which meant the nephew hadn’t been a sanctioned kill. “Ray? You got somethin’ to say?”
Abbott shook his head. His eyes didn’t leave Berry’s.
That head-shake wasn’t enough for his boss. “Yeah, you do. Did you kill this man’s blood?” As he waited for a stony Abbott to provide the answer, it seemed to occur to Samms unprompted. “Ah, motherfucker, tell me this isn’t about Mellie.”
Abbott blinked, and his cheek twitched.
That was enough for Samms. “I told you we can’t have your personal fuckery gettin’ in the mix. I told you to sit the fuck down about this.”
Still Abbott remained silent.
There were whole paragraphs missing from this story, but Becker held back his questions and gave the men at his table a chance to play it out on their own. He would intervene to keep things calm and productive, but otherwise, maybe it wasn’t his place to tell them how to do that.
He knew it w
as the right play when Samms turned directly to Berry. “I know what this is about, and my man acted out of line. Let’s talk about what you need to make this right.
“I need his head. A death for a death.”
Samms shook his head, and Becker got ready to jump in.
“I apologize for your loss,” Samms said, “but I can’t let you have Abbott. I’m sorry for that, too. Was your nephew in your crew?”
“Yes.”
“Then that’s a business loss. We can work this out on that.” Samms didn’t want war, either. Becker understood that there might be more than a treaty between the Bulls and the Hounds now. Maybe enough time had passed since the war that they could become allies, united under a common cause: that their peace kept their shared home safe. Their families safe.
“The loss is personal, son.”
“I understand. But taking blood for blood will tear shit up from Tulsa to St. Louis and all the way East. That loss is personal for everyone. I think that’s why were sitting here, facing each other at the fuckin’ Bulls’ table—we all know how this will fuck shit up. So tell me what you need that’s worth the weight of your kin’s blood.”
~oOo~
“Thank you, Beck.” Isaac knocked his shot glass against Becker’s, and they drank. He was alone in their clubhouse with the Bulls; the Hounds and ‘Dogs had both made their departures. Their beef was resolved, and their crews were now possible allies. And the Bulls with them. Not friends, but allies. If the deal held.
“How the fuck d’you get yourself into that shit?” Rad asked.
“The Horde needs Kenyon to move Signal Bend’s product. He didn’t like the idea of working with ‘some backwoods redneck bikers’—that’s a quote—he’d never heard of, so he gave me this job, told me if I did it, we could work somethin’ out.”
Becker knew about loyalty tests. He chuckled and tapped the bar, signaling the prospect for another round. “You ever kill anybody, kid?”
Isaac considered the question for a while. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
That answer meant that he’d exchanged fire but wasn’t sure if he’d killed anyone with a hit. Becker remembered at least one time the Horde had taken fire while they were still involved in Volkov business.
Lead (The Brazen Bulls MC, #8) Page 25
