“We trust you,” he says as he leans down and grabs the handles. I would’ve believed him if it wasn’t for the twitch under his right eye.
Our guys make it back to our side, and without another word, the Colombians load back up into the Escalade and drive away.
“That was tense,” Ronan says with a humorless chuckle. “They’re way more intense than the Mexicans we bought off of last month.”
“Same coke,” Hornet mutters as he begins disbursing the kilos.
“All there?” Lynch asks as he takes four bundles.
“I mean, I didn’t weigh it or anything,” the road captain says.
“Smartass.” I take my packages from him and begin to load them in my saddlebags.
“What do you mean it’s the same coke?” Ronan asks as he grabs the four kilos he’s responsible for. “This is Colombian coke, not Mexican coke.”
“This guy,” Chains says hitching a thumb over his shoulder with his free hand after walking away with his packages.
“Mexicans get their coke from Colombia,” I explain. “In dealing with us, the Colombians are just cutting out the middlemen, and it’s cheaper to move dope over water than on land through Mexico.”
“We’re now the middlemen,” TJ grumbles.
“The cartel is scrambling right now. They’re doing everything to cut the Mexicans out of their business,” I continue. Ronan’s brow furrows. This motherfucker is helping run one of the biggest distribution organizations on the east coast, and he doesn’t even know a damn thing about the roots of the product? “Haven’t you ever heard of reverse criminal colonization?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I don’t watch the news.”
“The Mexicans used to be the pack mules for Colombian coke,” Lynch continues, not agitated in the least by our little impromptu education class in the middle of an abandoned industrial park where at any moment we could be rode up on and slaughtered for the thirty-two kilos of coke we were practically forced into buying. “Now, the Mexican cartels are infiltrating South America and taking over the plantations. The Colombian Empire isn’t as stable as Jiménez wants everyone to believe.”
“Shit,” Ronan whispers. “So maybe we should’ve stuck with the Mexicans.”
“We’ll bide our time.” Lynch climbs on his bike. “See how things play out over the next couple of months.”
Months? I think to myself. He just signed a five year contract with the Colombian cartel. As I climb on my bike, I have a sinking feeling that he’s planning something, and for the first time since I joined this MC, I don’t know a damn thing going on in his head.
When everyone has their portion of the coke loaded up, we each follow Lynch’s lead and climb on our bikes.
“Stick to the speed limit,” Lynch reminds them. “Until you off-load this shipment, I expect you to drive like a bunch of blue-haired grannies. Don’t get pinched.”
The other six guys crank their bikes and drive off, leaving Lynch and me alone. I have no idea what’s going to go down, but he hasn’t bothered to crank his bike, so I don’t even lift my finger to my own ignition.
“I want to get as far as we can today.”
“Riding at night is always better,” I counter.
“I’m not sitting in some hotel room for the next ten hours until the sun goes down. You may not have anything to get back to in Sutton, but I want to get home as soon as possible.”
When did things get so volatile between us? I don’t speak for a long moment, spending the time staring at him. Something insidious climbs inside of me, forcing my hands to fist at my sides and anger to bubble to the surface.
“You seem agitated,” he taunts. “Something on your mind?”
“You’ve been distracted lately.”
“Are you saying I’m not handling the club?”
I chew on my lower lip before responding, doing my best to calm my annoyance. It only serves to irritate me more. “When you took over, you spoke about getting a larger crew. You swore the officers in the club wouldn’t have to put their necks on the line doing shit like this anymore. Yet, here we are, fixing to drive almost six hundred and fifty miles weighed down with eight kilos of fucking coke.”
“You sound like a brand-new member, not a seasoned rider. Five years ago you would’ve laughed in the face of the consequences of getting caught.”
“You’re an asshole,” I spit. Mature, right? Well, it’s the best thing I could come up with without vomiting what I really want to say. Walking away, or getting arrested and sent to prison for years after just coming to the realization that I may be able to have something real in my life, is the very last thing I want right now.
“You’ve known that for years. What else?”
“You’re not the only one—” I clench my jaw until the damn thing aches in my brain. Spewing all my shit at him right now would only end badly for me. I don’t imagine he’d think twice about leaving my body here. From the looks of things, I wouldn’t be found anytime soon. The starving neighborhood animals would pick my bones clean by the end of the week.