Page 47 of Dagger

“Need you at the meet with the Russians,” Mason says, his tone flat, no room for questions.

I pause, tension already tightening my chest. “When?”

“Now. Clubhouse.”

“Got it.”

He hangs up, and I toss the rag onto the bench, grabbing my cut and throwing it on. This isn’t a call you ignore. I swing my leg over the bike, fire it up, and tear out of the garage toward the clubhouse.

When I roll up, the guys are already there. Mason’s leaning against his bike, arms crossed, his face carved from stone. Tank, Hawk, Piston, and Sledge are gathered nearby, checking weapons and talking in low tones.

I kill the engine and walk over, nodding at Tank. “What’s the deal?”

Mason looks up, his voice calm but sharp. “Russians want to talk terms. Same bullshit as always, but this time, they’restarting to push hard. We’re riding out to remind them who they’re dealing with.”

Tank snorts, tucking a knife into his boot. “Remind ‘em why we don’t take their shit.”

Hawk checks the clip on his pistol, sliding it back into his holster. “They’re getting cocky,” he mutters. “Think they can lean on us ‘cause they don’t see the consequences.”

“They’re about to,” Mason says, pushing off his bike. “Let’s ride.”

We mount up, the sound of our engines roaring to life as we peel out of the lot in formation. The ride’s short, but the tension builds with every mile. By the time we pull up to the old warehouse on the east side, the adrenaline’s pumping. The place is perfect for a meet—isolated, no cameras, plenty of exits if shit goes sideways.

The Russians are already there, their black SUVs lined up like they’re trying to make a statement. Their head guy, Dmitri, stands by the lead vehicle, flanked by a couple of his goons. He’s dressed sharp, like he always is, with an expensive suit and that cold look in his eyes that makes him impossible to read.

We park our bikes in a tight line and dismount, falling in behind Mason as he leads the way. Tank and I stay close to him, while Hawk, Piston, and Sledge hang back slightly, keeping their eyes on the surroundings.

Dmitri takes a drag off a cigarette as we approach, blowing the smoke out slowly. “Mason,” he says, his accent thick but his words deliberate. “Always a pleasure.”

Mason stops a few feet away, his hands resting casually at his sides. “Let’s skip the bullshit, Dmitri. What do you want?”

Dmitri’s lips curl into a faint smirk. “I assume you’ve had time to reconsider our terms.”

Mason’s jaw tightens, but his voice stays calm. “Your terms are a joke, and you know it. We’re not here to bend over. If you want our product, you pay what it’s worth.”

One of Dmitri’s guys steps forward, but Dmitri holds up a hand, stopping him. “Careful, Mason,” he says, his tone smooth but cold. “We’re not just another client. You should be more... accommodating.”

I step in, my voice low but sharp. “You came to us for a reason, Dmitri. You know our supply is the best, and you know nobody else can match what we bring to the table. You walk away, you lose.”

Dmitri shifts his gaze to me, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You think we have no other options?”

“No,” Mason says, cutting in. “But I think you’ll regret taking them. You walk, and you’ll be explaining to your boss why you’re stuck with shit quality and a blown budget. You ready for that conversation?”

Dmitri chuckles darkly, taking another drag of his cigarette. “You have balls, Mason. I’ll give you that.”

“Balls and brains,” Mason says, his tone flat. “Take the deal or leave it, but if you walk, you’re the one who’s gonna lose face.”

For a moment, the tension is thick enough to choke on. Dmitri stares at Mason, the smirk fading slightly as he weighs his options. Finally, he flicks the cigarette to the ground and crushes it under his shoe.

“Fine,” he says, his voice clipped. “For now, we keep the deal as it is.”

Mason nods once. “Good call.”

Dmitri turns to his men, signaling them to fall back. Before climbing into his SUV, he glances over his shoulder. “I trust we won’t have this conversation again.”

Mason’s eyes narrow. “Not if you stick to your end.”

The Russians pull out, their vehicles disappearing into the distance.

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