Page 10 of Barron

Betty glanced at her wristwatch. “Oh, my goodness. Look at the time. We have to go. I have a mountain of correspondence on my desk. Can you ask your friend for the check and to give us a doggy bag?”

“Of course.”

As Yoanni waved at Margie, she realized that she’d opened herself up to Betty. Had told her quite a bit about her life, family, and roots, except the real reason for her return. That part she wasn’t willing to divulge to anyone. However, Betty had kept a tight lid on her own story and past. She hadn’t revealed a damned detail. Strange behavior for someone who wanted to be friends.

“Is everyone finished?” Blade’s voice snapped Barron out of the daydream. “Pass me the ballots.”

Fuck! Church had been called to take an important vote. The sergeant-at-arms/enforcer position had been vacant since Cutter moved south. Barron should’ve been listening, but Robert’s rules of order bored him, so he’d tuned out the discussion. His mind had gone in a direction he didn’t want it to. Yoanni’s return had brought emotions he thought he’d buried back to life.

At least he’d checked Little Billy’s name. Turbo’s sidekick was a ferocious Devils’ Spawn. The guy lived and breathed the club’s brotherhood and the motorcycle culture more than anyone Barron knew. He’d be a formidable enforcer.

Blade counted the ballots in silence, and an air of expectation filled the room. He finished tallying the votes and glanced around the table. “My vote isn’t necessary. It’s unanimous.” Blade heldout the red and black SGT AT ARMS patch. “Let’s congratulate our brother, Little Billy, Devils’ Spawn’s new sergeant-at-arms.”

A round of cheers, piercing whistles, and table slapping filled the room. Blade stood as Little Billy stepped from his chair to pick up his patch. The brothers embraced, Blade murmured a few private words, and, holding his new patch to his chest, Little Billy faced his brothers with a rareshit-eating grin. Little Billy could scare the real devil if he wanted. About six feet tall and heavily muscled, he walked around with a permanent frown and a Glock shoved in the waist of his jeans. A necessary habit from the days when the Spawn were a troublemaking outlaw club. The only softening detail on the man was the pair of small gold hoops on each earlobe. If anyone got out of hand, Barron had no doubt Little Billy would set them straight in an instant.

The group spilled out to the main room to celebrate. Barron pushed back his chair to join his brothers, but Blade stopped him. “Can you stay a minute?”

“What’s up?”

“I watched you during the meeting. You were somewhere else. What’s on your mind?”

Barron glared at his president. Blade had some balls to ask that question. He’d brought up the damned topic about Yoanni’s return in the first place.

“Nothing,” Barron grumbled.

“The bullshit is dripping off you, man. Is it the deal with the Wolves and the new cartel?” He chuckled. “No, wait. I know what’s eating you. Guess what, asshole, you did it to yourself.”

Barron tightened his hands into fists, controlling the impulse to smack his friend and club president, a good one, and put an end to the teasing comments.

“Fuck you, Blade.”

“There’s an intelligent response. What’re you gonna do?” Blade settled against the back of his chair with a mild expression. “Let her slip from your fingers again? She’s here now, but for how long? As far as I know, she had one friend, Emily, and without her…”

“Yes. It’s Yoanni, and I don’t know what I’m going to do about her. Happy?”

“No skin off my nose if you don’t claim her. You’re one miserable-looking pup. Take care of business. Go find her. Ask her to take you back.”

“Maybe I will, and maybe I won’t. Just lay the fuck off. Give me room to breathe.”

“You’re right.” Blade held up a hand. “I’ll stop messing with your head. Weaver and I spoke again.”

“What?”

“He knows about Los Emes. The DEA has sent him several troubling reports. Those guys are ruthless, committed, and apparently well-funded. The Gulf Clan, a revolutionary guerrilla group operating in the Colombian mountains, is in complete control of the cocaine refining production and has a ton of money thanks to undercover support from the Venezuelan and Cuban governments. After the fall of Escobar, The Gulf Clan was searching for a new organization to operate in the city. They found it in the up-and-coming Los Emes. The idea of an improved Medellin-style cartel was attractive.”

“Don’t tell me. Weaver is sending me out again.”

“No. He wants you to stay put. You were seen in LaFayette. Returning to the Wolves’ territory is too much exposure for you.”

“That’s a fucking relief for me. So…”

“I passed the photographs you took to the brothers. Everyone is familiar with the faces. Meanwhile, we wait and watch. At the first sign of their presence on our turf, we sound the alarm to Weaver. He’ll have to bring the big guns into the situation.”

Barron nodded. Getting the feds involved and him out of the line of fire sounded just perfect because goingback to the Steel Wolves’ clubhouse made his hair stand on end. Once he’d joined the biker life, he’d seen his share of MC clubhouses. Some were unkempt and dirty, others were neat and almost clean, but not a one felt as sinister and evil as the Wolves’. If he never returned to LaFayette, it would be too soon.

“Then we wait. Anything else?”

Blade exhaled. “We didn’t talk about the auto and bike repair garage. Any updates on that project?”

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