Page 75 of Property of Bones

The fucker smiles. “For you, sí. But not for me. I have to clean up the mess. You see, I cannot risk his actions being traced back to me. It would be... how you say… bad for business.”

“Then why the hell are you here?” Crusher growls.

Muerte doesn’t lose that smile. “Because I bring a solution.”

Oh, this’ll be good.

“You let my men pass through Palm Springs once a month,” he says. “Just pass. We don’t sell. We don’t stop. We move products to buyers. Fast. Quiet. No trouble.”

“And in return?” Spike asks, brow lifting.

“I clean up Billy’s mess. Take the product. Remove the risk. Ensure it never touches your streets again.”

I can feel the tension spike in the room. Foster’s already got his fingers twitching like he’s ready to launch something digital and lethal. Crusher looks one comment away from flipping the damn table. And Skip keeps looking at Max as if he’s trying to figure the man out.

“You’re asking for a monthly corridor through our territory?” Tank says slowly, like he’s trying to make sure this guy hears how insane that sounds. “For free?”

“No,” El Muerte says smoothly. “Forpeace.”

Skip scoffs. “Peace ain’t usually bundled with fentanyl and blood.”

Muerte’s smile finally fades. Just a flicker. But enough.

“It’s a good offer,” he says, eyes locking with Spike’s. “Better than war.”

I look at Max again. He’s still a statue. But something in his jaw twitches.

Something’s off.

Spike leans back slowly. Thinking. Calculating. Every man here knows what’s on the line.

“We don’t move drugs,” he says. “Wecarrythem. For a price. Neutral ground. That’s our rep.”

“You let me through,” Muerte says, “and your rep stays clean. You say nothing. I say nothing. You profit from peace. I profit from efficiency.”

And there it is. The kind of deal that smells like gasoline and burns down everything if you say yes.

I shift in my seat, eyes flicking to Max. His gaze meets mine…just for a second.

Empty?

No.

Shielded.

Which begs the question…

Who the hell are you protecting, Max? Muerte…or us?

“Fine,” Spike says, his voice low and clipped. “But I have stipulations.”

“Interesting,” Muerte replies smoothly. “Do tell.”

“I’ll allow passage once a month,” Spike begins. “But your men will be escorted. Every damn time.”

“Fair enough,” Muerte nods.

“One vehicle. No convoys. No unmarked trailers. One.”