Page 36 of Outlaw
Silas
Ilookdown at the cut covering the idiot’s chest. He’s struggling to breathe, but I notice his patch and lift my fingers to see the whole thing. Fuck. It’s got the letters ‘VP’ right under my grip.
“Francisco fucking Garcia?” I shout, calling him by his full name because his face is so fucking busted up from a prior beating, I didn’t recognize him. “Where’s Vasquez holed up?”
“Calm down, Corrigan. We don’t have to be so uncivilized about this.”
“Uncivilized? What about the bombing of my club. Was that civilized?” My voice level raises and I pistol whip him in his right ribs for saying something so fucking stupid.
He grips my forearm, thinking it’ll help to relieve the chokehold. It won’t. Not that I want to kill the fucker—well, not yet.
“Stop talking crap and tell me where the fuck is your sorry-ass President.”
“He’s not here!” the man insists. “He’s been gone all day. I think he’s at one of his exes or something.”
My arm pistons into his ribs again. “How the fuck does a VP not know where your number one is?”
His demeanor changes and his voice goes calm. “Corrigan, you must be more foolish than I thought. You really believe I’ll rat on my Pres for you?”
He’s right. All of my boys would give their lives up before they ever risk betraying our club. I take a moment to think of my next move. Killing him right this second will only kick the rivalry between our clubs up a notch. And although I’m willing to go that far if I have to, an all-out war with these guys isn’t smart. I want some answers before heads roll.
“Pres! Yo, Pres! Over here!”
I swivel my head to the far right. It’s Tate. He’s in the driver seat of one of the Los Diablos’ pickup trucks, and has Axe in the passenger seat. “Boss, these Los Diablos pricks are falling like dominoes.”
“Vasquez ain’t here either,” I tell them, motioning to the head still locked in my chokehold. “His VP says so.”
“Yo, Garcia,” Tate grins. “You look like hell froze over on your fucking face. Your old lade beat you up again?”
“Get our men to pack it up,” I instruct them. “I’ll throw Garcia in the back. The least he can do is get Vasquez on the phone so we can talk.”
“Sounds good, boss.”
Axe gets on the radio, and after I throw Garcia into the truck’s cab, Tate sticks his head out the window. “I’ll drive us out to our bikes.”
* * *
“Hasanyone seen Sabrina or Cindy?” I ask the guys outside the clubhouse a while after we return. By now, hunger’s kicking in too, but I’m more curious as to whether those two were able to play nice while we were gone. “And please tell me someone restocked the kitchen.”
Tate comes out of nowhere. He shoves his hands into his pants pocket and passes me a granola bar, which I open and shove into my mouth. The disgusting fake meal tastes like chemically coated plastic. What I really need is medium rare, a little bloody, and of the cow variety.
“This crap won’t cut it.”
Axe returns to his bike and throws me a resealable plastic bag full of beef jerky. “This should help.”
“No one answered my first question.” I rip open the bag and shove a few pieces of the dried meat into my mouth.
Axe swears under his breath and rubs the back of his neck, then finds a cig and lights it up. “Oh. That.”
“Where is she? Talk.”
Only Tate looks like he’s anxious to share. He shrugs one shoulder. “Your mouthy female chew toy went off with your mother on some kind of girls-only gig. It has to be some weird bonding thing. The guys inside said they were pretty excited to leave.”
Yeah, that doesn’t send off any alarm bells or anything.
“And who let them leave?”
I glare at Tate but it’s impossible to intimidate him. He isn’t afraid of anything. Everything’s afraid of him. Of course, that’s also why it’s a waste of time to be mad at him. It’s one problem down and about eight more to go, and then maybe I can chill with my feet up and a few ice cold six-packs of beer.
