Radclyffe - Code of Honor

Quincy said, “No problems.”

“Terms?”

Quincy relayed the particulars of the meeting and the agreed-upon price. Ramsey nodded in satisfaction.

“Are we going to have any trouble filling the order?” He looked at Loren.

Loren shook her head. “It’ll take at least two weeks, but there shouldn’t be a problem.” She thought about the calls she’d need to make, the guns she’d need to have moved into the warehouse. “For that quantity, though, we ought to make two runs on different days, different couriers in both directions.”

Ramsey nodded in agreement. “Set it up.”

“How sure are we these militia guys can be trusted?” Quincy said.

“The Bloods have dealt with them before and they say they’re solid,” Ramsey said.

“We’re going to be inside their turf when we make the exchange,” Quincy went on. “That’s a lot of money and merchandise we’re talking about.”

Loren saw an opening, and she might not have another one. “I’m with Quincy on this. If we agree to make the transfer inside the Liberation compound, we’ll be outmanned and outgunned. People disappear all the time up in the Bitterroots. And we can’t exactly file a missing-persons report if some of us don’t come back.”

“So we’ll take precautions,” Ramsey said. “Can we get a backup team up in the mountains to cover the meet?”

Quincy shook his head. “No way up but the one road. They’ll have that watched.”

Ramsey grunted. “Anybody got any suggestions?”

“How about we request some kind of insurance policy before the meet,” Loren said. “One of their guys comes down here and one of us goes up there. Nobody goes home until the money and the guns are transferred and everybody moves back to neutral space.”

“What if they send somebody down here they don’t care about losing?” Griffin said. “A hostage is only worth as much as his value to the other side. They could shoot up our guys, rip us off, and leave us with a useless body to deal with.”

Quincy pointed a finger like he was shooting a gun. “The Bloods know these guys. We can get a rundown on the major players from them. Make sure they send someone with weight.”

“Let me think about it,” Ramsey said. “I don’t like putting one of our guys out there with nothing but his dick for a weapon.”

“No problem,” Loren said. “I’ll go.”

Everybody laughed. Loren shrugged as if she didn’t care, but her nerves jangled with anticipation. Things were finally coming together. She might finally be able to get a firsthand look at FALA.

Ramsey stubbed out his cigar. “Any more business or can we go home and enjoy what’s left of Christmas?” When no one spoke, Ramsey rose. “Meeting adjourned. Nice work.”

Loren pushed her chair back, feeling the fatigue for the first time. She’d been on edge for weeks setting up this buy, and it just might pay off.

The men started to file out, and Ramsey said, “McElroy, wait a minute, will you.”

Quincy looked back, his eyes narrowing. When Ramsey didn’t invite him to stay, he pulled the door closed, leaving Loren alone with Ramsey.

Ramsey edged his hip onto the corner of the long, scarred table. A Glock was tucked into the small of his back. Hers was still in her jacket, but she couldn’t slide her hand into the pocket with him watching. She’d seen him execute a traitor to the club once. He’d smiled and patted the guy on the cheek, right before he’d pulled out his gun and shot him through the eye.

“See what you can find out about the squeeze at the bar.”

Loren must have looked surprised because he laughed.

“Well, I can’t ask my old lady to do it,” Ramsey said. “And if I send one of the guys, they’ll be sniffing around her pussy before they even get her name. Let me know what you find out.”

“Sure, boss. You want me to call you?”

“In the morning, not too early. Trish likes to sleep in, and the kids are with the in-laws.” He grinned.

She nodded. “Got it. Night.”

“Yeah.”

Loren strolled back into the bar. The lights in the hanging green-glass-shaded lamps were turned down low, making the place look less tacky than it did during the day. The few mismatched round tables looked less rickety, the felt on the pool table less worn, the bar less scarred. The two hopefuls were gone, probably sleeping it off with Armeo and Griffin—possibly together. The redhead still sat at the bar, a quarter inch of amber liquid in the rock glass in front of her. The hand that held the glass was long fingered and smooth, the nails shining sculpted ovals. Classy.

Loren sat on the stool next to her, leaned across the bar, fished a glass from underneath, and drew a beer from the tap. She skimmed off the foam with her index finger and took a long drink. “Why don’t I think you’re here by accident?”

The redhead half turned, her knee brushing Loren’s thigh. “Because you don’t look stupid to me.”

“What’s your name?”

“Lisa.”

“Lisa…?”

She smiled. “Smith.”

“Uh-huh. So, Lisa Smith—what are you doing here?”

“Jerome sent me.”

Loren’s spine stiffened. Jerome was international president of the Renegades—every local chapter along the Pacific Coast and as far east as Montana and Idaho paid tithe to him from the profits they made running drugs or guns or girls. “Why?”

“You’ve been busy here. Moving a lot of product. I’m an accountant.”

Loren laughed. “Right, and I’m an undercover cop.”

Lisa’s smile widened as she traced a single finger down the center of Loren’s chest. Goose bumps lifted on Loren’s torso and her nipples tightened.

“I don’t believe you,” Lisa murmured. “You’re too good-looking to be a cop. So why are you really here?”

Loren laughed again. “I’m here on a mission from the president. He’s interested in you.”

“Really?” Lisa emptied her glass and set it down. “He’s not my type.”

“Don’t let the wedding ring bother you.”

“It doesn’t.” Lisa leaned forward and kissed Loren on the mouth. “It’s more the cock I’m not interested in.”

“And I’m not interested in getting killed for a little bit of pussy.”

Lisa ran her tongue slowly over the surface of Loren’s lower lip. “How about for a lot ?”

Loren eased back. Her clit was tight but she wasn’t insane. No one got between Ramsey and a woman. “I’ll have to give it some thought.”

“You do that.” Lisa slid off the stool, her high firm breasts brushing over Loren’s arm. “Have a nice night, Loren.”

Lisa turned to walk away, and Loren said, “I don’t remember giving you my name.”

Lisa winked over her shoulder. “You didn’t. Night.”

*

Sky Dunbar slid behind the wheel of her crap rental car and pulled out of the gravel lot onto the deserted highway. The sky was crystal clear, an ebony blanket studded with stars and a full moon. The silver light was nearly bright as day. Before she accelerated away from the Ugly Rooster, she glanced at the big dark plate-glass window and wondered if Loren McElroy was looking out at her, or if she’d forgotten her the moment they’d parted. She didn’t question why she cared.

McElroy wasn’t exactly what she’d expected. Somehow, she’d thought McElroy would keep a lower profile, but apparently taking a backseat wasn’t her style. Figured, really. A woman didn’t get accepted into a biker club as one of the members and not one of the old ladies unless she had something special to offer. McElroy had that, and more. An Army vet, she’d started out as a grease monkey in the motor pool and worked her way up to commanding a supply company. Along the way, she’d made plenty of contacts, and soon her unofficial duty became procuring whatever needed to be gotten for the post. Everything from extra fuel, surplus body armor and machine parts to contraband of all description. The bureau had recruited her by then, and her illegal activities were sanctioned. Her cover story was a long time in the making, and by the time she’d reached Silver Lake, where she owned her own garage, her story was more than a cover. It was her reality.