Damned: Seven Tribesmen MC (26 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

Later that evening, when the Devil Spikes had been ushered into a garage where they could sleep while being watched over by the Tribesmen, Bishop and Coyote sat alone in the conference room.  Bishop held the document he stole from Stella in his hands.  His eyes went over every line, while replaying the Spikes' proposal in his head.

“So, you think the Spikes are reliable?” grunted Coyote from where he sat to Bishop's right.

Bishop's gaze darted to his vice president and away from the words of a freshly stung prostitute.  His mind swirled with thoughts and consideration.  Too much new information had been pumped into it over the last hour.

“If what they say is true,” Bishop muttered, his eyebrows furrowing, “I don't see why not.”

Coyote's brows furrowed in frustration.  He wasn't convinced, and he wasn't afraid to voice it.  “Why would the White Knights join up with the Demons though?”

“We put one of their men behind bars.”  Bishop frowned, recalling Stan.  He vaguely wondered where the man was now.  A paranoid part of him almost expected the disgusting piece-of-shit to rear his ugly head. 

“An
affiliate
,” corrected Coyote.

Bishop waved away the correction with an irritated palm. “Point is, there's motive.”

Coyote wasn't letting go of the topic.  He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the wooden table.  His pointer finger tapped against the tabletop, as if his point were solidified in the wood grain.  “Yeah, and there's motive for the Spikes to lie to us.”

“Everyone and their grandma knows the FBI is in town,” snorted Bishop, rolling his eyes.  “Why risk getting caught with possession of crank?”

“You mean everyone knows you're banging the agent.”

“
Coyote
.”

“Just saying.  If the White Knights got involved, then the Demons and Spikes know about your relations with Agent Holmes.”

Bishop fell silent.  That speculation had been lingering at the edges of his thoughts, afraid to be noticed.  Just imagining Stella getting involved in the tangled mess of club politics made his stomach lurch.  He couldn't do anything about it though.  She had already shoved her nose in pretty deep.

“The Spikes are putting themselves in a vulnerable position.” Bishop's denial rallied against Coyote's sense.  It wasn't even implausible denial.  “If they get caught red-handed with blow, they're gonna get possession.  Bare minimum.  The blowback could be traced back to the Demons and the cartel.”

Coyote shrugged, shaking his head slightly as he heaved a sigh.  Bishop groaned, rubbing his throbbing temple.  Sometimes, Bishop felt the tangled web of motorcycle clubs could use a good trimming.  It didn't help that the Seven Tribesmen had lost a long-time partnership and investment.  There was also a second issue with the Spikes: they offered their turf and their patch in exchange for protection from the Demons.  Bishop's jaw clenched and unclenched.  Acreage was a big deal.  It was even a bigger deal for a club to relinquish their identity and become a charter.

A set of knuckles rapped across the conference room door.  Bishop's eyes swung to the clock.  Nine o'clock.  He resisted the urge to groan again.  The rest of the Seven Tribesmen were ready for the meeting and vote.  That meant the three newbie
s—
who had been given a kind of internship with the 7
T—
would be watching over the Spikes.  That meant they needed to be short and sweet with business.

“Get in here!” Bishop barked through the door.  The rest of the member
s—
sans New
b—
filed into the room.  Each expression held the strained, pinched look of a club ready to topple.  Bishop swallowed, mentally preparing for the long discussion ahead.  As he shifted in his seat, the dull throb of his muscles reminded him of the pleasant afternoon with Stella.  A dull ache singed at the corners of his heart, but he tried to push the feelings aside as he delved into the meeting.

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

A motion of 5 to 2 brought the Seven Tribesmen to the highway early in the Thursday dawn.  They dawdled at the truck stop, waiting for the delivery truck to show up.  According to one of the Devil Spikes members, the drivers always stopped at this outpost for the diner's flapjacks and a set of legs that went by the name of Joy.  At that thought, Bishop glanced at the booth behind Bulletproof. 

Thanks to a close vote, four Spikes members accompanied them.  If bullets went flying, at least they'd have four extra bodies to fend off or sacrifice. It was a cold, detached thought, but Bishop didn't care.  A bitterness still thrived in his heart over the mistreatment from both the Demons and the Spikes.  Then again, the White Knights had done worse, and they were allegedly aligning with the Demons.  Networking with another club was in the Tribesmen's best interest.

At the thought of the White Knights, Bishop's eyes slide over to Newb…well, Bulletproof, now…who seemed all smiles.  He had returned to the Tribesmen just yesterday and wanted in on the mission.  The young man wasn't taking no for an answer.  A chilly dread clenched at Bishop's gut, as residual fear puttered to life in his head.  His gaze flicked around the booth, staring at each and every one of his brothers.  The dread increased and preemptive woe tickled at his synapses.  If he lost any of them, their blood was on his hands.

“Yo, boss, you alright?”  Ruse roused Bishop from his imagination's hold.

Bishop swallowed, suddenly realizing how taut his muscles were.  His gaze focused on Ruse, forcing a cocky grin to his lips.  He nodded toward the perky blonde with the ruby red lips.  “Yeah, just checking out the legs that lures these drivers in every time.”

Crow and Howler exchanged looks and the conversation at the table stuttered.  To Bishop's right, Coyote coughed, hiding a laugh.  Bishop narrowed his eyes, his gaze sweeping up and down the table.  “What's got you guys by the balls?”

“She ain'treally your type, bos
s—
now, is she?”

Bishop cocked an eyebrow, his unimpressed expression not quivering a bit.  His gaze flicked to the blonde again.  Most men seemed to be staring at her, as she giggled and trounced.  Deep in Bishop's head though, he knew what Howler meant.  However, he got the feeling that his brothers were laughing at him, rather than pointing out a clash of interest.  His gaze flicked back to his men, forcing boredom and aloofness. “She's got perky tits and an ass you could bounce a quarter off of.  What's not my type?”

“Well, for one, she's not brunette.”

“And her tits are nowhere big enough.”

“Plus, she doesn't give you a challenge.”

“Alright, alright, enough,” grunted Bishop, waving his hand as if to push away the insinuations.  Everyone at the table knew what the guys were getting at, and he did not appreciated it at all.

In the snickering silence at Bishop's table, the chime above the door tinkled.  Bishop glanced over, catching sight of a man in a brown uniform.  Embroidered across his back in pink thread were the words: Crystal Sugar.  This was their guy.

“I'm going to go get some air.”  Bishop growled, while his brothers continued to chuckle amongst themselves.  At the sound of his curt tone, they glanced up.  They all found the delivery man within a second.  Bishop slid himself out of the booth and sauntered to the door, slipping his phone from his pocket along the way.  He could feel his brothers leering at his back as he exited the diner.

With his phone to his ear, Bishop grunted conversationally into the phone.  He strolled to his hog and rifled through the bedroll, continuing his farce of a conversation.  His gaze flicked over the parking lot, catching sight of the boxy white delivery truck instantly.  Like the delivery man's uniform, Crystal Sugar was plastered across the side of the va
n—
along with a by-line about 'sweet delivery.'

Bishop jerked suddenly and glared at his phone.  He made a show of clicking and attempting to revive his conversation, acting irritated when nothing happened.  In reality, he was snapping shots of the delivery truck, license plate and all. 

“Phone problems?”  Gravel shifted behind Bishop as one of the Spikes members came up behind him.

“Yeah, I think her phone dropped signal suddenly.”  Bishop turned and nodded as Buck-Fifty advanced further.  He waved the phone, as if to illustrate his frustration. “Can't get through.”

Buck-Fifty raised his eyebrows.  A scar on his forehead became more prominent as it caught the morning sun.  “
Her
?”

“Personal business.”  Bishop smiled tightly.  He pocketed his phone with force.  He didn't enjoy the spark of interest the Spike had in his eyes.  “I try not to mix business and pleasure.”

A crooked grin curled over Buck-Fifty's lips, and Bishop's irritation prickled further.  “Not from what I've heard.”

“And what have you heard?” Bishop inquired, his lips tight and expression pinched.  The young Spike had been rallying for a beating from the first moment he set foot in Grand River.  Bishop refrained from clenching his hands into fists, keeping every inch of his body language under control.  Buck-Fifty didn't deserve to know how much he agitated the Tribesmen president.

“The Tribesmen and the FBI are in bed…in more ways than one.” Buck-Fifty shrugged his scrawny shoulders.  That cocky grin still twisted at his lips and the spark in his eyes never faltered.

Irritation flared in Bishop's gut.  He narrowed his eyes at the Devil Spike member, inclining his head just slightly.  “Why you bringing this up now?”

“I ain't a high-ranking member,” Buck-Fifty said, as he shrugged, shifted his footing, and flicked his gaze to Bishop's face, his eyes burning with determination and pride, “but I got as much right as anyone else to know this isn't going to blow up in the Spikes' faces.”

Bishop considered the young man for a breath.  His body language stood tense, his scrawny arms taut and ready to swing.  There was a slight tremble to his body, a mix of adrenaline and anxiety.  Buck-Fifty wanted answers but knew he was outmatched when it came to both power and skill…and still the lad demanded answers.  

“I mighta laid with a fed,” Bishop took a step forward, looming over the man, “but the Tribesmen ain't rats.”

Buck-Fifty didn't shirk back, even with Bishop towering over him.  Bishop had to hand it to the lad, he had balls made of steel.  He'd known bigger, more muscular men who cringed in fear if Bishop so much as blinked.  But, even with outstanding confidence, a Chihuahua was still no match for a Doberman pincher.  If the boy survived the next few hours, he might be a decent recruit for the Tribesmen. 

“Now, excuse me, I got mighty hungry.”  Bishop flashed Buck-Fifty a tight smile.  He added extra sway to his swagger, as he waltzed past the young man.  He could feel the irritation scatter off Buck-Fifty, and smug amusement tugged at his lips.

Despite the inkling of enjoyment Bishop got from haranguing Buck-Fifty, something oily and sick settled in his stomach.  A heaviness weighed in his gut, and it got worse every time he thought of the truck.  Bishop shoved the uncertainty down, trying to ignore it.  He chalked it up to worry, especially with the newly regained Bulletproof in his ranks.

Fleetingly, his thoughts touched on Stella.  The heaviness tugged insistently at Bishop, as his heart shuddered.  Vague premonition hung eerily in his head.  As Bishop crossed the threshold into the diner, he tried to bat away the concerns.  The mission was already underway, and apprehension would only distract him.

As Bishop's eyes fell on his table, watching his brothers snicker and antagonize, his stomach churned and refused to be quieted.  He wasn't sure what he would do if anyone he cared about got hurt.  With sheer mental force, Bishop coerced his legs to walk toward the Seven Tribesmen.

CHAPTER FORTY

Cold sickness clawed at Stella's throat.  She stared out the window toward the bakery where the shipment was due to arrive.  And arrive it did.  The white delivery truck trundled happily into the parking lot, backing up to the door to unload its goods.

Followed by a herd of bikers. 

Through her binoculars, Stella caught the sight of the all-too-familiar tattoo-etched skull accompanied by a flaming seven.  Her stomach lurched unhappily, and fire erupted in her chest.  Betrayal, denial, rage, sadness, and bewilderment stampeded through her thoughts.

“You gonna be OK?”  To Stella's left, manning her own window and binoculars, Agent Grant cast her a worried glance.

Stella didn't answer her.  She merely glared through her binoculars at the scene that unfolded.

Four unfamiliar men swung off their choppers and sauntered their way to the truck.  The drivers tensed, their body language screaming stranger danger.  Before any words could be exchanged, a short but muffled scuffle went down.  It ended with the two drivers knocked flat on the ground, presumably unconscious. 

Stella's fingers tightened around her binoculars, using spying equipment to see Bishop.  He nodded his head to the four strangers, and they continued their way toward the rear of the delivery truck. Even from across the street and three floors up, Stella could hear the rattle of the door sliding open. 

Then, something in the air shifted.  Her stomach pitched forward, and the hair on her arms stood on end.  Something was wrong.  Very wrong.  Stella couldn't put her finger on it though.  The feeling intensified, a tense moment later, as the four strangers swaggered out from behind the truck.  The closer the men approached the Tribesmen, the worse her intuition screamed at her.  The binoculars creaked under her tightened grasp.

The strangers and Bishop exchanged words.

“Down!”

The one word echoed up to Stella's ears.  She swung back to the truck where ten or more leather-clad men spewed from the back.  They leveled handguns, just as the four strangers lunged for four Tribesmen.  Gunshots shrieked through the air.  The Tribesmen scrambled for cover, save for those few who were on the ground and struggling with combatants.

Stella's heart froze.  Blood spattered on the pavement while snarls and obscenities thrust through the air.  Bishop and two other Tribesmen hunkered down behind a dumpster.  For a brief breath, the gunshots ceased.

Her throat became dry and itchy.  She couldn't pick up the words exchanged, but whatever transpired made Bishop's face pinch painfully.  He glanced to the other Tribesmen.  They shared similar strained expressions of worry and uncertainty.

Bishop stood up and stepped out from behind the dumpster.  He bent down briefly, setting his gun on the ground before raising to his full height with his hands up.  Stella's mind couldn't make sense of Bishop's surrender.  As the other two Tribesmen behind the dumpster followed suit, the illness in her gut swirled painfully.

The men swarmed forward, dragging the Tribesmen into the bakery.  Stella stared, her thoughts numb and her heart throbbing in her chest.  She vaguely noted patches with 'Grave Demons' slashed across them; however, her conscious thought sat in a corner, stunned and uncertain over what had just happened.

“Agent Holmes?” someone in the room murmured.

Stella blinked rapidly, consciousness and awareness flooding back to her senses.  Around her, officers stared at her in concern.  Slowly, her wits came back to her.  They had rented out a room across the street from the bakery.  The FBI had to get their hands on the cocaine, and she had to connect the Grave Demons to the cartel.  Her fingers shook as she placed the binoculars carefully down on a table.

With the Seven Tribesmen taken hostage, the Demons had bargaining chips.  If they rushed in now, the Tribesmen would be dead.  Cold claws of anxiety laced through her guts.

From somewhere far away, Agent Grant said, “Agent Holmes, I think we should proceed with our plan.”

Numbly, Stella fixed her gaze on Agent Grant.  The woman leaned across the distance, placing a hand heavily on Stella's shoulder, her eyes softened with kindness and understanding.  Sudden embarrassment licked across Stella's thoughts.  She dipped her gaze to the floor, concern knotting her brow as she blankly nodded.  Heat burned at the back of her eyes as she muttered, “Yeah, we should.”

No matter how much Stella told herself she had to prioritize, that she had a job to do, her fingers continued to quiver.  In her mind, the worst-case scenarios played over and over, taunting her with painful images.