The time had finally come. Shane coasted his Harley into the dusty parking lot, slid into a parking space, and shut off the engine. The place hadn’t changed a bit, he mused as he dropped the kickstand, and swung his long leg over the seat. The two-story building had seen better days; its paint was still faded and cracked, and the gravel needed refreshing.
Nostalgia blended with trepidation as he tugged off his helmet and set it on his bike. He’d taken his time making this decision, because once he stepped through that door, there would be no going back, and no half-measures. The Lone Star Blades didn’t offer part-time positions.
Carefully he scanned the lot under guise of stretching his muscles. Each of the Harley Davidson motorcycles lined up in front of the building was familiar to him; their high-quality custom paint jobs were unique as fingerprints, and easily identified the riders waiting inside. Chrome gleamed brightly in the afternoon sunlight.
So the club’s founding and senior members were all here. He’d expected nothing less. They’d be discussing plenty more than just his return to the club. But why was Rowdy’s bike present? When had he become a senior member?
The door squeaked loudly under his hand. He stepped inside, and began to grin as the pungent odors of cigarette and cigar smoke—and several slightly illegal substances—immediately hit him.
The smell of home, and good times.
Briskly he walked over to the bar. A loose collection of tables and chairs were arranged haphazardly around one side of the bar. Three generously stained pool tables, along with assorted chairs and stools, occupied the other half of the bar.
“Shane!” The bartender shouted his name.
Sarah was a club member’s wife…an ‘old lady’ in their vernacular. The term wasn’t meant as an insult, but rather as a possessive backhanded compliment. No one messed with another man’s old lady, or suffered consequences too dire to consider.
She was a good-looking blonde in her early forties. When she saw him come through the door, a big smile curved her lips. Eagerly she hurried around the bar, and gave him a big hug. He laughed, picked her up, and squeezed her hard before setting her down again.
“Hi, Sarah,” he smiled.
“It’s about time you came back, gorgeous,” she grinned up at him. “I missed you around here. It’s good to see you again.”
“Same here,” he said simply. “I missed you too.”
She kissed him on the cheek and hugged him one last time, then slid behind the bar again and dialed a number on the phone. “He’s here,” she said when it was answered, and then nodded. “Okay.”
Shane sat at the bar, and fiddled with his keys. She was following the club’s standard security process whenever the senior members gathered here.
A glass of soda appeared in front of him, and he nodded his thanks.
“It’ll be just a second, Shane. Can I get you anything else?”
“No. Thank you, Sarah.”
She nodded briefly, and returned to her stool at the other end of the bar.
He tried not to fidget as the minutes slid by. He knew he was under surveillance while another club member circled the block, checking for suspicious activity. They needed to make sure he hadn’t been followed to the bar. A few Prospects were probably stationed around town, too, keeping an eye out for law enforcement surveillance or rival gang activity.
The club took security seriously. He understood the reasons for it, and approved of them. It was one of the reasons club members rarely saw the inside of a jail.
Fifteen endlessly long minutes passed before he heard heavy footsteps descending the stairs. The man who emerged through the doorway was massively huge, and a sense of menace clung to him like a second layer of skin. His shoulders, arms, and chest were enormous, and his eyes were hidden behind a pair of extremely dark sunglasses. The dim bar light reflected dully off his shaved head, and his thick black and gray goatee didn’t show even a hint of a smile.
The moment his gaze settled on Shane, he stalked across the room. Shane swung off his barstool and bravely faced him. Neither man smiled as the giant stopped at a cautious distance, and grimly eyed him.
An instant later, they were hugging, laughing, and pounding each other on the back. The overt menace instantly evaporated and, behind them, Sarah relaxed her wary guard.
“I missed you, brother,” the huge man said affectionately. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Thanks,” Shane exclaimed, and stepped back. “I missed you too, Coke.”
“You and Rowdy are the only ones who still call me that,” Coke chuckled, shaking his head.
Shane had known him for almost ten years. He stood 6’5” and weighed almost 300 pounds, but only a tiny portion of it was fat. He’d been a promising football prospect, back in the day, before he’d gotten into various legal troubles, and then gotten himself kicked out of school. He nearly always wore dark sunglasses, so Shane didn’t remember the actual color of his eyes. His dark goatee was long, shot through with gray, and it completely covered his mouth, so it was impossible to determine whether he was smiling or scowling.
He’d already been a fully patched member when Rowdy and Shane had earned their patches. He was so big they’d called him the ‘human coke machine.’ It had quickly gotten shortened to Coke, and the nickname had stuck, at least for them. Shane and Rowdy had hero-worshipped him at first, and then they’d earned his respect. Finally, his friendship had followed, and Shane had been his best man at his wedding. Rowdy had been the bartender.
“Oh, yeah? What do others call you?” he teased.
Coke’s expression slid into sober satisfaction. “The senior guys call me Sergeant. The newer guys and Prospects just call me sir.”
“I heard they made you Sergeant-At-Arms,” Shane said, and lightly punched his shoulder. “Congrats.”
“Thanks, man.” Then he hesitated a moment, and angled his head. “You ready?”
“Absolutely.” Shane held his hands out at shoulder height, and patiently waited while Coke quickly but thoroughly frisked him. He made no protest when his cell phone disappeared into the bigger man’s pocket.
Finally Coke nodded. “You’re all set, brother.”
Shane walked upstairs, with Coke a single step behind him. When they reached the end of the long hallway, the giant knocked a quick pattern on the closed door.
“Get the fuck in here!” a deep voice shouted.
Coke laid a massive hand on his shoulder. “The guys already have my vote. Good luck,” he murmured, then opened the door and held it for him.
Shane caught a glimpse of the .45 semi-automatic pistol tucked under his arm in a shoulder holster. He knew there was another one under the other arm. Nodding, he stepped into the room.
A small bar was off to one side, complete with four empty barstools. The room was brightly lit, but drapes covered the windows. Shane tried not to react when Coke shut and locked the door behind him. He moved toward the long table at the back of the room. Several club members wearing leather vests ringed the table.
“Shane,” they greeted him, mostly in unison.
He stopped and eyed each one of them in turn, then slowly began to smirk. “I’m looking for the Sisters of Perpetual Chastity prayer meeting. Is this the right place?”
Colorful curses and threatening gestures filled the air as he was hugged, and generous shots of whiskey were pushed in his direction. Rowdy patted Shane’s back; his eyes were serious but hopeful.
When he finally took a seat, he found himself surrounded by the senior club members. The atmosphere turned from warmly welcoming to deadly serious in the space of a heartbeat.
Jake, sitting on his left, started it off. “We’re all glad you’re here,” he said sincerely.
“Thanks, Jake.”
“But…we’re all asking ourselves whether you want to be here or not.” Jake gestured at Rowdy. “We hear you took some convincing, and that concerns us.” He downed a shot of whiskey, then faced Shane squarely. “You wanna be here or not?”
Shane looked around the table, and made eye contact with each man there. Then he fixed his steady gaze on Lobo, the club president. “What Rowdy told you is correct,” he admitted. “I won’t deny that my time in prison made me reconsider a lot of things. Once I got out, I seriously considered becoming a civilian.”
Groans, laughter, and more colorful curses interrupted him.
“Shut the fuck up, and let the man finish,” Jake snapped. Instant silence returned.
“What I realized, though, is that I’m not cut out to be a civilian.” Shane shrugged his shoulders. “I really tried, but it’s like living life at half-speed. I miss my friends, my family, and I’m sick of feeling like a fucking fish out of water. The money sucks, I got laid off, finding a new job as an ex-con is fucking impossible, and I can’t make it work with the other civilians.”
Rowdy laughed, then interjected, “Shane tried to adopt a civilian family.”
Through the resulting laughter, Shane flipped him the finger. But it cut off sharply when Lobo demanded, “What’s he talking about, Shane?”
“Nothing,” Shane replied carefully. “There’s a young couple who live down the street from me. He likes my Camaro, and his wife likes bad boys. That’s it.” He held up his hands in a calming gesture.
Lobo shot a glance in Rowdy’s direction. “That’s it?”
“Yeah, boss, they’re vanilla,” the younger biker nodded. Then a wolfish grin curved his lips. “The guy’s basically a pussy, and his wife is a freak. She wants to become a stripper, so Shane and I were going to help her with that particular goal.” His biting sarcasm received another round of laughter. “Seriously, though, they’re just civilians.
“Although,” he added, more seriously, “I think the wife could make a good mule.”
Lobo waved a hand, cutting him off. “We’ll talk about that later.” Rowdy nodded, and fell silent. “Shane,” he added in a low and deadly-serious voice, “you need to be absolutely sure you want to rejoin the club.”
“I am,” he said soberly. “I wouldn’t have come back otherwise.”
Each of them was carefully evaluating his sincerity. He felt the weight of their stares and returned them with his own solemn gaze, then locked eyes with Lobo again. “Okay,” the man finally nodded. “Why don’t you head downstairs?”
Obediently he rose, and knocked on the door. Coke had been waiting just outside. He unlocked it, and silently followed Shane down the steps.
Sarah smiled up at Shane and her husband. “Hey, guys. Can I get you anything?”
They both declined, and settled into nearby chairs to idly chat while the senior members deliberated upstairs.
The more Shane listened to Coke reminiscing about bygone days, the more he realized how much he’d missed the Blades. The club was his family, and its members were his brothers. He’d been without his family ever since he’d been released from prison. Tim and Crystal were nice people, but they’d never be family…they didn’t belong in his world.
Well, Tim sure as hell doesn’t, he mused. But Crystal’s a different story. She’d love it here. Rowdy’s right. She’d make a great fucking mule.
When the bar phone rang, he recalled himself, and glanced over at Sarah. She listened for a moment, then replaced the receiver. “They’re ready for you.”
“C’mon, dude,” Coke said. “Let’s get this over with.”
This time he followed Shane into the room, and took a wary stance just inside the locked door. The atmosphere had changed; now it was serious, almost hostile. Several of the other bikers were standing, not sitting, and they’d gathered in loose groups.
Lobo motioned for him to take a chair, and leaned his elbows on the table. “We need to discuss a few things,” he said grimly.
The moment Shane obeyed, he realized his mistake. Strong hands clapped down painfully on his shoulders, immobilizing him. Duct tape was slapped across his chest and wound tightly around the chair. His heart raced as he struggled ineffectively, and his chair was wheeled to the center of the room.
“What the fuck is going on?” he snarled. “Motherfuckers!”
They circled him, glaring down with hard, severe expressions. Shane didn’t see a friendly face in the bunch. Even Rowdy looked sad but resigned. “Sorry, buddy.”
Shane watched in silent disbelief as his best friend pulled a knife from his back sheath, and lifted it so that light glittered off its wickedly sharp six-inch blade. He was an artist with that knife. He could still remember the first time Rowdy had shown it to him. “The tip is less likely to break off inside someone, and the back of the blade is a consistent thickness, so it makes slicing through tough, fibrous tissue very easy,” he’d murmured, gazing at it the way another man might caress a lover.
He’d taught Shane how to handle a knife, and he’d become very skilled…but Rowdy was simply amazing.
Shane glared up at him as he made a quick motion with his other hand, and another deadly blade snapped open with an ominous click. “Two knives,” he said quietly. “Apparently an old dog can learn new tricks.”
Rowdy’s eyes gleamed with suppressed enthusiasm. “You have no idea.”
Lobo leaned down and stared straight into Shane’s eyes. Silence hung in the room like a plague as he maintained eye contact. “There’s just one problem,” he said slowly, and his eyes flashed with anger and worse. “None of us believed you. Not a single fucking word you said sounded true to us. And you’re too much of a security risk to let walk out of here…so Rowdy’s going to do what he does best.”
“Fuck you, Lobo,” Shane retorted. “If you think I’ll beg, you’re seriously fucking mistaken.” His eyes traveled around the room. “Fucking cowards!” If he was going to take a beating or worse, he wanted to go out on his own terms.
Lobo shrugged. “You got balls, Shane.”
He straightened again, and nodded to someone standing behind Shane. A leather hood was dropped over the biker’s head, and he struggled again as he was instantly blinded. His heart began pounding even faster as he listened to the door open and close, and then…nothing. Silence. Waiting. At any second, he expected to feel Rowdy’s lethal blades pierce his flesh.
Fuck me! Just get it over with already.
Suddenly the hood was yanked away, and he braced himself for the worst. Vainly he squinted, looking for threats, hoping he wouldn’t see a knife against his throat.
Two scantily-clad women were standing in front of him, smiling. Behind them, the room was completely packed with grinning bikers.
“Surprise!”
Rowdy used his knives to cut away the duct tape restraints, then pulled Shane upright and warmly embraced him. “Welcome back, brother!” he exclaimed.
Everyone hugged him and pounded his back…then fell silent when Lobo moved forward. “There’s only one fucking problem with this place,” he rumbled, and thrust a leather vest into Shane’s hands. “You’re not wearing your colors, Shane! Here you go, brother. Welcome back!”
He recognized the vest immediately. It was his…the one he’d been wearing when he’d been arrested. His smile grew radiant as he stared at all the patches he’d earned.
Several of his brothers came forward to help him pull it back on. Then loud classic rock music blared from the speakers, and the girls pasted themselves on either side of him.
Lobo shouted above the music, “Tonight we celebrate Shane’s return. A trusted brother has returned to our family. Let’s fucking welcome him back!”
Shouts, screams, and all sorts of mayhem quickly followed, and Shane was the center of attention. Warmth and happiness washed through him.
This is where I belong. This is my family.
Shane woke slowly, and drifted up through billowing waves of pain. A low groan escaped him as he fought to sink back down into peaceful sleep, but it was no use. His eyes opened, and daylight assaulted him. Very, very slowly he sat up, ran shaking fingers through his hair, and gently rubbed his temples.
The hangover that had come to visit was a complete bitch…and she’d brought her sisters, Splitting Headache and Upset Stomach, along with her. Carefully he rotated his head, trying to loosen his neck muscles and hopefully reduce some of the pain. It didn’t work.
A soft murmur distracted him, and he glanced down. The girls were sleeping soundly on either side of him. Even the Hangover Sisters couldn’t dim his smile as he remembered their exceptional abilities in bed. He couldn’t remember their names, but they’d had crazy-wild skills at one specific task, and it hadn’t required a stitch of clothing.
His soft chuckle quickly died as Splitting Headache bashed her fist against his temples to remind him that he’d drunk too much last night.
What a great fuckin’ party.
He hadn’t partied that hard in a long, long time, and the club had grown. Each of the members, new and old, had wanted to share a shot of whiskey with Rowdy and him. He’d stupidly accommodated most of them. He been surprised by how many new members had joined the club, and how many Prospects were eagerly waiting for their chance.
As their name implied, Prospects were hopefuls who wanted to join the club. They had a wait at least a full year before becoming eligible…and they had to be unanimously approved by the existing club members who deliberately assigned them the dirtiest jobs during their probationary period. The hard, slow process was designed to weed them out.
Each one had an individual sponsor, and each sponsor reported their progress to Rowdy. He’d been amazed to learn that his friend was now responsible for such an important facet of the club’s growth. Finally he seemed to be growing up a bit!
Carefully Shane eased out of bed. Not only did he want to avoid waking the girls, but it would be awkward having to admit that he couldn’t remember their names. Fortunately they’d partied just as hard as he had, so he was able to dress without disturbing them.
When he reached for his leather vest, he hesitated a moment and studied it. The vest wasn’t just a simple piece of clothing; it represented the club. It represented family. It represented an organization that would always stand by him. Club members called their vests ‘their colors,’ and their club’s colors were sacred to each and every member.
He slipped his on, and felt it settle comfortably on his body. Then he caught his reflection in the wall mirror, and smiled. I’m home, he thought proudly.
The hangover sisters were still clamoring around his head, so he descended the steps with cautious deliberation. Noisy applause greeted him. He hesitated in the doorway and rubbed his face, then painfully made his way over to the bar.
“Sleeping Beauty decided to join us,” Rowdy smirked from the table where he’d been playing cards with some of the senior club members.
“Fuck you,” Shane muttered under his breath. It was all he could manage at the moment.
Sarah offered him a sympathetic smile, a glass of water, and three aspirin. He gulped them down, chugged another glass of water, and then dropped into the empty chair beside Rowdy’s. If the gods were kind, maybe his headache would abate before next weekend.
“We got breakfast coming,” Lobo informed him, and dealt fresh cards around the table. “Once it gets here, we’ll head back upstairs and talk some business.”
“Sounds good, boss,” he replied, and wearily closed his eyes. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to just sit here and try to remember what the fuck happened last night.”
“Wanna see the video?” Rowdy smirked.
Laughing, they all started to fill him in on the parts he didn’t remember or had consciously blocked out. He shook his head frequently, because he’d rather not have known how crazy things had gotten last night. He did learn, though, that the girls were both strippers at a club in San Antonio. When Rowdy mentioned introducing them to Crystal, he nodded his head absently, and took a long drink of his water. Tim and Crystal seemed far away now, and if Rowdy still wanted to help her become a stripper…well, that was fine with him.
She can’t wait to start stripping. Fucking slut. Becoming a stripper would make it damn easy for her to become a mule.
A few minutes later, two Prospects hauled in several bags of food and drinks. Rowdy instructed them to take the food upstairs, check in with the Sergeant-At-Arms, and watch the fucking bar until the club members left. They hurried to comply.
“I can’t believe you put Rowdy in charge of the Prospects,” Shane commented after they’d scurried away. “What the fuck were you thinking?”
“Well, we wanted to make sure we were getting regular, reliable reports on each Prospect from their sponsors,” Lobo replied. “It was also time for Rowdy to step up and do something besides party and chase women.”
“Thanks, boss,” the younger biker retorted.
The Prospects came back downstairs, and disappeared outside. Shane and the other bikers waited until they were gone before heading up. The two girls were just getting ready to leave. They stopped to kiss Shane which, of course, got him even more ribbing. The vindictive Hangover Sisters took another gleeful swing at his aching head.
Coke assumed his normal position outside the door while the rest filed in and gathered around the bar. Shane helped himself to a whiskey and slowly sipped it, hoping it would dull the aching pain.
Lobo promptly called the meeting to order. “Club’s doing fucking great,” he began with a pleased smile. “Our businesses are all in the black, and our members are earning right now.”
“Yeah!”
“Hear, hear!”
“Fuckin’ A!”
When they’d all expressed their enthusiasm, he held up his hand. “Enough. Cool down. Things are good, but they can get better, and that’s what we’re here to discuss.” He looked over at Shane. “This is where you come in, brother.”
“What do you need, boss?” But Shane already knew the answer; wasn’t that why he’d hesitated so long before returning?
“We need you back running the pharmaceutical side of our club,” Lobo said clearly. “We’re doing well distributing what we buy from our Mexican contacts, but we all know we can make a lot more money if we manufacture and sell our own product.”
Shane’s nod was automatic. He’d been expecting it.
“You know how to make Crystal Meth better than anyone,” Lobo continued, “and we’d like you to start manufacturing right away. The club will support you with whatever start-up supplies you need.”
He took a deep breath to organize his thoughts. “That’s no problem,” he agreed. “The ingredients are easy, but finding a good spot to manufacture is tough. That’s where most operations get busted. It’s virtually impossible to hide a Meth house, because either your customers give you up, or the neighbors complain.”
His warning came as no surprise, and they nodded. “What do you suggest, Shane?” one of the bikers asked him.
“Simple,” he said, and flashed them a wicked grin. “We make our operations mobile.”
They hadn’t expected that, and silence filled the room as they tried to make sense of his cryptic statement. Curiously they glanced at Rowdy, but he simply shrugged.
Finally Lobo narrowed his eyes. “Why don’t you enlighten us, Shane?”
He answered the club president’s question with a question of his own. “Do we still own the restaurant/bar just outside of San Antonio?”
“Yes, and several others around Texas.”
“Great. That will help.”
“So what’s your plan?”
“Food trucks,” he said simply.
They all looked confused, then started laughing. “What the fuck?” one guy asked. “We adding Meth to the fucking Fajitas? Or better yet, sprinkling some in the margaritas?”
“Dude, you know we’re talking about cooking Crystal Meth, right?” Rowdy teased. “Not actual food. None of us are Bobby-fucking-Flay.”
Lobo raised a hand for silence. “Okay, okay. Shane,” he demanded, “what the fuck are you talking about?
Shane took another deep breath, and hoped he could explain it well enough despite the sick pounding in his head. “First off, most Crystal Meth operations are easily spotted because of the garbage that quickly piles up outside the house.
“Second,” he added, ticking the points off on his long fingers, “the smell of Crystal Meth is really fucking pungent, so even if the garbage is cleaned up, the stench will alert the neighbors.
“Third, most Crystal Meth operations sell the product at the same place where it’s manufactured.”
They looked at him blankly, and Lobo heaved an exasperated sigh. Quickly Shane motioned for patience. “Just stick with me, and you’ll understand in a moment.
“Fourth, if you use a fixed location…a house or trailer, for example…you have a heavy stream of strangers coming and going. They’ll obviously be high, and they’ll look like addicts. You add in a strong chemical smell, tons of trash, and you’re basically begging the cops to investigate. ‘Please arrest us!’”
They understood that part. Encouraged, he took another sip of whiskey and continued, “Food trucks offer several advantages. First, they’re mobile, which means we can manufacture the product just about anywhere.
“Second, we can dispose of the trash in almost any alleyway garbage can, and no one will notice.” That added bonus really amused him.
“Third, food trucks are well-ventilated, so there’s less danger to the people manufacturing the product…namely me!” He jabbed himself in the chest.
“Finally, we can use the food trucks to drop the product off to our distribution network. That allows us to control the time and place of the deliveries. The people who make our deliveries won’t be able to tell the cops anything, because they won’t know when we’re going to drop off the product.”
“Nice,” Rowdy said quietly.
Shane nodded his thanks, then carefully continued, “A few more things you need to understand. No one who wears a vest, Prospect or Patched Member, uses the Crystal Meth. At all. For any reason. That’s non-fucking-negotiable. If I’m going to run this operation, then club members stay clean.”
He’d gone to jail because a Prospect making deliveries had walked into a sting operation. Shane had been the obvious source of the drugs, and he’d been easily convicted.
Lobo met his intense gaze, then nodded. “Fine. If that’s what you need, I’ll make sure everyone understands.”
He knew Lobo would, but still couldn’t resist adding, “I’m serious, boss. I will personally kick the shit out of any member I catch using it. I don’t mind if anyone smokes some weed, or even does some cocaine. That’s fine. No one touches Crystal Meth. It’s too fucking dangerous, and way too addictive.”
This time the other senior members nodded, too.
“What about mules?” Rowdy countered.
“Oh, I want them using the shit,” he said bluntly. “It’s to our benefit if they use it. They’ll be easier to control, and much less credible as a witness if cops do get involved.”
“You’re a hard motherfucker,” Jake murmured.
He could be when the circumstances warranted. “Listen to me,” he said coolly, and looked at each of them in turn. “This is a business, and only two things matter in business. First, you make a fucking profit. Second, you protect and support your family. The club’s family, end of story.”
His comments earned him emphatic nods.
“We’re in this to make money,” he continued. “The mules have one job, and controlling them with Meth makes sense. Rowdy and I will manage the mules, and if we sense a problem, we’ll take care of it. No one else.”
Lobo soberly nodded. “That’s fine, Shane.”
“Good.” He’d been sure Lobo would leave that responsibility in his capable hands. “Now, we need to separate the money and the drugs. Mules that carry both drugs and money are too tempting a target. The mules will drop off the drugs, period. Nothing else. We can arrange for our customers to pay us separately.”
That made Rowdy frown. “I don’t know,” he murmured doubtfully. “You’d be asking them to pay us, and then wait for the product? I don’t think that’s going to go over well. Or the reverse…we drop off the drugs, and then wait for payment. I’ll bet dollars-to-donuts we never get paid.”
He’d expected that argument, and was ready for it. “I’ve thought about that,” he agreed. “We need to make the first delivery free of charge.”
“What?” Jake exclaimed.
“Free?” Rowdy’s eyes widened. “You just said this was about making money. Not losing it!”
Lobo’s frustrated voice rose over the other members’ doubtful murmurs. “This hurts to say,” he admitted, shooting Rowdy a narrow-eyed glance, “but Rowdy’s right. I thought we were in this to make money.”
Shane held up a hand as Rowdy gave their boss a stiff middle-finger salute. “Hold on, hold on. We’re going to be asking them to try a new product, and give up their current supplier,” he pointed out. “Making the first delivery free builds goodwill with them, and it gives the Blades credibility. They’ll also get a chance to try our product…and I guarantee you,” he added smugly, “it’ll be better than anything they’re using right now.”
They still looked doubtful, but he knew how to sway their opinions. “The first delivery will be small, and the club can take the cost from my future earnings. Cool?”
That earned him some startled looks. “Are you sure, Shane?” another member asked.
“Yes.” He nodded emphatically. “I’m confident this is the best way to get us started.”
“If Shane says this is the way to go, I’m cool with it,” Rowdy interjected, then added, “We’re asking him to run our drug operation. He’s obviously put a lot of thought into it. Maybe we should trust his judgment.”
Lobo eyed him thoughtfully. “Okay, Shane. We’ll play it your way. But the club will cover the first delivery’s cost…and if this works, we’ll give you a bonus. We believe in you,” he said earnestly. “Make it happen.”
The rest of the discussion involved Prospects, upcoming rides, and other activities. Shane listened quietly, and considered the best ways to get started. He knew how to procure the needed materials, and the food trucks would allow him to get the ingredients from a wide variety of sources. The challenge would be finding solid mules to move the product.
Crystal, of course. Rowdy was right…she’d make a perfect mule. Tim was plain vanilla, a straight arrow, totally incompatible with the drug trade. And she held a solid job. They’d be the last people the police would suspect of distributing drugs.
If he helped her become a stripper, she’d have reason to make regular visits to San Antonio, where their primary distribution hub would be. His sexual history with her also gave him significant leverage.
Finally, and most importantly, she loved getting high…she had what the drug counselors in prison had called an addictive personality. Meth was the perfect drug for her, and it would allow Shane to control her even without a sexual relationship.
He made eye contact with Rowdy, and knew his partner was thinking exactly the same thing.
When the meeting finally broke up, they walked downstairs together, and relaxed at the nearest table. Sarah got them both drinks. The Hangover Sisters had finally decided to take a vacation, and his headache had eased from a heavy pounding to a light thumping. He sipped his whiskey slowly, and hoped that would chase the remnants away completely.
“So who’s our first mule?” Rowdy smirked, before taking a long pull of his beer.
It was a rhetorical question, and they both knew it. He flashed Rowdy a mocking smile. “I was thinking of using your sister.”
“You could if I had a sister,” Rowdy chuckled. “C’mon, man. Crystal would be perfect, and you know it.”
Shane nodded his agreement. “I know. But be honest…you just want to fuck her.”
“Hell yeah, I do,” Rowdy laughed. “She’s fucking hot. You know that lame pussy she’s married to isn’t taking care of her, and she obviously loves to party. It’d be easy to put the hook in her, and she’d do anything for us once she was hooked on our product.”
“Yeah. Okay, she’s on our short list of candidates,” he conceded. “But it’s going to take time, Rowdy. We have to be patient with her. She’s not a groupie.”
Then he looked thoughtful. “Does the club still have barbeques once a month?”
“Hell, yes,” Rowdy smiled. “You want to invite her, don’t you?”
“Hell, yes,” Shane mimicked him. “It would be the perfect opportunity to introduce her to the club, and get her comfortable being around us.”
Rowdy grinned. “It’s also the perfect place to give her a taste of Meth.”
“Let’s not rush the Meth,” Shane cautioned. “I’d rather introduce her to Raven, and let Raven introduce little Crystal into the world of stripping and drugs.
“Besides, I’d rather have Raven make our first few deliveries, anyway. We trust her, and that gives me time to work on Crystal. We can also make deliveries using the food trucks, but only for a short time. I don’t want to use the trucks for deliveries any more than we absolutely have to, okay?”
“Holy shit. Good idea on all counts, buddy,” Rowdy said.
“Yeah. That’s why I’m the brains of this operation,” Shane joked.
Rowdy finished with a smile, “And I’m the muscle.”
Only Rowdy wasn’t joking.