Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 35443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
"Diesel." I look at him straight. "Vice President."
He doesn't blink. Doesn't smile. Just nods once, slow, like he's been waitin' a long time to be asked the right question.
"Chains." I find him in the room. "Sergeant at Arms."
Chains looks up from under the brim of his cap, jaw workin' slow. He gives me a single nod that says yeah, alright.
"Ratchet. Road Captain."
Ratchet's already got his arms crossed. He tips his chin. Done.
"Vote," I say.
Diesel calls it immediately. "All in favor."
Every hand goes up.
Clean. No hesitation.
"Motion carries," Diesel says. Then looks at me again. "You forgot Secretary Treasurer."
No. I didn't. It's just… I'm not sure which of these assholes can math, let alone be trusted with the money. And there's a second problem, which Diesel picks up on immediately.
"Shit," he mutters. "The cartel."
"Yeah," I mumble back. Ledger, our former secretary/treasurer, was our cartel contact.
Our only cartel contact.
This is bad.
Dusty speaks up. "Legion? I can keep books." He says it like it's obvious. Like he's just offerin' to carry somethin' heavy and doesn't see what the big deal is.
The room doesn't agree.
Things come apart fast. The kind of disorder that comes with men who've been pushed past their limit of irregular and are about to make their opinions known.
"He ain't even patched."
"Doesn't have a cut."
"Been here less than two years and now he's an officer?"
I let it run for about four seconds, but that's it. "Dusty saved my life," I say, flat. It's true, so I say it. "When I was dyin' of sepsis from the brand, he helped Savannah get me to the hospital. Not because he had to, but because he volunteered."
There's some grumblin' at this point. Even Diesel grumbles a bit over this.
I have no idea who was where on that day because I was out of it, so I have no clue why it was Dusty and not Diesel.
But it was. That's just a fact.
"He fought for this club just like the rest of us." I look at the room. "You wanna argue about ceremony right now? Today? After the month we just had?"
Nobody argues. But nobody looks happy either.
I don't care if they're happy. I'm tryin' to pull the fuckin' world back together here.
I look at Dusty. "You said you can keep books."
"Yes, sir. Ledger used to let me help with things," Dusty says. "Run the receivables. Track what came in off the runs. Cross-check the supply logs." He pauses, and I can tell he's choosin' his words carefully, aware of exactly how many sets of eyes are on him right now. "I know where the accounts are. The ones Ledger didn't think anybody else knew about."
That lands.
The room goes quiet in a different way than before.
I look at Diesel. Diesel looks at his hands, then back at me, and gives me the smallest nod I've ever seen a man give.
"You got any experience with the cartel contacts? Ledger ever bring you in on any of that?"
Dusty's face does something honest here. A slight wince, a flicker of I wish I could say yes. But then he shakes his head. "No. He kept that completely separate. He never—" He stops. "No."
I expected that. Doesn't make it land easier.
Before I can move on, Crow stands up. "I know some cartel people," he says. "Don't want no officer job. Just—I know some people."
The room shifts.
I look at him straight. "How well."
"Well enough."
"Crow, that's not an answer and you know it. I don't have the fuckin' patience for games here. Tell me what you know."
His eyes narrow like he wants to say somthin' back. But he holds the anger in and gets to the point instead. Correctly deducing that I do not, in fact, have any patience for bullshit right now.
"I grew up in the cartel," he says finally. "Down in El Paso. From about five years old to nineteen."
What is he saying here? "Five?" I ask him.
"Five."
This number sits as the room lets out a breath.
"I only got out of the cartel because I went to prison. Normally, they keep track of you in there—like real fuckin' good, too—but I got transferred out of La Tuna down in Texas and sent to Yankton."
"Yankton?" I actually scoff. It barely qualifies as prison. It's a minimum security federal camp and runs a horticulture program, of all things. Inmates come out learning how to propagate roses. "How the hell did you end up there?"
Crow shrugs. "Honestly, I don't know. God, I think. But that place was crawlin' with Yankton Sioux and they took me in. I got out on the same day as this old man called Red Thunder. His club, the Medicine Line MC, they showed up for his out day. Three fuckin' dozen of them roarin' in the parkin' lot."
I picture this. That's what my out day should've looked like. And instead, I got Cash fuckin' Ashby in a pickup.