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Opie shook his head, reminding Jax of a bear. “Wish Lyla did. Maybe Tara can talk to her.”
“I’m sure she would if you want.”
Opie exhaled cigarette smoke. “She’s go
Chibs stepped between them, threw an arm around each of them, and gri
“We get this sorted out, maybe we save that bit for the return trip,” he said.
Opie smiled, took another drag on his cigarette, then dropped it to the pavement to grind it out. At some unconscious signal, the three of them moved toward their bikes. Jax had the sack with his gear slung over his shoulder, and now he slipped the second strap over his other shoulder. He wore a leather vest similar to his cut, but this one had no markings—no patches or symbols of any kind. Chibs wore a threadbare old denim jacket with an olive drab T-shirt beneath it. Opie had a plain navy sweatshirt with its sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Without their cuts—with no link to the club—he thought they all looked naked.
“You sure this is the right move, Jackie?” Chibs asked, smoothing his goatee as he sat astride his Harley-Davidson Dyna Street Bob. “Traveling without showing our colors?”
Jax nodded. “We can’t pick sides till we know which side tried to kill us.”
“Clay seemed pretty unhappy about it,” Opie noted, reaching for the handlebars.
The plan had not pleased Clay—that was certain. He didn’t like the idea of the club being three men down for days, didn’t like them going out essentially undercover, and most of all, didn’t like the fact that he couldn’t control whatever unfolded in Nevada. If it had only been about Trinity, Jax figured Clay would have bitched even more, but he at least acknowledged that the trip ought to help give them a better idea of what the hell the Russians were up to.
“Clay knows it can’t be avoided,” Jax said.
Chibs kicked his bike to roaring life. Jax was about to follow suit when headlights washed the driveway in yellow gloom, and he turned to see his mother pull up in her black Cadillac XLR-V. She left the big vehicle idling at the edge of the property and climbed out, slamming the door before striding across the yard toward them.
“Boys,” she said, her voice almost lost beneath the growl of Chibs’s engine.
Opie and Chibs both nodded at her. Opie might have said her name, but Jax was barely paying attention. He sat on his Harley, one hand on the throttle.
“You didn’t have to come see us off,” he said.
Her lips pursed in something like a scowl. “I came to see my grandsons.”
Gemma Teller-Morrow looked damn good for her age. Her brown hair had blond highlights and auburn streaks. She had a hell of a figure and enough of the beauty of the girl she’d once been that much younger men would look at her twice—and maybe keep looking—until her eyes drew their attention. Once they looked her in the eye, most guys turned away, unprepared for a woman so in charge of every moment of her existence. She worked hard to keep hidden the never-healing wounds that life had given her. Jax had seen them, though. He knew them well.
He also knew that those wounds made her more formidable instead of less. Gemma had raised him by example. No one understood her as well as Jax did, not even Clay. She knew why he had to go to Nevada and wouldn’t stand in the way, as much as she hated it.
Gemma kissed him on the cheek, took his forearm, and squeezed once, not at all gently.
“Don’t take stupid risks for Maureen Ashby’s little bitch.”
Jax shook his head. “I’ll see you in a few days, Mom.”
Gemma walked off, her heels clicking on the driveway as she approached the front door. Tara would not be happy to see her, but Jax couldn’t run interference any longer. They had to get on the road. He kicked the Harley to life and felt immediately at ease. On the back of that bike, engine snarling, road unfurling beneath him… that was where he belonged.
Jax rode out of the driveway with Opie and Chibs in his wake.
Just one stop to make before they headed to Nevada.
* * *
Co
Instead, he took most meetings in pubs and diners, at dog parks and boxing clubs… even in a run-down barn on an Indian reservation. He’d read somewhere that a man who courted trouble couldn’t be surprised when it followed him home.
Ah, wee Co
And yet somehow, as nervous as he was, Co
Lately he’d been more anxious than ever. The illegal gun trade was enough risk, but now their arrangements with the Sons of Anarchy involved the Galindo cartel, which meant drugs. American culture’s love of guns was romantic, which meant many citizens would rather look the other way than worry about illegal guns. But Americans’ love for drugs was more like carnal lust, and they were ashamed of their addictions and more eager to point a finger.
The word had come from Belfast—the deal had gone through. Gaalan didn’t trust Jax Teller, thought of him as volatile—unpredictable—as much for his temper as for the streak of righteousness that went through the younger man. Co
Jax Teller had called an hour earlier, and Co
He shoveled forkfuls of southwestern omelet into his mouth and kept glancing at the door. He’d chosen a booth at the back out of reflex, though he’d have preferred to sit by the window. He didn’t expect the Sons of Anarchy to come riding up to the plateglass window at the front of a diner and open fire—they might be lunatics, but they weren’t stupid—still, caution was a good habit. The sort of thing that kept a nervous Irishman alive.
He took a bite of toast, a sip of tea, and then glanced up to see Jax and Chibs moving toward him through the diner. Co
“Co
“It sounded important,” Co
Chibs glanced around, eyes seeking trouble, then slid into the booth beside Jax. “Hello, Con.”
“Filip,” Co
Chibs glanced at the meal on the table with an expression that was not quite a smile—more like a memory surfacing. “Breakfast three meals a day.”
“My doctor advises against it,” Co
Co
“Tempting as it looks, I just have a question for you,” Jax replied.