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“I know you would have, brother. Couldn’t do it, though.”
“Bag said something seemed off,” Rollie noted. “You guys are up at four in the morning, I got to figure there’s trouble. Maybe you ought to lay it out for me.”
Jax glanced over at Bag and the others. “You want to do that here or in your office?”
Rollie understood his meaning. “No prospects here this morning. You can consider whatever you say here just as sacrosanct as anything you’d say in chapel.”
Jax nodded slowly. He wasn’t sure how well Baghead could keep a secret, and he didn’t know Antonio very well, but he trusted Rollie.
The service door swung open, and Hopper stepped through with a wide plate heaped high with food.
“Jax, come sit down,” he said. “Thor wants his food eaten hot. He’s been keeping it warm back there, but don’t test his patience.”
Jax shook his head. Hopper had his hair tied back with a rubber band and his goatee cinched together with a little iron ring.
“Damn, Hopper. I hope Thor makes a better chef than you do a waitress.”
“Sit down, asshole,” Hopper growled, sliding his plate none-too-gently onto the bar.
“Can you talk and eat at the same time?” Rollie asked. If it was a joke, he didn’t let on.
“I’ll manage,” Jax said, ravenous now.
He walked to the bar and slid onto a stool, trading nods and greetings with the other men in the room.“You guys eat like this all the time?” he asked, digging his fork into the eggs.
“Couple times a week, when Thor feels like cooking,” Antonio said.
“I might never go home,” Chibs said, pushing away his empty plate.
Jax let business slide for a couple of minutes while he tucked into the plate of food, heaping eggs on top of toast.
After he’d finished half the plate, Rollie dragged a stool over beside him, a mug of coffee in his hand.
“All right, man from Charming. Your belly ain’t growlin’ quite so loud now. You want to explain your under-cover-of-night arrival and, more importantly, why you’re not wearing your cuts? If I showed up at your place without mine, I don’t think I’d have received such a warm welcome.”
Jax wiped crumbs from his mustache, nodding. “It’s appreciated, Rollie.” He turned on the stool, facing Rollie and making sure as many of the other SAMNOV guys could see him as possible. “Short version…”
And he told them.
When he’d finished the story, Baghead choked up a mouthful of phlegm. “Goddamn Russkies,” Bag said, and spat the wad into his empty juice glass.
Rollie laid a hand on his own prodigious gut, brows knitted in contemplation.
“We try to fly under the radar down here, man,” he said. “You know that. We’ve been in our share of scrapes, but we try to keep business ru
Jax leaned in toward Rollie. “Thank you, brother. I know you try to keep things looking legit. We’ll do everything we can to avoid bringing trouble to your door.”
“Aye,” Chibs agreed.
Opie had turned to watch the conversation unfold, and he raised a coffee mug to signal his own agreement.
“What can we do?” Rollie asked.
Jax inhaled the stale-beer aroma of the bar, the warmth of it, and the camaraderie of the men of the North Vegas charter. These guys had a good thing going, and he didn’t want to blow it for them, especially when things had been so tense in Charming. The last thing he wanted was to drag his shit over someone else’s threshold.
“Right now, just a place to lay our heads and some information.” He glanced around at Hopper, Antonio, Thor, and Bag. “Anything in the air about rival Bratva factions?”
A lot of shaking heads.
Rollie looked thoughtful and then shrugged. “We’ve got co
Someone coughed at the back of the bar, and they all turned to see that Joyce had entered the room. How long he’d been listening, Jax couldn’t be sure.
“Bag, you go
Baghead frowned, hands fluttering toward his face as if he felt some insect harrying him and wanted to swat it away. He twitched, sniffed, and then nodded swiftly.
“Right, right, Harry,” Bag said, one side of his mouth lifting in a smile. “Stupid of me, yeah? Should’ve thought of that without you making me think of it.”
Harry Joyce. Jax had forgotten the guy’s first name.
“Who’s the Birdman?” Opie asked.
Bag flinched toward him as if he’d forgotten Opie had a voice. “Guy likes old jazz, plus he keeps a bunch of parakeets in the club. Strip club, called Birdland. People think the name comes from the girls, ‘birds,’ like they’d call ’em in London or whatever, but it’s the jazz co
Chibs leaned back against the bar and crossed his arms. “I’m lost. How is this relevant?”
Jax glanced at Joyce, hoping for a rescue, and he wasn’t disappointed.
“Birdland’s always got a few Russian Mafia guys hanging around,” Joyce said. “You wa
“Got a contact at the club?” Jax asked, turning to Rollie. “Someone who can point us the right way?”
Rollie clapped him on the shoulder. “We can do better than a contact. Wait till tonight, and Joyce’ll go with you. He’ll know the faces and the names.”
“I’m in,” Joyce agreed. His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
Jax nodded his thanks. He turned toward Opie, saw relief in his expression and a dark purpose in his eyes, and knew they reflected his own. They’d come to visit the Tombstone Bar expecting not much more than a place to crash. People so rarely exceeded his expectations that Jax found himself very happy when they did.
He looked at Joyce. “Thanks, man.”
Bag snorted something back into his nose, then scoffed. “That’s Harry Joyce. Never could resist a damsel in distress.”
Chibs laughed softly. “Ah, well, it’s clear you’ve never met Jax’s lovely sister.” He turned on the stool and looked around the bar. “Trust me, fellas… Trinity Ashby’s not some swooning girl. She’s nobody’s bloody damsel in distress.”
* * *
Trinity had never been the sort of girl who cried. To hear her mother tell it, she’d wailed like a banshee as an infant, screeching to wake the dead. Her mother’s friend Kiera had once said baby Trinity’s crying could have driven Christ off the cross, and Trinity had been perversely proud of that. But once she’d been able to crawl—to move without her mother lugging her around—her tears had ended. Oh, she’d wept at a funeral or two, but that was the sum of it. Romantic movies made her roll her eyes, and even in her teen years there had never been a boy who’d made her cry… though she’d bloodied a few of their noses.
This morning she was furious with herself for the tears she had shed last night. Feliks had died, and they’d buried him—grief was only natural—but she knew that she needed to be harder than that. She needed to be able to turn off the pain inside, to go numb, or she might not survive all of this.
For it’s sure Feliks won’t be the last to die.
Steeling herself for the blast of cold, she stepped into the shower. The desert morning was cool and the water much chillier than that. Gavril and Kirill had managed to get the well pump that served the motel—and the oil-stinking generator—ru