Sons of Anarchy. Bratva

“Stick with the bikes,” Jax told Chibs. “If there’s trouble, you make the call. Joyce, you’re with Chibs.”

Joyce made a little noise about the order, but Jax ignored him. He and Opie headed for the church without looking back. If things went to shit, Chibs would either wade in, bullets flying, or he’d withdraw and make sure word got back to Rollie—and to SAMCRO—that the situation had changed. Jax wanted to keep the Russians in the dark about who they were dealing with, but if things went so badly wrong that he and Opie ended up dead on the curb, the Sons of Anarchy would go to war. Every member of the Bratva in Nevada—both factions—would meet Mr. Mayhem.

“Joyce ain’t happy,” Opie said as they approached the church steps.

“He can leave anytime he wants,” Jax replied.

The Russian Orthodox church had been beautiful once. The domes still gleamed gold, and the crosses on top of those were stark white, but the building looked faded and tired, as though it had surrendered to its own abandonment. Long planks had been hammered across the front doors and cardboard NO TRESPASSING signs hung there, torn and dusty. Jax couldn’t decide if the houses that were kept up indicated a neighborhood on the road to recovery or a last handful of homeowners fighting a losing battle, but it seemed the patriarch of this particular church had given up a long time ago.

“His lead was good,” Opie said. “Birdland got us here.”

“The lead was good, yeah, but he nearly pissed it away, not handling that waitress better back at Birdland. Didn’t inspire much faith.”

Opie glanced around, watching the street. Jax studied the front of the church, just in case there were men hiding in its shadows. He felt the comforting weight of the gun tight against the small of his back.

“We need all the backup we can get,” Opie reminded him.

Jax shook his head. “Joyce is a wild card. Too easy to tip your hand with a guy like that around.”

Headlights appeared at an intersection two blocks up—a black sedan. It turned the corner and slid toward them, and the headlights went off as it drew up to the curb a hundred feet from the church. A hulking SUV followed the same path and pattern, dousing its lights before it pulled up behind the sedan.

“Here we go,” Opie said.

The drivers did not turn off their engines. Three men climbed from the sedan, five from the SUV. Jax glanced across the street at the trees in the park, then around at the roofs of neighboring houses, and he wondered if there were other eyes watching them. As far as these Bratva men were concerned, he and Opie were just civilians with a mutual interest. For the Russian Mafia, there were no repercussions to killing a couple of civilians who stuck their noses into Bratva business. They’d destroy the bodies or just make them disappear, and they’d do the same thing to any witnesses foolish enough to agree to testify against them.

Jax flexed the fingers of his right hand. He would have felt a lot better with his gun in hand instead of tucked against the small of his back.

“Hey,” Opie said quietly. “You okay?”

Jax nodded. Opie had reason to be concerned. There had been times when Jax’s temper had gotten the best of him, and now would be a bad time for him to let it off its leash. But Opie also should have known better. When Jax came face-to-face with men like this—cold-blooded bastards who thought they had all the leverage in any conversation—an almost reptilian calm descended on him. His anger never went away, but it hid in the shadows, biding its time.

The Russians mounted the wide, cracked stone steps of the church. They fa

“Name,” the little stubblehead said.

“Jack Ashby,” Jax replied. “And this is—”

Stubblehead gri

Jax felt the cold serpent of that reptilian calm slither into him. “What about you? Does your name matter?”

Stubblehead nodded as if in appreciation of his brass balls. Then he turned to the guy with the shotgun scars. “Hurt him a little.”

Opie tried to get in front of Jax and all the Russians moved at once. Jax put up a hand to push Opie backward, then stood facing Stubblehead and Scarface with his own chin raised defiantly.

“You heard the man,” he said, staring at Scarface’s black shark eyes. “Hurt me.”

The big man—six foot three and built to inflict pain—took a step up and plowed a fist into Jax’s skull as casually as if he’d waved hello. Stars exploded behind Jax’s eyes, and he staggered to the side and up another step. Scarface went to follow him, but Stubblehead put up a hand.

“My name is Viktor Krupin,” Stubblehead said.

Head ringing, Jax smiled thinly. The son of a bitch hadn’t cared about giving up his name, only about Jax’s having the balls to demand it. Opie’s jaw was set, chest rising and falling, ready for a brawl, and Jax mentally noted how fu

“I thought we were go

Krupin sniffed. “Mr. Lagoshin doesn’t waste his time with street trash.”

Jax glanced around, made a show of noticing how many Bratva men had come to this little meeting on the church steps. He wanted Krupin to see that he recognized bullshit when it was spoken to him. Lagoshin might not have come to the meeting, but he’d taken it seriously, or he wouldn’t have sent all of these goons.

“Look, this is supposed to be simple. My sister’s with this Oleg guy, thinks she’s in love with him. The family doesn’t want her to end up catching a bullet, so I’m here to bring her home. If he works for you, all I’m asking is—”

Krupin shook his head. “Oleg does not work for me. And we don’t know where he is, or if your sister is with him.”

Jax cocked his head. “Then why the hell are we talking?” He glanced at Scarface, head still aching from that one punch.

“It’s very simple, Mr. Ashby,” Krupin said. “We wanted to tell you that if you find your sister with Oleg, you’re going to let us know where Oleg can be found. And we want to make sure you are who you say you are.”

A ripple went through Jax. They had no idea where Trinity was—this meet had been a waste of his time. His temper began to slip.

“You’re telling me you don’t have a single lead?”

“We have a few, but nothing very helpful,” Krupin replied.

“Anything you feel like sharing?”

“You keep asking the wrong questions.”

Jax nodded slowly. “All right. I’ll bite. How are you go

Krupin gri

He gestured with his right hand, almost a flourish, and the Bratva men drew their guns—all except for Scarface and Krupin himself.

“Only a complete fool would have come here without a gun,” Krupin said. “Carefully take out your weapons and walk them up to the top step, leave them there, and then return.”

Jax complied immediately, drawing his gun with his fingers, letting the Russians see the whole process. He turned, holding the gun out to one side, and started climbing the eight remaining steps to the boarded-over doors of the church.