Chapter Eight
Snake
The meeting place is twenty miles outside of Lone Mesa on a highway to nowhere, at a closed convenience store that used to be the Gas & Sip, but now is nothing more than a rat-infested, burned-out brick shell.
It’s just Stone, Mack, Brewer, and me out here, parked behind the building, waiting for the mentally deficient son of a bitch who decided, in his infinite fucking wisdom, to cross our club.
Every one of us is armed, and I have my pistol out, safety off, ready to bear. As does every single one of my brothers.
When it comes to protecting our town and our families, we do not take any chances. This bastard is about to learn that the hard way.
“Stone, I thought you said this asshole seemed like the punctual type,” Mack says.
“He did. And the FBI doesn’t go poking around town for nothing. We’ll give him five more minutes. If he’s not here by then, any chance he has to talk his way out of this fucking mess is over. We’ll hunt him down and kill him like the rat he is.”
We’re not kept waiting much longer.
In moments, two black cars arrive on the flat desert horizon, speeding toward our location.
They pull into the lot in front of us and park in a half-circle formation.
Out of one car exits one of the men that Tricia and Adella described from earlier — the slender, creepy son of a bitch who came into the clubhouse with his muscle-brained brother — and another man that I don’t recognize from any of their descriptions. Both are armed, guns held at their side in the kind of loose-but-ready grip of experienced shooters.
Out of the other car exits another armed man, and an older man who has to be pushing seventy. He’s got a pistol in the waist of his jeans, but he walks with the confidence of a man who knows he doesn’t have to draw his gun to get what he wants. His presence well exceeds his short height and his portly frame.
Bowen Dale Cooper.
Even if I didn’t recognize him, it’s obvious he’s in charge. And, though I keep my peripherals focused on the other armed men, I keep my primary attention on the old man. If it comes down to it, he’s the only target that matters.
The second he appears, Mack mutters something disturbingly profane under his breath and casts a warning look over to Stone.
“Stone, it’s finally good to meet you face to face,” the old man says. “I’ve heard a lot about you, especially from some of your boys. Mack, Snake, good to see you again.”
“The fuck are you doing here, Bowen Dale? Why aren’t you back on your fucking mountaintop living out your fucking retirement in your ivory trailer park?” Mack says.
“Trust me, I’d rather be there. I’d rather be anywhere than here. I didn’t come to Lone Mesa by choice, you know. I was compelled. And, when you get to my age, it takes a fucking lot to compel you to do something.”
“What do you want?” Stone says.
“Peace, quiet, freedom — all of which I had back in Carbon Ridge. I could go about my business, indulge in whatever caught my fancy, and even pick up the occasional job from time to time. Guys like me never fully retire; this sort of work is in the blood, it’s part of the fiber of your being, and if you’re not partaking from time to time, you’re not truly living.”
“What the fuck does that have to do with my club?”
“Your club took that away from me; took my livelihood and my freedom. An old lady to one of your club members gave me her bar, signed the deed over to me in lieu of paying the fifty thousand dollars I requested for my services, and then that same evening one of your club members committed an act of murder and arson in that bar. An act of very public brutality that could not be kept quiet. An act that caught the attention of federal agents. An act which led to a very abrupt end to my life there.”
“Cry me a fucking river, Bowen,” Stone snaps. “You know the risks that come along with this life. I will not indulge your fucking petulant attitude just because one of my brothers had to get his hands dirty to keep his woman safe. Any man with a fucking backbone will do whatever he has to do to protect his family and his club.”
Bowen Dale trades a momentary look with his nephew. It’s a look that overflows with icy cunning. I tighten my grip on my gun. The tension between Stone and Bowen Dale is so thick it’s suffocating; one wrong move, one wrong word, and there will be a lot of blood spilled into the thirsty California desert sand.
“You know, Stone, I’d hoped you’d be more agreeable. All I wanted was for you to kill two fucking people and bring me their files so I can see just how much they know and figure out how to get my life back on track,” Bowen Dale looks toward the sky for a moment, then lets out a sigh. “But I guess I was wrong on that count. Though I was right about your fearless dedication to your family and your club. Which is why I have a backup plan.”
Slade pulls a phone out of his pocket, dials, and says three sharp words: “Take them, now.”
“What the fuck are you doing, Bowen Dale?” Stone snarls, raising his gun, which incites every one of us — Twisted Devils and Bowen Dale’s men — to raise our guns in turn. Everyone except for Bowen Dale himself, who strolls back to
