Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
Smoke drifts from Dom’s lips in slow, lazy spirals, and my eyes automatically follow it, as if it can take the edge off the itch in my chest. He lifts his cigarette again, and as the ember flares, I can almost feel the burn sliding down my throat, searing my lungs in that familiar, punishing way.
His brow creases when he catches me watching him, and I nod towards the cigarette.
“Again,” I say.
“Fuck off,” he mutters.
But he inhales anyway.
Fuck yeah… I could almost groan from the sight alone. Seven hours without a cigarette, and my skin is fucking buzzing.
“Can we get back to business, please?” Kurt snaps from my left.
I cut my eyes to him as he scrubs a hand down his face, leaning forward like he’s already had enough of this meeting.
We’ve been at this table for over an hour, working through the post-auction checklist as we tally the profit, pay into wash businesses and offshore accounts, flag buyers who have become problematic, and checking the heat from the RCMP. But there’s one thing left to discuss.
“We need to find out why the Dominion Sons are poking around our auctions,” Kurt says, looking around the table at everyone.
“We already know what they’re doing here,” Rex says with a sigh. “They want to expand across Canada. The Atlantic provinces are their next move, and we’re the gateway.”
“They’ve been forcefully absorbing small clubs all over the country,” Cory adds, flipping his knife in his hand absentmindedly. “Then they have no other choice but to run their product, and the Dominion Sons’ drug pipeline grows. It was only a matter of time before they came sniffing around here.”
“Well, we’re not fucking doing it,” I say, leaning back with a shrug.
“No, we’re not,” Kurt agrees, and the table murmurs with the same answer.
“But…” he leans back in his chair and scans the table, “we’re sitting ducks.
The auctions are already hurting, with a declining economy and RCMP breathing down our necks.
Donnie says they’re planning another raid tomorrow, because his asshole of a sergeant is convinced they’ll catch us with a car that’s still hot, or a paper trail on the money. ”
“For fuck’s sake,” Dom mutters, stubbing out his cigarette.
I watch the ember die as smoke twists and disappears into the air, and I can almost taste it on my tongue.
“Doesn’t matter,” I say, my eyes still fixed on the ashtray. “Let them come make asshats of themselves. Everything’s hidden.”
“Yeah,” Kurt answers, but I hear the exhaustion in his voice.
I turn to look at him. “We need to find a way to adapt and keep doing what we do. We go across the border and into other provinces. It’ll be more legwork, but we can work with other clubs and do bigger hauls less often.
RCMP can’t touch us in the US, and we can throw them off by bringing auctions across Canada.
It’ll keep us moving, and we’ll be harder to pin down. ”
The table is quiet… and that just won’t fucking do.
“What?” I ask, glaring around at everyone. “What’s the alternative? And don’t say fucking guns.”
Eyes start shifting around the table, and Kurt exhales.
“Cross-border auctions are a big gamble, Alder,” he says. “Huge.”
“And running guns isn’t?” I snap. I lean forward, crossing my arms on the table. “Drugs rot people from the inside out, and guns tear them apart from the outside in. Either way, it’s dead kids in the street. You think that’s something we can walk back from?”
Mac nods at me. “I agree. Even if we try to keep them in the right hands, they’d still find their way to the wrong ones. I don’t want families in our town burying their kids because of something we put into our community.”
I meet his eyes and nod in appreciation.
Boot shifts beside him. “I’m with you on that. But we need more than just talk. We need a plan that keeps us strong enough that the Dominion Sons can’t smell weakness.”
My gaze drops as I spin a lighter on the table, watching the blur of metal. Weakness… I fucking hate that word.
But no barrier is perfect. There’s always a little give and some weak point in the structure.
Boundaries are only absolute until they’re not.
“They won’t,” I say.
Boot huffs. “You say that like it’s certain.”
“Because it fucking is,” I say sharply, lifting my eyes to glare at him. “They don’t find our weakness. We find theirs.”
I can feel the uncertainty circling the room without even looking, as I reach for the pack of cigarettes on the table.
I slide one between my lips and light it as silence lingers.
The first inhale is pure sin as the smoke burns a path into my lungs, and I close my eyes in appreciation before slowly blowing it out.
“We’re not running fucking guns,” I say in a low voice, as I open my eyes and look around the table.
But for every one of my brothers that appears to be on my side… another looks uncertain.
Fuck.
“We’re not deciding this now,” Kurt says, leaning forward to pick up the gavel. “After this fucking raid tomorrow, Alder and I will see what Donnie can find out about the Sons’ movements. Once we know more, we’ll figure out the best way to stay ahead of them and keep the pressure off.”
Before he can bring the gavel down, I’m on my feet and pushing through the door.
I love my brothers. But if this goes to a vote, and the majority chooses guns…
it changes everything. The Basin Kings won’t run drugs because we won’t destroy our own streets.
We steal from the rich, sell to the rich, and work hard to keep damage far from home and our community. Guns break that code.
I know why some of them think we need to do it. But they’re not seeing the alternative staring them right in the fucking face… the one this club was built on.
And our codes are what keep us from becoming just like them.
I head straight for my bike, tossing the cigarette as I swing a leg over it, and pull my helmet on. I can feel Kurt’s eyes on me from the doorway, but I don’t look back as the engine roars to life beneath me.
I’ve got a different barrier to break through right now.