4. Bram
four
Bram
The church room was always cold in the morning, no matter how many desert summers had baked the concrete foundation.
The air conditioner was a lie. You only felt the difference when you stepped into the windowless back of the clubhouse, straight from the oven outside.
I liked it that way. It kept the mind sharp, and it made the patched men sitting with me at the table think twice about stretching things out.
Kodiak ran his thumb along the edge of the map, callused and deliberate.
“Best place to intercept is at the Buttonwillow stop.” His voice sounded like someone had left a gravel filter in his throat, but he only used it to deliver facts, never opinions.
“Route’s two exits shorter if they take the sixty-eight, but nobody’s dumb enough to cut through Wasco with a load like this. ”
Rusty snorted, “Tell that to Fat Jerry. He damn near got himself killed last summer taking that detour.”
“Fat Jerry’s dead,” I said.
“Which proves my point.” Rusty shot me a lopsided grin, the kind that would’ve looked like a threat on a smaller man. He wore his years heavy around the neck and across the knuckles. “We’re not using the twins for tail this time, right?”
I shook my head. “They’re on perimeter for the next three days. I don’t want anybody from our table inside the county line unless they’re patched and vetted.”
Kodiak nodded, never missing a beat. “I’ll take two men, nobody soft. We’ll post up with eyes from both ends at Buttonwillow. If there’s any movement from the Scorpions, we’ll see it before they get close enough to get smart.”
Rusty flicked his attention to the map. “Who’s our point of contact in Bakersfield now that Oxy John is out?”
“Karen Devito.” I kept my face stone but watched the reaction.
Kodiak didn’t blink, but Rusty raised an eyebrow, his smile going dead. “Wasn’t she running the cam shows out of that strip mall on Rosedale?”
“She’s diversified,” I said. “Runs clean, no heat, and she’s got hands on more legit businesses than anyone else in Bakersfield.”
Kodiak laid the map flat. “You trust her?”
“No,” I said. “But I trust she’s got more to lose than any of the old players.” I looked between them. “And she owes us. Paid in advance.”
We sat like that for a minute, the hum of the bulb a steady bassline under the conversation. I’d learned to let things sit, give the next move time to breathe. Both men knew it, so neither tried to fill the silence.
Rusty broke first. He reached across the table, flipped open the manila folder, and slid a packet of paper my way. “Proposal from Devito,” he said. “Supposed to be a partnership, but she wants final say on who runs the floor.”
He’d left the first page exposed, Karen’s logo—some bullshit with a pair of red lips and the word “Kiss”—front and center.
Underneath: a line-by-line breakdown of profit shares, security, and a clause about “indemnification of all business partners.” The legalese was a smokescreen, but the numbers were real enough. I thumbed through the rest.
Rusty said, “She knows what she’s doing, but it’s a long walk from snuff streams to handling our kind of volume. If you want to play this straight, you need to send a message.”
“She’s already on edge.” Kodiak didn’t even look at the packet. “Her guys have been getting clipped for the last month. Someone’s trying to push her out.”
I looked at Rusty. “You talked to her?”
“Yeah. Phone. She was coked to the gills, but that’s her baseline. Says she’ll meet anywhere we want, but only in daylight, and only if you’re there personally.”
I watched the corner of the map, tracing the highway with my thumb, then set the packet back down. “She knows what happened to Oxy John?”
Rusty said, “She’s smarter than he was. Keeps her own crew tight. No freelancers.”
I leaned back, let the chair creak. “You think she’s got the stones for this?”
Rusty shrugged. “She’s not scared. Not of us, not of the Scorpions. But if you want my advice—”
“I don’t,” I said. But I let him finish.
He grinned again, all wolf. “Run her out of Bakersfield. Turn her place into a high-class front and bleed her operation into our own. You don’t need her for more than three months. By then, we’ve got the cash flow, and she’s history.”
Kodiak’s face was blank as ever, but I saw his eyes flick to Rusty and then to me. “Or we take the deal as is, keep her on as a buffer against local heat. When the Scorpions make their move, she takes the first hit, not us.”
I looked at both of them, letting the balance tip in the air. Then I said, “Rusty, you’re on vetting. Get the numbers on her crew, see who’s been dropped and who’s still moving product. If it checks out, we take her up on the meet.”
He nodded, snapping the folder shut with one hand.
“Kodiak, go with Rusty to Buttonwillow. I want eyes on the whole fucking route, from the yard to her front door. Nothing comes back this way unless you’ve put hands on it first.”
Kodiak nodded once. “Timeline?”
“You’re on the road by nightfall,” I said. “I want a dry run done before tomorrow, and I want the hardware back here before dawn the day after.”
They both stood, neither waiting for me to get up. It was old habit—when I gave a run order, you moved. No need for ceremony or handshakes. They grabbed their cuts from the hooks by the door, and I heard the boots echo down the hallway.
I stayed behind, staring at the map, the lines and notations and the single word at the top: Bakersfield.
I pressed my palm flat on the table and closed my eyes. All I saw was the same road, winding west, same as it ever was.
Outside, the morning was already hot enough to burn, but the church room was cold, and it was mine alone.
***
Sniper and Trace made it to the compound before noon, burning up the desert blacktop and each other’s nerves.
They came in through the back, same as always, but this time they didn’t take off their helmets until they hit the kitchen.
I heard the door catch and the quick shuffle of boots before either said a word.
Sniper took the lead, Trace a step behind, like a pair of dogs coming off the same leash.
I didn’t get up. Let them find me in the church room, same as their whole lives.
Sniper didn’t bother knocking, just stepped in and dropped a folded sheet of notebook paper onto the table, right over the spot where the map to Bakersfield used to be. Trace lingered in the doorway, knuckles white on the frame.
“Surveillance layout,” Sniper said. His voice was Navy SEAL tight, no wasted breath.
“We’ve been watched for a week, maybe more.
These are their points of approach, two-man teams, one rotating on the north fence, another on the utility easement.
Both are within range of the east window at night. I put marks in red.”
I unfolded the page. Every line was tight, straight, measured. He’d even labeled the shadows and the cone of light from the overhead bulb. It was better than most blueprints I’d ever seen.
Trace said, “They’re not even subtle. We caught a Scorpion prospect making a phone video of our front gate. Couldn’t have been more than twenty. Told us straight up what they planned.”
“Which was?” I said, not taking my eyes off the drawing.
Trace came in now, elbows on the table. “Direct strike on the officers’ meeting. They think you and Rusty are the only ones holding this place together. Cut off the head, the rest falls down.”
He made it sound diabolical. I watched his face, jaw flexed, a new scratch just under the cheekbone. Trace always took things personally, even when he said he didn’t.
Sniper said, “If we keep rotating prospects on the gate, we’ll have two bodies before sunset. At minimum.”
I ran my finger down the list of times and approach vectors.
Every shift, every gap, every lazy minute we’d left in the last week.
Sniper was right. If they wanted to hit us, they’d have done it by now.
They were waiting for the right angle, the perfect moment.
They were waiting for the Colonel to be released. We all were.
I said, “Pull the prospects. Replace them with full patches, two at each post. Armed, and on radio at all times.”
Sniper nodded, no argument.
“Trace, you call every member. Every wife, every kid, every side piece who might be in the line of fire. I want everyone inside by nightfall, or at least somewhere I can find them when I need to. Make it a 72-hour stay.”
Trace grinned, all teeth. “What about the Santa Fe crew?”
“Tell them to keep quiet and keep their dicks in their pants,” I said. “We don’t tip our hand until we’re ready.”
Sniper said, “You want the shooters in the open, or on the roof?”
“Both. Mix it up. Make them think we’re half-assed. But don’t let anyone get sloppy. First man who slips, I’ll break his kneecap myself.”
They both smiled at that. It was how I showed affection.
I stood up, grabbed the surveillance layout, and folded it. “We’re on full lockdown. Nobody in or out unless I say so. Not even for a beer run.”
Trace leaned back, stretched like a man who just realized he could start a fight and not get scolded for it. “You want us to wait for them, or—”
I looked at the clock on the wall. “We’re not waiting. We hit them first. We’ll send the Colonel a message before he walks out.”
Sniper said, “You want it loud?”
“Fast and clean,” I said. “No survivors to report back. If you find a Scorpion prospect on our turf, you make sure he doesn’t leave with his tongue still attached.”
Trace’s face lit up in a way that always made me nervous. “Yes, sir.”
I let that hang, then walked to the door, stopping in the frame. “Be back here by dawn. We do the job, then we go quiet for a minute. Let them sweat it out.”
Sniper already had his phone out, texting in code I’d never bothered to learn. Trace was grinning at nothing, just holding the edge of the table like he might break it off and use it as a weapon.
“Hey,” I said, and waited until both looked up. “This is it. We get one shot, so don’t fuck it up.”
They both nodded, sharp and perfect.
“Then you go back to your chapters.”
I walked out first, past the patched men already gathering in the common room, some of them piecing together shotguns, some of them just staring at the TV, dead eyes but all ears.
I could hear the engines outside, more than usual, some of them idling, some of them just winding down from a hard ride.
The sky over Barstow was still blank and bright, the only shade what you made for yourself. I stood there, the surveillance layout in one hand, and watched the world start to shift.
There would be war before the next sun came up.
“Dad,” Ryder, son number six, said. He was about to ride out to his chapter in Fort Smith, Arkansas. My sons rarely called me Dad and only did so when they were about to get soft.
“I’m not raising your allowance, Ryder,” I said, a line I used with every son. “What?”
“Kodiak was telling me about you and Julie Sparta.”
“There is no Julie Sparta and me, son.” I knew what was coming.
He moved to my side, both of us watching club members preparing the lockdown. “You’ve had a thing for her since she took the job.”
“She’s half my fucking age, Ryder.” I crossed my arms, knowing he wasn’t wrong. But Julie and I had too much going against us to have anything worth pursuing. “Besides, I don’t have time.”
“I’m just saying, maybe you should make time. Mom would understand.” He knew that would make me turn. “It’s been twenty years. She would have wanted you to start living again a long time ago.”
“I love you, Ryder. Head on out to your chapter.”
“Love you, too, Dad.”
I watched him climb on his Harley and shook my head as he left the compound.
Of course he was right. I would have wanted the same for Millie if I’d been the one gunned down.
But I’d also been waiting a long time for revenge.
I just didn’t see the smarts in getting another woman by my side gunned down.
I took a seat on the picnic table, where a single beer had been left unopened and unattended in a bucket of ice. I uncapped the damned thing and drank, Julie Sparta conveniently entering my head.
Ryder was right. I had a thing for the young woman, but it was clear we fucking hated each other. Well, maybe she hated me. The feeling wasn’t mutual, though the first time I saw her in court and talked to the judge about insufficient evidence, I fucking hated her with a passion.
I set the beer aside and stared at the bottle. Enough of that shit. No woman wanted a drunk-ass man.
“What’s on your mind, brother?” Edge, the club’s Sergeant at Arms, asked. He was a man about my height but built like a fucking locomotive. He’d spent some time at San Quentin, overlapping a year or so with the Colonel. When I didn’t answer, he said, “It’s either pussy or the Colonel.”
“My sons seem to think it’s time I start dating, find an old lady.”
“So?”
“What kind of life is this, Edge?” I steepled my fingers. “Fucking late nights with club shit, running guns, might start a pussy house, constantly looking over your shoulder. What woman wants this life?”
Edge laughed big and hearty-like. “Every old lady associated with this club wants this kind of life.” He motioned at the women at the club’s playground for kids. “Not every woman wants a man in a suit, working ten hours a day while her ass struggles at home with three and a half kids, Bram.”
“Julie Sparta,” I said.
“The DA?”
I looked directly at him. “I might have a feeling or two.”
“She makes your dick hard.”
“Of course.” I looked straight ahead. “But there’s something else.”
“What’s that saying, ‘You won’t know until you shoot your shot?’”
I turned. “Not sure we need that kind of connection to the club. Not even sure I can trust her.”
“You’re creating a tragedy without even giving it a chance, brother.” He looked at the empty ice bucket.
“So you think it’s an okay idea?” I shook my head. He was easier to just get laid and not have to worry about the after. There would be an after with Julie. “Even though she’s half my age?
“Younger women like them some older dick, brother. Don’t knock the opportunity.”
“You’re right,” I said and rubbed my chin, thinking about Julie.
Maybe it was time. Maybe Millie would approve. But maybe I needed to find a woman who hated me a little less than Julie did.