CHAPTER 9
NOW
NICKY
“You’re a fucking dumbass.” Mav points at me, cigarette pinched between his index and middle fingers.
“Nice to see you too, Bishop.” I shoulder past him into the conference room, dropping into one of the high-back leather chairs.
Bringing my Doc Martins up to rest on the dark wooden surface, I shift the brim of my white baseball cap to the back before sipping on my coffee. I’m about to lean forward to place my cup on the table when I notice Maverick looming over me.
“Something on your mind, cupcake?”
Mav’s lit cigarette now dangles from his lips as he looks at me like I’m batshit crazy. “What the fuck are you wearing?”
I glance down at the oversized cable knit dark green cardigan covered in gold cheetah print I’m rocking. It hangs open, exposing a plain white V-neck tee that I’ve paired with black skinny jeans.
“Clothes?” Compared to a lot of things I have in my closet, this is pretty tame.
Mav’s right brow, the one with the scar slicing through it, arches accusingly. “Is that what you wore to the meeting today with Hector?”
“No, dick. I wore a fucking suit. However, I had a free hour to kill before this little rendezvous of ours, and nothing else on the books for the day, so I ran home to change. That okay with you?”
Mav shakes his head, muttering something to himself as he waves me off. “There ain’t nothin’ okay about that sweater, Nick.” He rounds the table, dropping down into the chair across from me before snubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray in front of him.
“Never took you for such a hater.” I laugh, reclining in my seat as I stare at the man who couldn’t be more my opposite.
Maverick Bishop—Club owner. Drug dealer. Former gun runner. Leader of the Renegade Rebels.
While close in age and height—we both clock in right around 6’4”—that’s the extent of our similarities. Mav’s a wall of broad solid muscle, his skin drenched in intricate tattoos that sprawl around his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt, only to reappear on the backs of his hands.
I, on the other hand, while still muscular, am much leaner than Mav. Just the nature of the game in the motocross world. My skin is a blank canvas, save for the interlocking crowns I have tatted on my forearm for my baby sister. Well, and the one other. But no one knows about that one.
“Not hatin’.” A few strands of his dark hair drop in front of his eyes, and he swipes at them, slicking them back into place. “Just stating the obvious. Gotta say, though, that’s OG Nicky C. style right there. Been a minute since I’ve seen you out and about in stuff like that.”
He isn’t wrong. My style back in the day was possibly the only creative liberty I allowed myself. I’ve always been partial to less conventional pieces. Leather, pops of color, vintage, bold prints—I have a pretty distinguished taste. One of the benefits to not giving a shit about what others think is you aren’t deterred by whether anyone else likes your style. Ironically, that actually gave me an edge in high school, and even helped cement my brand as a professional athlete. Fueled the whole rebel without a cause image I was projecting. However, in our shift from small time to international drug trade, we both had to make concessions. Apparently, suits aren’t optional when playing Scarface.
If you’re gonna talk the talk, you gotta walk the walk.
The sacrifice was greater on my end, by far. If Mav ever wore a color other than black, I’d die of literal shock. Man went from black tees and ripped black jeans to black-on-black Armani suits. If anything, it was an upgrade.
“Yeah, well, it’s rare I don’t have a meeting I’m running off to, so I figured I’d seize the moment and opt for a dress-down day. Plus, Baby J got me this for Christmas, and I been wanting to wear it.” I catch myself a second too late, my eyes slipping closed with regret as my mouth snaps shut. “Fuck, man,” I exhale. “My bad. I’m having an off day.”
Mav shakes his head, attempting to act unfazed. Like the mere mention of my baby sister doesn’t gut him. “Don’t know why you’re apologizing. Your family’s shopping selections don’t got shit to do with me or this meeting.”
To anyone else, I’m sure they’d buy that act all day long, but I see the shift in him almost instantly. Mav’s previously relaxed body is suddenly taut with tension. His jaw tightens, a clear struggle to maintain a neutral affect, as he begins absentmindedly flexing his fingers. I shouldn’t give a shit, but the image claws at my chest, appealing to a sense of humanity buried within me that I wish I didn’t possess.
I think of Jonsie, across the country, and wonder if she experiences a similar reaction when she’s reminded of the man before me. I want to believe she doesn’t, that day to day life is fun and fulfilling, and pray the face of Maverick Bishop doesn’t haunt her dreams. But as quickly as those thoughts run through my mind, I dismiss them like the lies I know them to be.
That underlying humanity of mine momentarily shifts into a conscience, and I find myself considering an offering that has me questioning my sanity.
Don’t do it, Nick. Don’t.
Against my better judgment, I decide to throw him a bone. Dropping my feet to the floor, I lean my elbows atop the table, inclining my body forward.
“Okay, listen. I will give you one Jonsie-related update if you want it.” His head snaps up, his typically lifeless eyes suddenly flooding with interest. I half expect the poor son of a bitch to start salivating. “It can be random or a single question of your choosing, but that’s it. Once you have it, all rules relating to my sister are still in full effect. You got me? Choose wisely.”
Mav sits silent for a moment, his attention drifting off far beyond the confines of this room. Sinking back in my chair, I await his response, curious as to what he’ll ask. After three and a half years away from my sister, what’s the one thing he’s dying to know?
Reaching into his jacket, Mav removes his pack of cigarettes along with a silver Zippo. I recognize it as the one he always carries. Flipping open the pack, he pulls one of the tiny tobacco sticks free with his teeth before tossing the box onto the sleek wooden surface of the conference table. He doesn’t move to light it right away. Instead, he stares thoughtfully down at the lighter, his thumb rubbing circles over the smooth metal surface. In a single fluid motion, Mav flicks it open and sparks it, tilting his head toward the flame.
He inhales deep, briefly withholding the smoke before expelling a cloud into the air on a resigned sigh. “Let’s get a move on here. I got other places to be.”
“What?” I don’t bother attempting to mask my shock. “You’re telling me you seriously don’t want to know anything about J right now?”
“Your sister is your business, Nick. I got my hands full with my own woman. I don’t need to be worrying about another one.” He takes another pull from his cigarette, and for some reason his indifference surrounding my sister surprisingly irritates me.
“Oh, really? Tell me, Mav, when you’re fucking your girl, is it awkward for her to stare at the portrait of my sister you have tattooed on your ribs?”
That one strikes a nerve.
Mav pops up, flicking his lit cigarette in my face and slamming his palms against the table. “Let’s get a few things straight,” he snarls. “We ain’t family. We ain’t boys. We ain’t partners. You and I? We’re a means to an end for one another. Which means while I may have to work with you to bring Yuri down and keep the Feds off our asses, I sure as shit don’t have to discuss personal matters with you.”
“I was simply trying to extend an olive branch.”
“Fuck your olive branch.” He spits. “It’s about three and a half years too late.”
“It doesn’t have to be like this between us, you know.”
“Am I free to hop a plane to Cali right now?” It’s meant to be rhetorical, a simple taunt, but I see the desperation swimming beneath the surface. If I gave the okay right now, he’d be out the door and across the country in record time.
And to think she’s out there in the world thinking this man doesn’t want her.
I’m a fucking monster.
Mav takes my silence as his answer.
“Then this is exactly the way it has to be.” He drops back down into his seat, his posture a bit more defeated. “I gotta be out in fifteen, so let’s move this along.”
“Fine,” I relent. “Why don’t we start by you telling me why I’m a dumbass?”
“There are literally countless examples to choose from, but for the sake of time constraints, I’ll focus on today’s example.”
“How kind of you,” I deadpan.
“Did you or did you not blow off the deal with Hector Valdez this afternoon?”
“How do you even know about that already?”
“Kellerman called after a surveillance team caught pictures of a very pissed-off looking Valdez leaving Savor with two of his guards, one of them looking worse for the wear. He pretty much inferred it didn’t go well.”
“Tail was for me? Couldn’t have been. I would’ve noticed.”
“Him. Feds flagged him coming into the country. He’s had heat on him since he hit US soil.” Mav stretches back in his chair, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “What were you thinking?”
“It was a ridiculous deal. Profit margins were shit. The only way I’d be considered a dumbass is if I actually took it.”
“To hell with profit margins!” His hand slaps the table. “It wasn’t about that, and you know it. The transport line it established would’ve made it ten times easier to catch Yuri in the act. Maybe you’re cool with still being a puppet for the Feds after all these years, but I would very much like to retire in a manner that doesn’t involve a coffin or jail cell.”
I understand his frustrations. Hell, I even share them. At one point, the rush this lifestyle held was one of unrestrained excitement. However, it has long since lost its shine. When I was approached by Agent Alec Kellerman over three years ago, the deal he pitched me was enticing. So enticing, in fact, I even put aside our differences and brought it to Mav as well, hoping his involvement could help me get it done quicker.
It was straight forward enough. Collect enough evidence against the Bratva to secure a conviction against Yuri, and in exchange, any pending cases in the works against me and Mav are dead in the water. There were two conditions. First, Mav and I both had to agree we’d cease any and all illegal business ventures the moment Yuri’s behind bars. We barely blinked an eye at that one. That stipulation actually enticed Mav even more.
The other? Aside from Kellerman, no other government official would be aware of our informant status. Meaning if we got caught before we wrapped up this little intel mission, we were going down for our crimes.
Thank you, Uncle Sam.
Like I said…straightforward. Only thing we didn’t bank on is still being on the hook years later. Do we have evidence on him? Sure, for money laundering. But Yuri keeps his nose surprisingly clean when it comes to his direct involvement with the drugs, and at the end of the day, that’s the lynchpin we need for a life sentence.
“You think I’m not tired of this shit?” I snap. “I want out just as bad as you, but the day I stop putting business first is the day Yuri catches on that something’s up and we’re as good as dead.”
“Yuri’s the one who set this up!”
“And while he’d initially be satisfied, eventually he’d realize we’re getting screwed. He’s slow on the uptake, Mav, not fucking stupid. This is something he’d expect me to question.”
“He’s still gonna be pissed you fucked up his deal.”
“He’ll get over it when he sees the one I’ve lined up in its place.”
Mav perks up in his chair. “What do you mean?”
“One of the reasons I’m not sweating this shit with Hector is because I’ve already secured an alternate source. Lined it all up last week. Everything’s gonna launch right on schedule. I’m calling Kellerman tonight to fill him in.”
“Who’s your source?”
“The Colombians.”
Mav goes eerily quiet, his body frozen aside from the occasional blink of his eyelids. “Now, when you say Colombians, you mean…”
“I went and walked the coca fields myself with Rodrigo Aguilar last week.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.” He leans forward, burying his face in his hands. “We’re gonna die.”
“We’re not gonna die, Mav. Put your vagina away.”
“Yo, fuck you, Nick. The Colombians? Really? Why don’t you just invite Pablo Escobar up for a visit while you’re at it?”
“Well, he’s been dead since ’93, so he probably won’t make it.”
“You know what? I changed my mind. I want my Jonsie-related question. Does your sister know you’ve lost your fucking mind?!”
“Listen to me!” I shout, growing tired of this conversation. “This is a win-win. We’ve been trying to help the Feds catch Yuri red-handed for years. This gives us more opportunities to do so. However, you and I both know that while tying him to the drugs would be phenomenal, Kellerman has also upped his expectations. What does he want?”
Mav sighs. “To tie Yuri to the trafficking, but those are all Eastern European girls he’s moving. The majority of them he don’t even bring here.”
“Think about it. Where is Colombia located?”
“Nick, don’t ask me geography questions. My high school social studies teacher spent more time with my dick in her mouth than actually teaching me anything. Skip to the good part.”
“Venezuela, you asshole. Colombia is next to Venezuela, the Latin American country with the highest instances of trafficked women.”
Mav’s jaw slightly drops as realization dawns on him. “You’re baiting him.”
“Hook, line, and motherfucking sinker.”