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local members, but Animal is a nomad. I don’t know the rest. They could be prospects or maybe another club.”
    The motorcycles roared up to the driveway of the house, sat a moment, scanning the land, gunning their engines, and then silenced ominously.
    Who were they? Friends of Lasker? The killers from Buffalo? Or, despite what Ukiah claimed, part of the Pack?
    The house felt like a trap, but at least it offered some protection. The treeless sand dunes were entirely too exposed. Atticus went to the door, opened it, and stood waiting for the bikers to come to him.
    Atticus had originally thought that “biggest one” meant “the most desirous wannabe” but apparently Ukiah had just meant “huge all over,” and the monster of a man on the lead bike was John Daggit.
    â€œYou Steele?” Daggit dismounted to swagger toward the house. He topped Atticus by another head with huge, beefy hands. His stock of gray-salted brown hair was shaggy, framing a face that might have been handsome except for the dark inset of his eyes, which made him look not totally sane.
    â€œWhat do you want?” Atticus kept the door blocked even though Daggit loomed over him. Obviously the big man was used to his size intimidating people.
    â€œLook, asshole . . .” Daggit put out a hand to brush him aside. Atticus caught the hand and used it to bring the big man down to his knees, eliminating the leverage that Daggit’s size might have given him.
    â€œWhat do you want?” Atticus repeated calmly, pushing the hold almost to the point of breaking the arm.
    â€œI’m a friend of Jay Lasker’s.” Daggit hissed in pain. “If you’re Steele, then I’ve got business with you.”
    Perfect. The sellers—twelve hours early. Atticus released Daggit, stepping back to let him up.
    â€œYeah, I’m Atticus Steele.”
    Daggit got up, wincing at his arm. “I’m John Daggit.”
    Great. Well, things were so amazingly screwed, but they had no choice but to act as if it were business as usual. “Come in.”
    â€œI figured the deal would be off once Lasker died.” Daggit ducked into the house, six of his men following. They stank of unwashed hair, old sweat, hot oil, engine exhaust, cigarette smoke, and spilled beer. Atticus scanned them discreetly for weapons. Something crystalline glittered on their hands, clothes, and faces. Pixie Dust? “All I got off him was a name and time.”
    Which was more than Atticus had gotten. By all signs, Sumpter had focused on the logistics of arranging the buy without getting the intel on the seller, trusting that Lasker would cover those details later. Why was it that the idiots were never the ones that dropped dead?
    â€œEverything is still go.” To force introductions and get names attached to the other men, Atticus waved toward Ru. “My partner, Hikaru Takahashi.” Then, because he didn’t want to get Ukiah more involved than he had to, Atticus made a dismissive noise and added, “And my little brother.”
    â€œThis is Animal. He’s a nomad for the Iron Horses.” Daggit named the others—confirming Ukiah’s guesses—apparently working from level of importance instead of by whom was standing closest to him. Animal was a wiry man with flamboyant red hair and beard and a slightly manic smile. “Rebar here is my right-hand man.” The club enforcer was a bald man whose leather jacket and thick waist disguised a strongly built body. Daggit rattled off the names of theothers as if they were of no consequence. “Draconis. Smithy. Quasimodo. Mutt and Jeff.”
    Draconis was a tall, lanky man with dark hair and beard. Smithy was short, pudgy, and sweating nervously. Quasimodo was as ugly as his namesake. Mutt and Jeff were brothers or cousins; both had the same broad face and sparse, sandy hair.
    Atticus committed faces to memory as he kept between the bikers