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cross into his territory, and we’ve got no beef with him. We haven’t drawn heat for our association with the Águilas cartel yet. Since we shut down the Dirty Rats out here, our work has been nothing but smooth and quiet. Fuck, we’re just peaceable, law-abiding citizens, except for what’s in the trucks we ride with. Dora thinks that makes us perfect for this job.”
     
    Muse leaned in, and the projected image moved over his face a little. “And what do we think? This isn’t the kind of guy we can yank off the street and no one will notice.”
     
    Like Connor, Muse was an enforcer. They had four enforcers, including Diaz and Demon as well. Back in the day, they’d needed that much muscle, and they might need that much again in the future. Muse and Diaz were their finesse guys, and Connor knew that they were expecting this job to land at their feet. He didn’t think that was the right play, though. He’d talked to his father and Bart, and they agreed.
     
    So he spoke up. “No. We can’t grab this guy. This needs to be a straight-up hit.” He turned to Trick. “Sniper, if we can make it happen.”
     
    Trick sat back with a quiet whistle. “I’m rusty, man. I don’t know.” Trick had been an Army sniper and had done tours in the Middle East, until he’d been kicked home on a general discharge for beating the shit out of his commanding officer. Connor knew the story and knew that it was true, but the Trick he knew was a quiet, mellow guy. He also knew that beating your CO into a hospital bed and coming out with nothing worse than a general meant that the CO had fucking deserved it—and he had.
     
    “Wait,” J.R. cut in. “So we’re doing this? Is this going to a vote, or are we so bent over to La Zorra that we don’t have a choice?”
     
    “We’re voting it. Not today. I want everybody to have a handle on the job first,” Hoosier answered. “She asked, she didn’t tell. But let’s be clear. We say no, she won’t be pleased. We need a good reason.”
     
    “I fucking hate being on a bitch’s leash,” J.R. groused. It had been adjustment for most of them to deal with a woman with that kind of ferocious power. J.R. was the last one still bitching about it, though.
     
    Ignoring him, Trick asked, “What’s the upside? This a paying job or just a favor?”
     
    “A job. Upside is a cool mil.”
     
    That shut even J.R. up—except for one word: “Fuck.”
     
    Hoosier nodded. “Dora Vega pays for what she values.” He gestured at Sherlock. “Sherlock has some more pictures to show us. What I want to do the rest of this meeting is figure out if we have a way to get this job done. If we have a way, then we can decide if we have the will.”
     
     
    ~oOo~
     
     
    When Connor came out from the dorm later that night, his dad was sitting alone at the bar, drinking his typical Jameson. It was mellow in the Hall so far, but it wasn’t a weekend night. It would be just the patches and the regular girls. On Friday nights, they opened their doors a little, invited fresh blood—girls who might want to make a habit of banging bikers on call, men who might be interested in hanging around, sometimes a few celebrity tourists. Otherwise, though, it was pretty much just family around the clubhouse. They had a rep for being wild, but really, they were boring most of the time.
     
    That wasn’t to say they sat around other nights reading the Bible and singing hymns. It was sex, booze, and rock-n-roll. No illegal drugs, just weed and booze. There wasn’t a prohibition on anything, but everybody knew there was no point in inviting trouble. The clubhouse was clean. They didn’t get heat from law these days, even with their dark work, but even if the clubhouse were raided, there’d be nothing here to incriminate them.
     
    He sat down, and Jerry, their new Prospect, picked up the bottle of Jameson and poured him a tall glass without him having to ask. He nodded his appreciation and took the