“I know. They joined this game, but I sent them deeper. It’s on my fucking head.”
Topic closed, I turned to the next speaker and cleared my throat. “Next agenda, Matchsticks. Did you hear back from Black Diamonds in England?”
Matchsticks sat higher in his chair, his large belly squashed against the table ledge. “Yep. Jethro Hawk said he’d provide use of his diamond shipping routes for anything we need transferred and also mentioned a face-to-face meeting with you next time you’re in the UK.”
I cracked my knuckles. The English tycoon who outweighed my bank balance by almost double—which was no mean feat—had been of great assistance over the past few years. I’d met him at his diamond-processing plant and been so fucking jealous of the son of a bitch for what he had. Not because of the wealth or glittering rocks all around him, but for the woman standing by his side.
There’d been so much fucking tension between them, but all I could think about was Cleo. Cleo rotting in a grave. Cleo burning alive in her family’s home. I’d wanted to wring his neck for being so lucky. But I never got the chance, because we ended up forming a grudging respect.
Along with respect, I also found a kinship I never expected. He had a strict father—a family that expected far too much of him. I recognized the trap he lived in and our similar family issues strengthened a bond I knew I could trust. To be honest, my circumstances were a damn sight better than his. At least I had the freedom to kill my father and brother. Jethro? I doubted he’d ever be free.
“That’ll work. Pass on my thanks. Fingers crossed we won’t have to call on him, but it’s good to have everything in place.”
Looking around the table, I racked my brain to see if I’d scratched everything off the list. Wasn’t there something else to discuss? My fucking headache still wouldn’t leave me alone. It’d eased a little, thank God. Mainly thanks to the two releases I’d had inside Cleo.
My lips twitched remembering her head bobbing between my legs. She’d been so fucking pretty.
I grew hard just thinking about her.
Beetle announced, “By the way, our snitch has been busy.”
Everyone’s attention shot to the youngest member, waiting for him to continue.
Playing with the gauge in his ear, Beetle said, “The snitch in Night Crusaders. He said Dagger Rose is overstaying their welcome. Making plans to move due to a fight they had last night with the Crusader prez. A few men got hurt. They’ve been told to fuck off before the end of the week.”
“Shit!”
Grasshopper slammed his palms on the table. “But that’s in two fucking days.”
Beetle shrugged. “I know. We need to move fast on those assholes. Already told the boys; they’ve stockpiled more guns and prepped the bikes.” His eyes fell on me. “I’m on it, Prez.”
My heart raced. Two days.
The timing didn’t really matter; in fact, I’d planned on ambushing them this week regardless. We couldn’t afford to let them fuck off. Not now.
But two days? Could we be ready?
“Is Alligator with them? The fuckwit who hurt Cleo?”
The men shifted in their chairs. The bonfire last night had firmly rooted Buttercup into our family. The men wouldn’t be fighting just because I said so, but because she was theirs now. We had a joint interest. An investment into her future.
“Sure is,” Lance muttered. The biker was a weathered man with faded tattoos of his beloved Yorkshire terriers on his forearms. He was an enigma but was fucking brutal in war. “Been spotted with Rubix. He’s there. Ready to be executed.”
Excitement inched through my veins. Despite my weakness, fuzziness, and occasional dizziness that made me stumble like a freak, I was able enough to fight.
I want to fight.
I’ve been waiting eight long years for this.
I had every intention of enjoying it.
Fisting the gavel, I brought it down onto the table with a smack. “Good work, boys. You know what else you have to do. We attack in two days. Gather ammo, clear the roads of local police, stockpile everything else we might need.”
Standing, I growled, “In two days we wipe Dagger Rose from existence and put this fucking treason behind us.”
Thirty minutes later, I straddled my Triumph and slotted the key into the ignition. Twisting my wrist, the silent machine evolved into a rumbling beast.
Sunshine sliced slivers off my eyeballs and made my brain bleed. I wanted to get home. I wanted shade. I wanted Cleo.
But as I turned the handlebars for home, I paused.
I had one last thing to do and I didn’t want to do it where Cleo could listen in.
Pulling my phone from my back pocket, I dialed the number I knew by heart and waited for it to connect.
“Florida State. Please dial the extension you require or hold for assistance. Our visiting hours are between eleven a.m. and two p.m. Monday through Friday and require a prior arranged booking.”
Pulling the phone from my ear, I pressed the five-digit extension to be put through to the petitionary wing I’d been housed in and suffered the familiar fisting around my gut as I waited for it to stop ringing.
“Florida State,” a female voice answered. “How can I direct your call?”
“Prisoner number FS890976. Wallstreet, please.” My tone was curt.
“One moment.”
The line switched to god-awful music and I stroked the matte black of my gas tank while I waited.
It was never a quick turnaround calling Wallstreet.