Free Strength & Courage (The Night Horde SoCal Book 1) by Susan Fanetti Page B

Bart, the VP, had said his bit and had then cut off Hoosier now three times. The President looked about ready to slit his VP’s throat. Usually, those two got along well and had a good cooperative relationship. Watching Bart fight Hooj so hard at the table , Muse knew that the details of Hoosier’s business—which had not yet been shared—were dicey. They must be. Bart continued, ignoring the fire coming from the Prez’s eyes. “All the shit that went down a few years back—that destroyed a whole club and almost took down the Horde, too, that sent Isaac and Len away and got good people killed—all that shit started with a job like this. We play on this field again, especially in SoCal, and we are asking for big trouble from bad men. It’s insane that we’re even talking about it. We shouldn’t be. And Missouri will bust a vein over it.”
     
    Hoosier slammed his ringed fist into the table, leaving yet another gouge in the oak. Bart had told everybody about the table in the Missouri Keep, describing it like it was some fucking magical piece of art, created with the Great Isaac’s own hands. Muse had never met Lunden. He was probably a decent guy. If he was half as good as his reputation, then he was more than a decent guy. And no question that he’d led a hell of a battle to destroy a whole drug cartel. But Muse fought a tendency to roll his eyes whenever Bart had a story about Isaac.
     
    Apparently, that table Lunden had built was so special that they’d all taken care not to mar it. For years. Muse thought that was bullshit—it might be true, but it was wrong. A club table should show the story of the men who sat around it. It should be gouged and burnt and scratched. In the same way that a kutte showed the life of the man who wore it—tattered and rubbed soft and smooth, despite years of loving care.
     
    SoCal’s table was a great slab of blonde oak. Just a table. And after a few years of use, it was showing wear. As it should. Muse rubbed his fingertips over gouges made by his own rings, then returned his eyes to his President. “Let’s hear the details. All we’re hearing so far is how you two feel about it, and we don’t even know what you’re fighting about.”
     
    With a gesture that said he was giving up for now, Bart leaned back. Hoosier sent another venomous look his way, then turned to the whole table. “You know Connor and I were up in Big Bear last night, sitting down with Wade Ferguson.” The club did security for Ferguson’s strip and gambling clubs. “He wants us to expand into other parts of his business. He’s looking for us to ride protection on a San Diego to Oakland transport. We’d do a handover with Smiling Ghouls. Every two weeks. Eight percent cut.”
     
    Lakota, the club Secretary and Treasurer, asked, “Product?”
     
    Hoosier took a beat, and Bart filled in the space. “It’s a border run. You know what it is.”
     
    “Goddammit, Bart. Sit back and shut the fuck up,” Hoosier snarled. “We’ll fight this out after the details are all on the table.”
     
    “Drugs, guns, or people?” Demon was usually quiet at the table. He preferred to leave the thinking and debating to others and often seemed to be barely paying attention to club discussions. But his attention was sharp today.
     
    “Wouldn’t bring people to the table, Deme. Those days are done. And guns run south, not north. This is a one-way transport. It’s coke and heroin. The take is huge. Ferguson is saying we’re looking at one-fifty, two-hundred every two weeks.”
     
    “This is exactly the shit that nearly got us all killed four years ago. Running fucking drugs for a cartel.” Bart spoke without looking at Hoosier.
     
    Again, Demon spoke. Muse wondered what it was that had him so vocal and keen here. “This is for Ferguson. He’s not cartel, is he? He’s, like, an Indian—like you, right?” Demon addressed the last question to Lakota, sitting across the table from him.
     
    Lakota