“The numbers are set, King,” Torres says, the hard set of his jaw matching the hard tone in his voice.
“They don’t work for us.” King’s tone is equally as hard.
Torres's silence is dark, violent almost, while he processes that. When he speaks, his words are painted black. “I don’t appreciate my time being wasted.”
King’s nostrils flare. “And I don’t appreciate the cartel trying to bend me the fuck over. Your price is too high, and you know it. No one in Australia is going to pay it. And no one is going to want as much as often as we do. You go back to your bosses and negotiate a better price and then we’ll be ready to fucking tango.”
Torres puts his sunglasses back on, hiding those cold and calculating eyes of his again. Without
another word, he returns to his car.
“What’s your read?” King asks as we watch the Bentley leave.
“He has to know you’re right, but he’s unpredictable enough for us not to know which way he’ll go.” Javier Torres is as much like King as he is unlike King. Where King is hot, Torres is cold; where King can be highly emotional, Torres comes across unfeeling; where King has a wild temper, Torres appears to have the glacial kind that rages quietly unseen. From what I’ve heard of Torres, though, the thing they have in common is their volatility when that temper explodes.
King thinks about what I’ve said and then says, “I give it two days. The cartel want their coke here—they’ll negotiate.”
A text comes through on my phone.
* * *
Hunt: You heard from Striker today? I had him on Zenith watch but he’s nowhere to be seen.
* * *
“Fuck,” I mutter. Striker has been sloppy the last couple of weeks and I’ve let it ride because I know he’s having problems with his old lady, but this is unacceptable. Hunt discovered a warehouse he thinks Zenith may be operating from and has a roster in place to keep an eye on it at all times. If Striker isn’t where he should be, he’s not going to like my response.
* * *
Me: No. I’ll find him.
* * *
“Problems?” King asks.
“Yeah, but it won’t be a problem soon.”
King checks his watch. “I’ve gotta go. You gonna be at the clubhouse tonight?”
“No. I’ve got stuff on at home. I’ll drop by tomorrow.”
He nods. “We’ll go over the plans for the east coast distribution again so that once the first shipment arrives, we’re ready to go.”
We agree on a time to do this, and after he leaves, I call Striker. He doesn’t answer so I leave a message asking him to return my call. I then call Birdie to advise her of a change in our plans for today.
“Hey, baby,” she answers. “How much longer till you’ll be home? I’m ready to go. And just so you know, I’m wearing the new lingerie you bought me, and you’re going to love taking it off me later.”
I break the news to her that I really don’t want to break. “I don’t know when I’ll be home now. Some stuff has come up that I need to take care of.”
“Oh,” she says, and I catch every ounce of disappointment in that one word. “Okay. I’ll check the movie times and find the later sessions.”
“I’m sorry, angel. I’ll let you know when I’m on my way.”
“Sounds good.”
We end the call and my gut twists with regret. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to postpone or cancel on her this week. I missed her first injection on Tuesday night and I also had to change the plans we had yesterday to spend some time together in the afternoon. She hasn’t once complained, but fuck, I don’t want to keep doing this to her. I also never want to turn up at home in the state I did the night of her first injection. Keeping club violence away from her is one of my top priorities, but I had no choice that night than to take it home. I’ll never forget the look of sheer terror in her eyes when she saw the blood. It’s not a look I ever want to see in her eyes again.
I shove my phone in my pocket and get on my bike. Striker hasn’t called me back so I’ll go in search of him. And with the way I’m feeling after having to call Birdie, God fucking help him when I find him.