Which is exactly what I’ll do.
“This is wonderful here, great food, tiny birds, flowers. Thank you for bringing me.”
“Call me selfish, but I wanted you as my view over the table.”
“Carter Harris, are you being romantic?” She giggled.
“Shouldn’t I be?” He was concentrating on the ceviche.
“Didn’t think you were the type.”
“Ah.” He looked at her, pointed with the spoon. “There you go again, judging, thinking because I’m a biker I don’t have a romantic bone in my body.”
“I stand corrected, but perhaps it’s only a little bone.” She tapped her ear. “One of these teeny-tiny ones in here.”
He laughed and glanced at the parking lot. “Probably you’re right.”
The conversation moved to Baja and surfing as they worked on the tacos. When they were finished, Carter ordered marbled tres leches cake then stood. “Wait here.”
“Where are you—?”
“Just wait here. I’ll only be a minute.” He turned and strode from the shade into the sunlight. Dropping his shades, he moved toward his bike in that loose-limbed stride she was becoming used to enjoying.
It was then Leah noticed a man standing there. Small, wiry, leathery skin, and a tatty blue hoody with a faded Nike tick on the front.
Carter walked up to him, glanced left and right, and touched the small of his back, where his gun sat, as if checking it was there.
Which, of course, it was.
Leah dug into the spongy cake then popped a chunk into her mouth.
The two men spoke, briefly, then exchanged brown envelopes, each tucking them away quickly.
Carter then nodded, turned, and strode back to their table.
When Leah looked again, the other man had gone.
This time, she knew better than to ask what had just been exchanged. Her mind went down many routes, from drugs to cash, passports to hit lists.
“You like the cake?” he asked, sitting.
“It’s perfect.”
“Good.” He picked up a fork. “We’ll head back after this. Should be home by sundown.”
****
Carter was always glad to cross the border into the US after a drop. The last thing he wanted was to get hauled over by Mexicans with twenty-five grand in his pocket.
It was a fair price for five fake passports—expertly made fake passports—and the coyote the Barbarians had worked with for several years knew he could trust their authenticity.
Carter didn’t feel any guilt in what he’d done. People wanted out of Mexico for many reasons, but every reason ultimately came down to the fact they wanted to survive. He was in a position to give them one of the things they needed in order to do that. Carter didn’t set the price, just put in the time on his bike—for a cut, of course—to drop the passports off. The MC had to make a living.
A trade in forged documents was just one of the many pies the Barbarians had their fingers in. Carter’s father had always insisted income slide into the club’s hands through a variety of routes. It meant if one got choked off, they’d survive. It made sense.
Plus, Carter liked the passport drop, and he hoped each person behind the fraudulent passport made it. Got over the border and found safety and perhaps even happiness and a long life.
And right now, flying along the coastal highway, Carter was perfectly happy. He had bedroom plans for the sweet woman who’d hijacked his thoughts, and they didn’t include sleep.