Deuce closed his eyes, wishing he could do the same. Since his heart attack, Eva had been a goddamn vigilante, hell-bent on denying him even the simplest of pleasures. Like a motherfucking cigarette. Or salt. Yeah, Jesus fucking Christ, he missed salt.
“They wouldn’t risk it,” Deuce said. “They want your business and they ain’t gonna get it if they kill my boy. They’re smart enough to know that. But if they did kill ’im, then they’re goin’ to ground.” He turned his gaze back to the water. “Every last one of ’em.”
“That means war. With the fuckin’ cartel.”
A burst of anger caused the muscles in Deuce’s arms to tighten over his chest. “Yeah.”
“That means you’re puttin’ me in the position to be goin’ to war.”
Deuce cut his eyes toward Preacher. “It wasn’t fuckin’ me who pulled you into this shit. It was them.”
“Wouldn’t have been able to pull either of us into this shit if you hadn’t been harboring a fugitive, one who just so happened to be one of their own.”
He didn’t respond. What could he say? Preacher was right, as usual. The dumbass motherfucker. But Deuce didn’t regret taking Hawk in. Not for one second. That boy had proved to be one of his club’s best assets.
“You let your boys in on the real plan yet?”
Deuce grimaced. No, he fucking hadn’t. Other than Preacher, only Mick knew the endgame, and only because he didn’t need his VP crying and whining at him again anytime soon. As for the rest of them, he couldn’t tell them, not yet. He needed everyone to appear on board with taking on more merchandise from the Russians. One slipup, one goddamn wrong look could cost Hawk his life or worse, all their lives. The fallout from this motherfucking dangerous game they were all playing was going to be bad enough. No need to add fuel to the fire just yet.
“The Aces are gonna be on board with pickin’ up the slack, yeah?” Deuce asked, purposely changing the subject. “If we don’t have this shit in place with Slider before the Russians pick up on what we’re doin’, it’s all gonna go bad for everyone.”
Preacher’s head bobbed up and down. “Hellions too. Roundman’s pretty excited about the whole fuckin’ deal.”
Deuce let out a heavy sign. “It ain’t the East Coast, but it’s somethin’, and somethin’ is better than nothin’. Worse comes to worst and they don’t take the bait, we at least got two more clubs backin’ us.”
Preacher nodded again. “Good men, both of them, with strong clubs. It’ll be a bloody fuckin’ war, but I ain’t worried about losin’ it. But, Deuce, you’re gonna have to tell your boys.”
“Not yet,” Deuce growled. “They’re already pissed at me for not tellin’ them about Hawk. Can’t figure out why, though, seein’ as ZZ was one of ’em and he shot my boy. You think you got a loyal man when really all you got is a fuckin’ shit stain who loses his balls over runaway pussy.”
Pussy that had belonged to his daughter, Deuce thought, cringing. His daughter and Dorothy’s daughter.
Beside him, Preacher erupted into a fit of laughter that turned quickly into a painful-sounding cough, and Deuce ground his teeth together. What he wouldn’t give to be coughing up a lung right about now.
“Maybe you should quit,” he said bitterly, hoping like hell the man would agree and hand the pack over.
“I’m already dyin’. Why quit now?”
Deuce blinked at Preacher’s surprising revelation. Turning toward the man, he said, “What the fuck did you just say?”
Preacher’s gaze went skyward. “Cancer.”
Deuce stared at him. “Where?”
“Everywhere.”
Jesus . . . shit. What the fuck was he supposed to say to that?
“Ain’t there some shit they can do?”
Snorting, Preacher shook his head. “You gonna stand there and tell me you’d let some whack-job doctor put you through the ringer just so you could die a year or two later, all shriveled up and fuckin’ hairless?”
“Yeah, asshole,” Deuce shouted. “I fuckin’ would. I got little-ass kids and a fuckin’ wife! Your daughter? Big eyes, sexy-as-shit lips and perfect fuckin’ tits. You remember her?”
Preacher flicked his cigarette away and turned to face him, an eyebrow cocked and a smile on his face. “I was thinkin’ more along the lines of pigtails and bad singin’, but it’s nice to know you’re still appreciatin’ my girl.”
“Yeah,” Deuce muttered, feeling embarrassed and wishing his words back. “Fuck you.”
“Speakin’ of my little girl, don’t want you tellin’ her ’bout me. I’ll take care of that when the time comes.”
The image of Eva, devastated and crying, caused Deuce’s chest to tighten. Breathing through the feeling, he quickly relaxed. If Preacher wanted to be the one to tell her, that was Preacher’s business, and he’d happily stay the fuck out of it.
“And I’m thinkin’,” Preacher continued cheerfully, “that I want to consolidate the clubs. Hand my boys over to you. And fuck you too.”
Deuce nearly choked and when he was done choking, he saw red, he saw motherfucking red. Preacher didn’t just have a club or two, the man had a whole goddamn empire, world-fucking-wide.
“You crazy? I’m dyin’ too! You can’t put all that on me, I got enough of my own fuckin’ problems!”
“You ain’t dyin’.”
“I am,” Deuce protested, and slapped his hand over his chest. “Doctors fuckin’ told me I have another heart attack like the last one and I’m fuckin’ done.”
Preacher rolled his eyes. “You ain’t dyin’, shithead. Men like you don’t fuckin’ die. They keep kicking and yelling their way through life until someone knocks ’em down when they ain’t lookin’ and even then, they just keep kicking and yelling from the damn grave.”
Preacher grinned at him then. “Best kinda man,” he said. “That boy of yours even got half of that shit inside him, he’s gonna make us both proud.”
Deuce continued to stare at him, feeling flabbergasted and more than a little uneasy.
“First you shoot me,” he muttered. “Now you’re handin’ me your damn club and spoutin’ love poems.”
“She was sixteen, motherfucker, you woulda shot you.”
“No, asshole, I woulda killed me.”
At that, Preacher just kept grinning. Jesus, was he in the twilight zone?
A door squeaking open drew his attention to where Ripper was exiting the back of the van.
“We got company, Prez,” Ripper said, nodding.
Deuce followed his gaze where, a ways down the road, he could see three large SUVs making their way toward them. “Right on time,” he muttered.
Turning back to Preacher, Deuce glared at the man. “There is no fuckin’ way I’m takin’ your shit on.”
Because what a mess that would be. He couldn’t even keep his own boys across state lines in check. His Nevada chapter was now under the protection of the Russian mafia, and although he’d verbally stripped them of their patches, he couldn’t touch a single one of them.
At least . . . not yet. But he’d find a way to kill each and every one of them for their betrayal.
But taking on the Silver Demons? He was just one man, past his prime, who in all honesty was getting more than sick of the bullshit politics that came with managing men who didn’t like to be managed.
More than ever, he wanted to pass that gavel soon. He was tired, and he wasn’t ashamed to admit he wanted to spend more time with his family than he did barking out orders. As for his successor, Cage still had a lot to learn.
Yeah. Like he’d said, what a mess.
But Preacher, that motherfucker, didn’t seem to think so and just kept on grinning.