Fuentes’s face grew chalky. Clearly he was worried his people would stab him in the back. Not something Jagger ever worried about—not even Axle would have dared to try to take him out. From here on, however, Jagger had no doubt Axle would be gunning for him. Well, stand in line.
Fuentes rattled off an address in a barely audible whisper. Jagger confirmed the match with a nod. Five minutes after that, they were headed back to the emergency base, which the board had just agreed would be renovated to become their new clubhouse, five hundred grand richer and set to blow the Jacks’ icehouse sky high.
“This stays between us,” Jagger cautioned as he drove through the darkened streets. “No one else in the club hears about the plan. I don’t want to risk a leak.”
“Good thing, then, you got rid of that pretty little Black Jack.” Bandit gave an obsequious laugh, clearly trying to make up for his massive screwup with Fuentes and totally unaware he was just digging himself in deeper. But that was Bandit. Loyal, honest, but a total knucklehead when it came to social relations.
“She’s one hot little piece of ass,” he continued. “Maybe Cade should’ve worked her up for some Jack intel. The way he tells it, there isn’t a woman alive who doesn’t want in his pants.”
Jagger gripped the steering wheel so hard, his knuckles whitened. Then, without warning, or even a word, he reached over the seat, grabbed Bandit by the collar, and smashed his face into the back of the headrest. He made a turn, righted the steering wheel, and kept driving.
Zane looked over from the passenger seat and dropped his voice to a low murmur only Jagger could hear. “What’s eating you? We’re supposed to be celebrating.”
“Fucking hate cages.” Jagger blew out a long breath and shifted his weight. He wasn’t lying. Cages brought back memories of the months he’d spent intubated as he recovered from the rocket strike while on tour in Afghanistan. Unable to shake the residual claustrophobia and the memories of pain and utter helplessness, Jagger could no longer ride in a cage unless he was driving and all the windows were down. And no way would he have been able to handle what they’d just put Fuentes through. PTSD was the military psychologist’s diagnosis. Jagger just called it a need to be in control.
“Unfortunately, my charm doesn’t work on hard-core biker chicks.” Cade folded his arms behind his head, forcing Bandit and T-Rex to move toward the side doors. “Too much life experience too young makes ’em sharp and savvy, not innocent, the way I like ’em. Plus they’re hard to control, hard to manage, and—”
“You mean they see through your bullshit.” Zane laughed and glanced over at Jagger. “She had balls, though, and one helluva kick.”
Jagger stared straight ahead. Zane was entirely too perceptive. Although Jagger never discussed his PTSD, Zane, who knew him best, had been quick to pick up on his triggers. He was the one who’d insisted they ride with the windows down, and when it came time to drive, he’d tossed Jagger his keys.
“What’s on for tomorrow?” He pointedly ignored Zane’s not-so-subtle attempt to feel him out about Arianne, because Zane clearly knew what he thought already, and the fact that he’d picked up on Jagger’s interest in the fiery brunette irked him even more than Bandit’s disrespect.
“Devil Dogs MC are good to meet tomorrow,” Cade said. “They’re so desperate for a patch-over, I think they’d lick our boots if we asked. I’ve already placed the order for new cuts with our patches on them. They’ve passed all the tests. If you approve, I think they’d be a welcome addition to the club.”
He’d been thinking the same thing. While the truce with the Black Jacks had held and they weren’t losing brothers left, right, and center, Jagger had been reluctant to bring smaller biker clubs into the fold because the resources required to keep them in line and protect them were substantial. But now that the feud was back on, the Sinner’s Tribe would need to aggressively expand to keep their numbers up and protect their territory. And if his ultimate goal was to maintain their status as the dominant club in the state, he would need to patch in new clubs.
Cade leaned over the seat. “You want them to come to the new clubhouse?”
“We still don’t have full security in place,” Jagger said. “And I want to meet them on neutral ground.” His pulse kicked up a notch, and then the words spilled out before he could catch them. “There’s a bar on the West Side, just off the 191. We’ll meet them there. It’s called Banks Bar.”
*