“Riggs went up to see them, that guy Boots met with him and for a hot minute we thought he struck a deal with them but then all this happened and Boots never reached out which leads Jack to believe he was never going to take the offer to begin with,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “So that’s still a live wire we have to kill.”
Boots wouldn’t take a deal. I offered him a sweet one. If he agreed to something with Riggs it was only because the prick knew he made a mistake using Lacey as a pawn in his game. That motherfucker is trying to back pedal his way out of the shit he put himself in. He probably heard the news about what went down with the Chinese and thinks Jack is too preoccupied to make a move on him, and with me doing a bid that fuck thinks he’s safe.
Wrong.
“Going to ask you one more time and this time you better answer me. What are you doing here?”
“Got a message for you,” he revealed.
“Yeah, I bet you do. Give it to me,” I ordered, watching as he walked towards the bar and checked to see if the coast was clear before turning back to me.
“You need to get yourself transferred to Otisville. As long as that kid you fucked up is half dead there isn’t anything Jack can do. Lacey gave her testimony to the cops but that douche bag Brantley squashed it. There’s only one way out but in order for that to happen, you need to be in Otisville with Vic Pastore, that’s where the connections are.”
“The lawyer is coming here tomorrow to meet with me and discuss a deal from the district attorney,” I commented.
“There is no deal, and the lawyer isn’t coming because tomorrow your ass is being carted to Otisville. You trust Jack or what?”
I used to trust the man with my life but I don’t know if he wants me out. I mean put yourself in his shoes. He knows me better than anyone, knows the shit past I have and that at the end of the day no matter how much I try to get help I’ll always be an addict. He knows what I’m capable of, he’s seen me kill for crying out loud. How can he not want me to rot here? Every day I waste away here is a day his daughter lives a life without me. That’s got to be a win for him.
But take the title of father away from Jack, leave him as the president of the Satan’s Knights and my brother…now ask me if I trust him.
Yes.
With everything I am.
He’s got my back.
I looked back at Stryker.
“How does he expect me to get transferred?”
“You’re going to kick my ass,” he seethed. “With the charges you got pending, they’ll move you because they think you’re a fucking liability or a goddamn nut job. Either way when the bus comes you’re going to meet the Don,” he wiggled his eyebrows. “Heard he’s a real winner too,” he exaggerated as he climbed on top the top bunk. “Now, I’m all talked out and tomorrow I’ve got to get my pretty face fucked up by your sorry ass so I’m turning in,” he paused, glancing down at me. “Try not to put me in a coma too.”
“I can’t make any promises,” I muttered.
“Glad we had this talk,” he said, shifting around on the bed. “You got to be a midget to fit in this fucking thing,” he complained.
“Stryker,” I called.
“What?”
“Why us? Why in God’s name did you hang your hat here?”
“I fucking ask myself the same question every day,” he replied, letting out a long yawn. He didn’t elaborate or divulge anything new and I didn’t really expect him to either. He doesn’t have roots, and doesn’t make ties, he’s not going to give me any of his truth. Stryker was just like any other nomad I’ve met…a mystery.
The next morning, they brought us into the yard and I beat the fuck out of Stryker, broke his nose and got my ass shipped to Otisville where the don himself, Victor Pastore was waiting for me.
Chapter Thirty-seven
“Bulldog, we gotta roll,” Pipe called as he walked towards his bike. “The kids alive.”
“Praise Jesus,” Wolf ground out, spitting out his toothpick and clasping his hands together before he rubbed them in anticipation. “You get the kid to drop the fucking charges and then I’ll cover his face with a pillow. Time to make the little shit sorry his father’s sperm ever found the egg.”
I stared at him as I fitted my gloves and straddled my Harley.
“You’re a sick fuck,” I said as I shook my head. “But I’m the one with the fucking crazy pills.”
“I’m not playing Bulldog, I don’t give a fuck if the kid can’t talk, you grab a fucking pad and paper and fucking write his confession. If you’re too much of a pussy, I’ll sign the goddamn thing.”
“You’re pushing, Wolf,” I seethed. “I’m ten seconds away from making you sorry your old man’s swimmers ever set sail.”