Page 50 of Beware of Dog (Lean Dogs Legacy #6)

The parlay with Tres Diablos was scheduled for nine p.m., the back room at Hauser’s, Prince set to serve as arbiter. Mav was riding down from Albany.

Shep took Cass to Raven’s before he went, and Toly left with him when he headed out.

They arrived early, and Topino and Pongo were already in the back room, sipping drinks with Kat and waiting for them with intel.

Shep sat down at the big round table across from Kat and immediately wished he’d swung by the bar for a drink. He glanced at Kat’s vodka rocks with a sigh.

Kat jerked his chin toward the far side of the room. “There’s a bar cart over there so we don’t have to deal with waitresses coming in and out.”

Shep gathered himself to rise, but Toly laid a hand on his shoulder and headed that way. Shep blinked after him, surprised. Then shook his head and turned to Kat. “Tres Diablos.”

“Very new on the scene,” Kat said. “The cartels pushed them out of Mexico, but now they’re running fentanyl through them. They’re low-level street dealers who do hits for hire, kidnappings, and ransoms. Any nasty thing someone wants done, they’ll do it for a price.

“These two”—he turned his phone around and slid it within sight, screen highlighting two mugshots—“just got picked up for pushing a woman in front of a moving car while they were trying to rob her. She didn’t make it.”

“Fuckers,” Shep swore, and his pulse gave another of those drumbeat kicks that had plagued him all day.

Toly returned and took the chair to his left. He carried a vodka rocks for himself, and set two fingers of whiskey neat in front of Shep. He nodded his thanks and threw it back in one throat-burning go.

“They’re operating out of a garage in Hells Kitchen,” Topino said.

He had pics on his phone that he showed them.

It was pretty standard: flat-front facade with roll-top doors, narrow lot, high chain link fence topped with barbed wire.

Young guys loitered on the sidewalk in the photos, shooting hooded glances across the street from beneath the brims of Yankees caps.

“They’re actively recruiting. Some of the kids they’re using as dealers are still in high school.

In fact, that’s how they’re pushing most of their product. ”

“And let met guess,” Shep said, grimly, thinking of Sig Blackmon harassing Ned. “The college kids are getting cheaper and harder stuff from them than they’d get from us.”

“They’re selling a lot of ketamine,” Topino said with a nod. “And fentanyl.”

“That’s how Blackmon found them, then,” Toly said. “Through his kid.”

Kat nodded. “That’d be my guess.”

“Here’s what I wanna know,” Pongo said, fishing an ice cube out of his drink with his fingers and popping it into his mouth. He crunched it while he talked. “Is the kid running the show? Like, was he the one who wanted to spook the girl, or is the dad in charge?”

“Does it matter?” Toly asked.

Shep started to say no , but then he caught Pongo’s expression, unusually thoughtful, and hitched up straighter in his chair. “Wait. It might.”

Toly paused, glass halfway to his mouth. “Isn’t the mother the one with all the money?”

“Yeah. It’s a sugar mama situation.” Shep smirked. “Kinda like what you’ve got going on.”

“Fuck off,” Toly said, absently, attention focused across the table. “She’s some high society bitch. Raven’s seen her at events.”

Topino nodded. “Which means she probably wouldn’t want all those high society shitheads knowing her son and husband hired a street gang to do their dirty work.”

Pongo grinned. “Should we have a chat with her?”

“Uh, yeah ,” Shep said.

“Raven could do it,” Toly said. “Woman to woman. Help her see the importance of it.”

“You just gonna throw your old lady unto the breach like that?” Shep asked.

“Do you really think some heiress is going to listen to any of us?” He gestured around the table with his drink.

“She will if she’s scared enough,” Shep argued. “No more convincing: it’s time to scare the shit out of these people.”

“Says the guy who’s overly emotionally involved,” Kat drawled, and shrugged when Shep glared at him.

The double doors clicked open quietly behind them, and Shep twisted around in his seat.

Prince had arrived, flanked by two of his men, as sharply-dressed as ever.

His suit was midnight blue tonight. The shirt was the same color, and his tie patterned in soft swirls of indigo and burgundy.

Heavy, gemmed rings glinted on all of his fingers as he lifted a hand in greeting to Kat and then made his way toward the oval-shaped table at the center of the room, the one beneath the Tiffany pendants.

Shep had no beef with the man, but he was just so… fashionable .

He got up to get a refill and Kat joined him at the bar cart a moment later. “Does your uncle know what to say? He up to speed?”

“Yeah.” Kat was mixing two drinks. One, Shep guessed, was for Prince. “Topino came by and briefed him in person, and he’s been on the phone with Mav.”

Did Topino, Shep wondered, stress the urgency of the situation?

On a club front: yes. He knew that. The Little Mouse was as solid and loyal as they came, and a stickler for details.

But Topino wasn’t currently pouring another double because he couldn’t stop picturing the Tres Diablos crew turning their sights toward Cass for a fat wad of yuppie cash.

Kat edged in closer, and his voice took on a rare earnest note. “Listen. Prince is very good at this. He knows the Dogs well at this point, and he’s a persuasive bastard.” He clapped Shep on the shoulder. “It’ll go fine.”

That was twice now that someone had touched him in support tonight, and Shep had no idea what to make of it.

The doors opened again while he was headed back to the table, and in walked Maverick.

He had the distinctly greasy, windblown look of a man who’d spent hours on his bike, hair helmet-flat and bridge of his nose marked from his sunglasses. He looked relaxed, though, as easy as he ever was. When he spotted Shep, he smiled, close-mouthed and friendly, and headed toward him.

Shep let out a big breath he didn’t remember taking, shifted his drink to his other hand, and accepted Mav’s warm, one-armed hug.

“Hey, man,” Mav said, close, right in his ear, and Shep exhaled again, some of the tension in his lungs loosening.

Mav wasn’t the hardnosed asshole that Ghost Teague was, didn’t strike fear in anyone’s hearts on a personal scale.

Shep had always thought the most “maverick” thing about him was his persistently kind and patient nature, a father figure for all of New York’s badly in-need outlaws.

Hugging him always made Shep feel decades younger.

Sometimes he chafed under the effect, but tonight he welcomed it, and walked back to his chair with a lighter step.

Mav greeted the others, then went to sit at the big table with Prince, off to his left, so he had a clear view of the doors. The two leaned together, talking too quietly to hear.

“Okay,” Toly said, when it got close to meeting time, when tension was strung through the room like Christmas lights. “Whatever happens, don’t say anything.”

Belatedly, Shep realized Toly was addressing him .

“Who, me?”

“Yeah.” Toly’s expression was serious. “Tenny said that, earlier, you got a little—”

“A little what?” Shep snapped. “Sick of his shit? He could drive the pope to drink.”

“You gotta be cool, man,” Topino said. “Maybe they don’t know you and Cass are together. The more private we keep things, the better.”

Even Pongo nodded.

Shep glanced around the table. Tapped his officer patch. “You’re all giving me orders? Really?”

“Right now? Yes,” Toly said.

The door clicked.

“Here they come.”

Reese entered first. He and Tenny had been sitting watch outside in the main bar, ready to intercept and pat down the Tres Diablos when they arrived.

Three men walked behind him: Hispanic, dressed in jeans, and clean sneakers, and hoodies.

The one in the lead was spare and sharp-faced, with a sprinkling of gray in his swept-back black hair and his tidy beard.

Clearly the leader. The other two had ham-sized hands and thick, tattooed necks: the muscle.

Tenny followed them in, and shut the doors. Leaned back against them, hands tucked at the small of his back, expression unreadable. Shep had no doubt he had a grip on a knife or a gun out of sight.

How easy it would be, Shep thought, longingly, to kill these assholes right here and now. With Prince’s crew, and the Dogs, and two of those Dogs being Reese and Tenny, they could easily overpower them, slit their throats, bundle their bodies into a van out back and be done with them.

But then the logic kicked in: if these three disappeared, then their crew would know who was responsible. Cue the gang war.

He sipped his second drink, and watched Kat get up to make introductions.

~*~

Prince and Mav stayed seated, a power flex: we’re too important to stand and shake your hand; you come to us . Prince even leaned back in his chair and lifted his drink to his mouth, gold rings flashing in the rosy, Old World lighting of the lamps.

“Hector Ruiz,” Kat said, voice going uncharacteristically formal. He always sounded like he’d just woken up from a nap and wasn’t happy about it, but now his voice pushed out sure and strong. “Prince and Maverick. Guys, this is Hector, head of the Tres Diablos.”

Mav’s mouth quirked in a smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Prince looked the man up and down, and a muscle ticked in one cheek. It wasn’t a smile, but conveyed amusement. “Hello. Please.” He gestured with a glass. “Have a seat. You want something to drink?”

Ruiz hesitated a long moment, expression set in tense, unhappy lines, before finally pulling out the chair across from Maverick and settling into it. “Scotch,” he said, like a challenge, chin lifted.

Prince nodded and turned to Kat. “Get the man a scotch.”