Page 15 of Finn

We met at his place, not the clubhouse. Too many ears at The Old Moose, and this conversation needed to stay between us.

Pops lived in a old ranch house about ten miles outside town, surrounded by nothing but scrubland and sky. He'd been there since before I was born, since before my father started the club. The man was as much a part of the New Mexico landscape as the mountains themselves.

He was waiting on the porch when I pulled up, a cup of coffee in his gnarled hands, his charcoal eyes sharp as ever despite the wrinkles that mapped his face.

"Finn." He nodded as I climbed the porch steps. "Sounded urgent on the phone."

"It is." I sat in the chair across from him, declining the coffee he offered. My stomach was too knotted for caffeine. "Got word from an inside source. The task force is requesting files on us. Building a case."

Pops's expression didn't change. He'd been through this before—hell, he'd been through worse. Back in '78, when he and my father had outrun Operation Steamboat. Back when the Guardians were just a handful of riders with a dream and a death wish.

"Inside source," he repeated slowly. "This source got a name?"

"Not one I'm sharing."

His eyes narrowed. "Can you trust 'em?"

I met his gaze and held it. "With my life."

Something flickered across Pops's face. Recognition, maybe. Understanding. He'd loved once too, back when he was young and stupid. He'd told me about it once, late one night when thewhiskey was flowing—a girl from Albuquerque who'd wanted him to leave the life. He hadn't. She'd left instead.

He didn't push.

"All right." He set his coffee down on the porch railing. "What do you need?"

"Time. My source is stalling the request, but it won't hold forever. We need to make sure there's nothing to find when they come looking."

"The guns are still in Santa Fe?"

"Every last one. Books are clean—Tony and Hoagie made sure of that. As far as anyone can tell, we're just a bunch of guys who like motorcycles and run a legitimate auto shop."

Pops nodded slowly. "Good. We keep it that way. No runs for the next few weeks. No meetings at the clubhouse. Scatter, lay low, don't give 'em anything to look at."

"Agreed."

He was quiet for a long moment, staring out at the desert. The wind kicked up a little swirl of dust in the yard.

"I been hearing things about the Cobras," he said finally. "That new crew out of Roswell. Purple and black colors."

I frowned. "What kind of things?"

"Sloppy things. Dealing too close to the schools. Getting loud at the wrong bars. Word is they hit a liquor store last week and left a witness." He shook his head. "Amateurs. No discipline. No respect for the game."

"You think the task force knows about them?"

"If they don't, they will soon." Pops turned to look at me, and there was something calculating in his expression. "Task force needs a win, Finn. They need to justify their budget, show results. If the Cobras keep being stupid..."

I understood. "They become the bigger target."

"Exactly. We stay quiet, stay clean, let those idiots draw all the heat. By the time the task force is done with them, they'llhave moved on to the next shiny object. And we'll still be here, same as always."

It was smart. It was patient. It was everything my gut was screaming against—I wanted to hit back, to show them they couldn't come after my family without consequences. But Pops had taught me better than that.

Cool heads prevail.That's what he'd told me after my father died, when I'd been ready to burn the whole world down. He'd been right then. He was right now.

"I'll spread the word," I said. "Radio silence. Nothing that can tie back to us."

"Good." Pops picked up his coffee again, took a long sip. "Your source—they know the risks?"