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10

BLOOD

An hour later, my phone buzzes with a text from Juan telling me Hector’s location in Rosarito. This new information puts me in a better mood, so if it all pans out, maybe I’ll give the guy a break and lower his debt. I contact Smoke with the location, and he agrees with my “no time like the present” approach.

When I head for my bike in the lot, loud voices draw my attention to the side exit of the gym where Carmella and Francesca are in a shoving match.

Fuck. The last thing I need is them getting injured and not able to fight because of bullshit drama.

I easily get between them. “C’mon, save all this for the cage.” I pull them apart, but they are still swinging and yelling at each other in Spanish.

Maxine exits the gym. “Need a little help?”

“Only if you can understand what the fuck they’re saying.”

Maxine unleashes rapid-fire Spanish, and both women settle down. Then Carmella says something to Maxine, who then tuns to me.

“Believe it or not, all this is over the size of their lockers. Carmella says Francesca has a bigger locker than her.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Take them in the locker room and figure this out. Give her another locker, anything to keep the bullshit down.”

Maxine relays my message, Carmella and Francesca have another short exchange, then head into the locker room.

Maxine cocks her hip. “You really ought to learn the language.”

“I’m not from here.”

Maxine rotates her eyes dramatically. “Looks to me like you are now.”

“Very funny.” I point to the door. “Straighten this shit out before they kill each other.”

“You’re welcome,” she snipes.

I turn to my bike, muttering, “Wiseass.”

“I heard that,” Maxine calls after me.

I keep my eyes focused on my Harley. Much easier than zooming in on her narrow waist or how her midriff top shows off her toned six-pack.

She’s not the only one who can play games.

* * *

An hour later, Smoke and I are heading down a dusty, dead-end road, ending at a long, gravel driveway.

“Whaddya think?” We stop our bikes and survey the property consisting of a barn, a sprawling Spanish-style ranch house, complete with a tile roof, lush palm trees, and an intricately carved stone fountain out front. In the distance, way behind the house, stands a one-story building with separate units resembling an old-school run-down motel. Probably where the workers live.

Over the last year, I’d observed the blatant caste system in Tijuana. The wealthy enjoy every convenience and luxury, while the poor barely scrape by with castoffs and substandard living conditions. Like Javi’s family.

Smoke nods toward the armed guards outside the barn doors. “Looks like overkill to me.”

“We got a plan?” Our visit was unscheduled on purpose, but now I’m beginning to wonder if the element of surprise was a good idea.

Smoke smirks. “Don’t get our dicks shot off.”

“So, no plan.” No different than the way we handled other shit. Jumping in headfirst, taking our enemies off-guard and hoping for the best usually works, but we both know Hector isn’t the usual.

“We don’t need a plan.” Typical Smoke, balls out all the time. “‘Cause we’re just paying a friendly visit.”

Great. Only the semi-automatics these guys are toting kinda puts the edge on being neighborly.

We drop our kickstands, and the guards are already making their way down the driveway.

Smoke throws up his palms. “We don’t want any trouble.”

True, but Smoke and I are both strapped with .45 in our waistbands and ankle holsters under our jeans. Always pays to be prepared. Hope for the best, plan for the worst.

“This is private property,” the taller of the two says as they move closer.

“Is Hector here?” Smoke asks.

“Who wants to know?”

Smoke points to the Royal Bastards’ patch on his cut. “Just wanted to have a few words.”

The two guards exchange a look, like Smoke’s request isn’t in their orders for the day. The taller one says something to the other one in Spanish, and he runs off toward the ranch.

“Don’t move,” the remaining guard orders as he levels his AR-15. Have to hand it to the cartel. They have the best fuckin’ weapons. Main reason the Bastards shipped all their artillery up from Mexico. Top of the line all the way.

“Like I said, we don’t want no trouble.” Smoke keeps his hands at his side. “Just wanna talk.”

The guard keeps the semi leveled in our direction. Then the three of us do the alpha male staring thing until the other guy reappears, says something else in Spanish, then waves his rifle in the direction of the ranch.

“Pedro will take you in.”

We follow Pedro down the rest of the driveway, past the barn and into the ranch house. The inside looks like something out of an old western when the cowboys headed south of the border. Terracotta flooring throughout, stone walls, rough rafter ceiling and lots of bright colors. Pedro disappears into another room while we wait in the foyer.

“Nice place.” Either Hector bought it like this, or he’d been setting up shop longer than we knew.

The capos raked in the cash with exporting drugs, along with human trafficking and sex trade. Most were women and children abducted off the streets or drugged in nightclubs, never to be seen again.

“A little too nice.” I can tell by Smoke’s expression he’s thinking the same thing.

The sound of leather soles against the tile floor grows closer as Hector Rodriquez appears from somewhere in the back of the house. I’d seen pictures of him, but his notorious rep didn’t mesh with the short, stocky, slightly graying man standing in front of me.

“Welcome to my home, gentlemen.” Hector spreads his arms wide like he is welcoming long-lost friends. Then he extends his hand, waving us into a living area where bold tapestry decorates the walls, with matching area rugs and heavy wooden furniture intricately carved and polished.

“Sit, sit.” He motions to the couch, then speaks to Pedro in Spanish. The man retreats to the back of the room, still toting the gun, eyes glued on us.

Smoke and I exchange a quick glance.

“So, what brings you out here today?” Hector asks.

One thing I’ll never get used to down here is the way the cartel bosses come off all polite and shit while they plan your murder. When we had a sit down with a rival MC club, it was all “Stay the fuck outta our territory, or we’ll cut your balls off.”

And I gotta say, I like that a hell of a lot better. If I’m gonna lose my dick, I want to see it coming or at least be prepared.

“Just wanted to see what you had going on.” Smoke, on the other hand, loves all this bullshit dancing around words. And, fuck me, but he’s good at it.

Hector waves his hand around the room. “As you can see, I have a modest home here. Nothing special.”

“So, I gotta ask, if you’ve got all this in Rosarito, why move to Tijuana?” Smoke tempers his tone, but the question isn’t lost on Hector.

“Ahhhh, Rosarito is becoming an extremely violent city. Very hard for a businessman to make a profit.”

I huff out a breath, which earns a side-eye from Smoke.

“And what business would that be?” Smoke asks, smooth as fuckin’ silk.

“Mostly the entertainment business.”

“Entertainment?”

“Things that give men like us pleasure.” Hector grins. “Beautiful women men are willing to pay for their company.”

“In other words, you’re pimping whores?” The words slip out of my mouth before my brain can stop them.

Smoke clears his throat, then shoots me another side-eye.

Hector’s face flattens. “Such a harsh description for something giving so much enjoyment.” Then the smarmy smile returns. “We’ve also investigated the advantages of female fighters. Seems the profit margin is high, am I right?” Hector’s expressionless dark brown eyes bore into us as he carefully leaves out his extensive drug trade, guns, and abducting women for slave trade.

Smoke holds eye contact. “Real high, and the Royal Bastards intend to keep it that way.”

“Of course, but you have nothing to worry about. What I have planned is on the outskirts of Tijuana and small compared to what you run.”

“Here’s the thing.” Smoke leans in. “I don’t want you planning anything in or around Tijuana. As a matter of fact, nothing would make me happier than if you stayed right here in Rosarito.”

“What I’m looking at borders the city. Nothing for you to worry?—”

“I’m giving you fair warning.” Smoke stands. “Close down this shit before it starts.”

I flank Smoke as tense silence hangs over us. The huge clock over the fireplace ticks off the seconds.

Hector slowly pushes off the couch. “I’m sorry you feel that way. I was hoping we could come to a friendly agreement like gentlemen, or maybe even a partnership. I was also hoping you’d come to a party I’m hosting next weekend to celebrate my move to Tijuana.”

Smoke glares at the man. “First off, none of us are gentlemen or friendly, and there’ll be no fuckin’ partnership or us coming to any bullshit party.”

Hector draws in a deep breath. “An unfortunate decision.” Pedro moves forward, but Hector shakes his head, and the guard retreats. “I know how you settled your differences with my rival Rico Sandoval, but he had many weaknesses—I have none.”

Smoke jerks his head, and I follow him out the front door. We silently walk away from the house, down the driveway, and when we mount our bikes, Smoke turns to me. “Put Bolt on this. I wanna know where this fucker is at all times.”

“You got it.” I throttle my Harley, and we speed out, leaving a cloud of dust in our wake.

When we get on the main road back to Tijuana, I send a voice message to Bolt telling him what Smoke wants with more info to follow. So much for having him follow Maxine. For now, my dick would have to take a back seat to whatever is brewing with Hector Rodriquez.