Sons of Anarchy: Bratva (7 page)

“Don’t take stupid risks for Maureen Ashby’s little bitch.”

Jax shook his head. “I’ll see you in a few days, Mom.”

Gemma walked off, her heels clicking on the driveway as she approached the front door. Tara would not be happy to see her, but Jax couldn’t run interference any longer. They had to get on the road. He kicked the Harley to life and felt immediately at ease. On the back of that bike, engine snarling, road unfurling beneath him … that was where he belonged.

Jax rode out of the driveway with Opie and Chibs in his wake.

Just one stop to make before they headed to Nevada.

*   *   *

Connor Malone had never liked his office. It was the place where he was most vulnerable. At his desk, he felt that at any minute law enforcement might break down the door and arrest him. He never answered the phone without his skin prickling with paranoia that his conversations were being overheard.

Instead, he took most meetings in pubs and diners, at dog parks and boxing clubs … even in a run-down barn on an Indian reservation. He’d read somewhere that a man who courted trouble couldn’t be surprised when it followed him home.

Ah, wee Connor … ye’re nervous by nature,
his ma had always told him.

And yet somehow, as nervous as he was, Connor had worked his way up in the Irish Republican Army to become right-hand man to Gaalan O’Shay, who ran the RIRA’s operations on the west coast of the United States. Should have made him nervous as hell, but it was never the work itself that unsettled Connor—it was the knowledge of how quickly it could all go tits up, landing him in prison or with a bullet in his back.

Lately he’d been more anxious than ever. The illegal gun trade was enough risk, but now their arrangements with the Sons of Anarchy involved the Galindo cartel, which meant drugs. American culture’s love of guns was romantic, which meant many citizens would rather look the other way than worry about illegal guns. But Americans’ love for drugs was more like carnal lust, and they were ashamed of their addictions and more eager to point a finger.

The word had come from Belfast—the deal had gone through. Gaalan didn’t trust Jax Teller, thought of him as volatile—unpredictable—as much for his temper as for the streak of righteousness that went through the younger man. Connor liked Jax well enough, but Clay Morrow had always been easier to read. Clay’s motivations were clearer, not muddied up by doubt or moral hesitation.

Jax Teller had called an hour earlier, and Connor suggested they meet in a booth at the White Horse Diner, a spot just off the highway in Morada, not far from Charming. Connor liked the place because they served breakfast twenty-four hours a day and because the tired truckers and exhausted parents and manic children never gave him a second look, no matter whom he might be meeting.

He shoveled forkfuls of southwestern omelet into his mouth and kept glancing at the door. He’d chosen a booth at the back out of reflex, though he’d have preferred to sit by the window. He didn’t expect the Sons of Anarchy to come riding up to the plateglass window at the front of a diner and open fire—they might be lunatics, but they weren’t stupid—still, caution was a good habit. The sort of thing that kept a nervous Irishman alive.

He took a bite of toast, a sip of tea, and then glanced up to see Jax and Chibs moving toward him through the diner. Connor frowned at their attire—strange to see them without their cuts—but the absence of the familiar SAMCRO vests served to make them less conspicuous, which pleased him.

“Connor,” Jax said as he slipped into the booth, “thanks for coming out.”

“It sounded important,” Connor replied.

Chibs glanced around, eyes seeking trouble, then slid into the booth beside Jax. “Hello, Con.”

“Filip,” Connor replied with a nod.

Chibs glanced at the meal on the table with an expression that was not quite a smile—more like a memory surfacing. “Breakfast three meals a day.”

“My doctor advises against it,” Connor replied. “We’re not as young as we used to be. But I spoil myself now and again. You gonna order something?”

Connor asked as he put a forkful of omelet into his mouth.

“Tempting as it looks, I just have a question for you,” Jax replied.

“One question? You couldn’t have asked over the phone?”

Chibs shot him a withering glance. “No.”

Connor understood. Jax wanted to look him in the eye while asking. It troubled Connor to think they viewed him as someone so easy to read. Maybe it was true—maybe he was a bad liar. He promised himself he’d work on that.

“So ask,” Connor said.

Jax rested his hands on the cracked linoleum tabletop. “Where do things stand between your bosses and the Russians?”

Connor could hear his mother’s voice in his head again, reminding him what a nervous child he’d been.

“I’m not sure what you’re askin’.”

“Bullshit,” Chibs muttered, brows knitted in consternation. “Don’t piss about, Con. We haven’t the time.”

Intense as they were, unpredictable as ever, these guys wouldn’t do anything to upset their arrangement with the RIRA. Connor knew that, just as he knew they wouldn’t risk violence in the middle of a diner when there were small children just two tables away.

He knew that, but he didn’t
know
it.

One of these days, that uncertainty—the fury simmering inside Jax Teller—was going to get a lot of people killed. Connor didn’t plan to be one of them.

“As far as I know,” he said, “there are no ties between us and them. Not now.”

Jax leaned over the table, brows rising, blue eyes fiercely intent. “A bunch of Russians forced me and Opie off the road, tried to kill us in broad daylight. A second group showed up and drove ’em off. They’re killing each other, Connor, and they’re doing it on American streets with illegal guns. This conflict is gonna be bad for business, ours and yours. So maybe rethink your answer. I know the Russians sent a delegation to Belfast a while ago. I wanna know if anything came of it. I’ve got two factions shooting at each other and at members of my club. I wanna know which side the Irish are on.”

Connor took a deep breath. On his plate, the remnants of his omelet were beginning to get cold, but he’d lost his appetite.

“If this comes up later,” he said, “you and I never had this conversation.”

Jax nodded. “Agreed.”

Chibs gave a small nod as well, prompting Connor to forge ahead.

“Bratva went to Belfast lookin’ for a deal. You’ve got that right,” Connor said. “From what I hear, they were on the verge of something that might’ve proved inconvenient for you lads, but when word reached Roarke that the Bratva had splintered, that ended it. Belfast won’t get involved with the Bratva until the power struggle’s over and the dust has settled.”

Jax narrowed his eyes unhappily. He glanced at Chibs and then cocked his head as he looked back at Connor.

“Thanks for that. All I wanted to know,” he said. “Shit was happening back then, kind of chaotic, so I understand Roarke and the others considering alternatives. But the arrangement between Belfast and SAMCRO is solid now. If the Russians come back to try again once their situation stabilizes, that door is closed.”

Connor scratched the stubble on his chin. “You askin’ me or tellin’ me?”

“I’m saying our arrangement is clear,” Jax replied. “If the subject comes up, you make sure you let Roarke and the others know.”

“I can’t do that, Jax.”

Chibs had his fists on the table. They tightened as if he wanted very much to use them. “Why not?”

Connor dropped his fork onto his plate and sat back. “I already told you, Filip … as far as anyone else knows, this conversation never happened.”

He turned to signal the waitress for a coffee refill. When he looked back, Jax and Chibs were leaving. They didn’t bother to say good-bye, and Connor was just happy to see them go. He picked up a half-eaten slice of toast and took a bite, erasing the past few minutes from his mind.

6

Moccasin Road
ran east to west across the northern edge of Greater Las Vegas, mostly through gray-brown scrubland with more cactuses than houses. At its western end, the hills of Red Rock Canyon rose upward, changing the view from isolated alien landscape to something approaching true beauty. Jackrabbit Ridge was the sort of lost and lonely road that Hollywood had taught Trinity to expect to find all over Nevada, dusty and lined with prickly brush. When she’d first come to Nevada she had been disappointed to find it much more civilized than she had anticipated, but in recent weeks she’d learned just how much of the state remained wild and inhospitable. Las Vegas might be close enough to show its garish lights at night, but out here they might as well have been lost in the desert.

Jackrabbit Ridge had a handful of houses along it, mostly occupied by people who wanted to stay off the grid and away from the prying eyes of the federal government. They drove pickups and American-made SUVs festooned with flags and testimonials to their love of hunting and guns in general. Farther toward the national park there were side streets whose signs had long since been knocked down or stolen, so she did not know their names. There were some homes similar to the ones on the main road—although just thinking of Jackrabbit Ridge as a main road gave it far too much credit—but there were also two startlingly suburban-looking developments of single-family homes. Some of them were occupied, others abandoned or never sold, and more than one had been left half-built when the local economy proved unable to support middle-class dreams on Jackrabbit Ridge.

Trinity glanced out the window. They’d ridden in silence, she in the passenger seat and Oleg behind the wheel. Gavril had gotten in back and spent most of the ride with his head leaning against the window, striking the glass every time they hit a bump or a pothole. The air inside the car felt haunted by the unspoken awareness of the dead man in the trunk. Feliks had been their friend—to Oleg and Gavril he had been close to a brother—and they could smell his blood in the car, slipping up through the air vents somehow or just seeping through the backseat.

Numb, Trinity put a hand on Oleg’s thigh just to tell him he wasn’t alone. He didn’t pull away, and that was good. These men were supposed to be cold. In the past, when she’d implied that Oleg might be allowed to have emotions, that he didn’t have to be the hard-edged thug that Kirill Sokolov and the others wanted him to be, he had pulled away from her. She knew his heart—knew without a shred of doubt that he had a soul and a conscience—but she also knew that the Bratva was his life, his world, and his brotherhood. It was all he knew, and he measured himself by how much his brothers needed him.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

In the backseat, Gavril’s head banged the window. They hadn’t hit a bump or a pothole.

Outside the car, the moon and stars made a ghost land of the desert, and Trinity thought that was only right. It felt to her that they were all ghosts out here, that there was no real difference between the living and the dead.

Pretty soon that might not be far from the truth
.

They hit a bump and something rattled in the trunk. The corpse of their friend wasn’t the only thing back there. They had the guns.

Trinity would have thought the price they’d paid for those guns was too high, except without them they would all have been dead soon enough. Now, with the weapons and ammunition they’d taken from Oscar Temple, they had a chance.

In the distance, she could see what remained of Storyland. Built in the 1980s, it had been a minor amusement park aimed at small children, full of shoddy attractions based on fairy tales and nursery rhymes. Mother Goose and Hansel and Gretel figured prominently, and, from what Trinity had learned, the attractions had included a track for antique cars, spinning teacups, a flying carpet ride, and other rides that would be eclipsed by even the least sophisticated modern theme park … all of this a relatively short drive from downtown Las Vegas.

The headlights picked out the shape of the Wonderland Hotel. Oleg tapped the brake and guided the car around the back of the building. The Wonderland had one tall wing and one short one, which met at the two-story lobby structure. Another section of the hotel stuck out the back in a T shape, which allowed for the rooms along the rear leg of the T to be invisible from the few cars that made their way along Jackrabbit Ridge. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as they pulled up in the midst of the five other vehicles parked there.

The door to one of the abandoned hotel’s rooms opened, and Kirill emerged with a pistol and a bottle of beer. Perhaps forty-five years old, Kirill had skin so leathery that its lines seemed more like scars. He kept his remaining hair buzzed tight to his scalp, and he had icy, blue-white eyes that never smiled, even when he himself might laugh. Louis Drinkwater—who’d told Trinity everything she knew about the area—was a local real estate agent who owed Kirill Sokolov many favors and owed the Bratva tens of thousands of dollars. He’d given them the keys to the Wonderland Hotel. Sokolov didn’t trust Louis, but Trinity did. The real estate man had more than his share of sorrow, but he didn’t strike her as a coward.

Still, they kept watch. Someone would have been on guard in the front, hiding behind darkened windows. Kirill would have known they were coming, but still he had the gun. It was impossible to be too careful.

They should have been more careful with Oscar Temple.

Kirill watched them as they climbed from the car, his brow furrowed. He said something in Russian. Trinity heard Feliks’s name and knew what he was asking.

“In the trunk,” Oleg replied.

Kirill swore and cast his beer aside, striding toward the car as Oleg went around to the back, keys in hand. Trinity refused to look, marching toward the room she and Oleg had been sharing. She halted before she reached it and forced herself to turn and watch as they opened the car trunk and Kirill clapped his hands to the sides of his skull.

Grieving for his brother.

No one brought up the fact that they’d managed to get the guns. It was important—it might give them the edge they needed to survive, maybe even win—but Kirill Sokolov didn’t care about guns just then. He leaned against the car, lay his head back, and stared at the stars.