Honor Unraveled (10 page)

Amir sat in one of two rustic chairs carved from bleached aspen logs. Pete took the other. A handful of other guys were clustered around them, some sitting on white plastic chairs, others sitting on the hard ground. Max leaned against the side of one of the buildings. They were in a breezeway between the clubhouse and a storage building, an unkempt courtyard for such an auspicious meeting.

Amir wore his flowing
shalwar kameez
. His hair was cut short, topped with a white
kufi
. The crisp white cotton he wore made him look cool in the blistering heat of the Wyoming afternoon. The building Max leaned against was tall and provided the only shade around for several hundred yards, giving the gathering a little relief from the heat.
 

This impromptu powwow was comprised solely of members from the western branch of the WKB. No hang-arounds. No prospects. No females. And no outsiders—except for Amir and his staff. None of the Easterners had yet arrived. Max wore his sunglasses and had his earpiece in so the conversation could be fed back to the team.

One of Amir’s servants brought over a stunningly engraved brass tray that rested on its own folding legs. Another brought over a tea service with two cups, a bowl of raisins, and another of nuts. The scent of the hot and sweet chai drifted on the breeze as one of the servants filled the cups. Max had considered giving Pete a quick etiquette lesson on taking tea with an Afghan, then dismissed that idea. His cover placed him up in Alaska when he wasn’t with the WKB, not in Afghanistan, where he would have learned the ceremonial observances useful to soldiers working with village elders.

And, really, it didn’t matter. Amir was putting on a show. Establishing himself as important and different and powerful with his fawning servants, elegant tea service, and elaborately choreographed event. No doubt he expected to be put off by Pete’s manners, but he’d never show it, and wouldn’t that be one more excuse for his smug superiority.

Pete hadn’t bathed for this shindig. Strike one. He wore the same clothes he’d been wearing for the last few days. Strike two. Dusty jeans. Black leather boots that were so worn and gritty, they looked brown. A grimy T-shirt. His cuts. A red bandanna was tied around his forehead, conveniently soaking up his sweat—as it had done since the last one wore out. A chain ran from a belt loop to the wallet in his back pocket. Unlike many of the men, his arms were marked with only a few tattoos, one of them being the logo for the WKBers—the triskelion and skull.
 

Amir’s servants returned with a bowl and pitcher and a crisp white towel. They poured a bit of the water, complete with lemon slices, in the basin in front of Pete, then waited for him to rinse his hands. Pete, of course, had no idea what he was to do.
 

Amir very gently directed him. “Would you care to rinse your hands before we have our tea?”

“Oh. Well, sure.” Pete dipped his hands in the basin and sloshed around. The man holding the pitcher offered him a tea towel. He took it and wiped his hands vigorously, leaving brown smudges everywhere he touched.

Amir smiled kindly. When the water was presented to him, he murmured a low apology in Pashto to the servant, then made sure to hold his hands out to capture the fresh water as it poured over him. He daintily dried his fingertips on the towel.

Max looked at the men who were gathered around them. They were unusually silent, clearly enthralled by the important event that was happening right then, right there, in their own little corner of Wyoming. They were hosting an international dignitary. The WKB was moving up in the world.

Except, Amir was a criminal who represented an Afghan drug lord. This whole skit was nothing more than a comedy of thieves and murderers, all on their best behavior for this weird interlude.

Amir waited for a minute for Pete to take the first sip of his tea. But Pete was waiting for Amir to lead the way. Finally, Amir lifted his teacup and motioned for Pete to do the same. Pete took a big sip, then coughed.
 

“Shit, that’s hot.”

Amir gave him a gentle smile.

“So, Amir, let’s get right to business….” Pete jumped in with both feet.

Amir held up a hand. “We have no need to hurry. Let us enjoy our tea first.”

“Right. We’ll do the tea first.”

“Tell me about your family, Pete.”

Pete frowned. His eyes narrowed. “Why do you want to know?”

“I was making polite conversation.”

“I don’t have any family. I don’t have parents. My mom dropped me off the back of a Harley and the club picked me up and raised me. My only brother was killed three years ago by a gang in Denver.” He waved a hand over to the men who sat around them. “These guys here are my family.”

“Such a tragic story. I can see why your tribe is most important to you.”

“We’re not a tribe. We’re a club. A motorcycle club,” Pete clarified.

“We’re fucking one-percenters. We’re one-percenters of the one-percenters,” one of the guys added helpfully, gesturing with his cigarette. Max thought he was the guy they called “Hatchet.” A big, belligerent buffalo of a man—more skull bone than brain.

Amir didn’t respond to that comment. As far as he was concerned, the audience that had gathered were silent observers and so invisible. All of his attention was focused on Pete, who was blowing on his cup of tea with lungs like billows.

When the first cup of tea had been consumed, and second cups poured, Pete couldn’t be constrained any longer. “We’ve had our tea, Amir. Now, let’s get to business.”

Amir set his tea down and gave Pete his full focus.
 

“Why are you taking your business to our brothers in the East? We were the first to deal with you. We are successfully moving your dope.”

“Your friends in the East have given me reason to believe that they have access to resources you don’t. You both have your own networks, which are unique to each of your organizations. Both are useful to me.”

Pete couldn’t refute that. “We have an exclusive arrangement with you. When you work with another organization, you jack our agreement.”

“We did not agree on an exclusive relationship. Doing so would be detrimental to my business.” He looked at the men around them. “It will be good that your eastern brothers are coming to vote on your new leader.”

Max kept the smile from his face. Goddamn, it was awesome watching a skilled manipulator fuck with someone’s mind. Pete didn’t want to be voted out. He didn’t want to appear weak to his men. And he wanted Amir’s dope trade kept within the western region of the WKB. Wanted it badly enough that he was blinded to the strings Amir, the master puppeteer, was tying to his hands and mouth. Pete’s face and neck were flushing. His red headband couldn’t soak up the shine on his balding head or florid cheeks. Amir, in his cool white cotton, wasn’t even breaking a sweat.
 

Max hoped the guys in the bunker were enjoying the show.

“Moving heroin and opium is not a trade for the weak.” Pete started to protest, but Amir stopped him. The louder Pete got, the quieter Amir’s voice became. “I am merely stating a fact. Not unlike crafting a highly tuned race car or developing a fine wine, the drug trade takes a supremely well-honed machine. I would like to think your organization might become that machine. However, it is in my best interests to have backup plans and alternate courses of action. Your eastern brothers are as anxious as you are for my business. I understand that you’ve recently lost out other deals to the East.”

Pete gritted his teeth and looked at his men. “They’ve been working outside the terms of our club constitution.”

Amir nodded. “A shame. It renders such an important document useless. I don’t know why transgressions like those are permitted. You therefore see why I’ve begun my own discussions with them. I need to work with only the fittest organization. If you cannot suppress the illegal activities of your peers, I doubt you will be a fit for my business. Only one region can be the strongest, no? I hope it will be yours.” He smiled as he laid that on Pete, then took up his tea and watched his venomous words take effect on the would-be leader.

Max had to look away, it was too painful to see Pete turn himself inside out. Pete nodded at Axle, the club secretary, who tossed a worn leather vest with WKB rockers on it toward him. Max intercepted it. “What are you doin’ with this, Pete?” he asked.

Pete stood up, recognizing the challenge for what it was. “The officers voted on it.” Pete looked at the guys gathered around them. “We agreed that we needed to recognize Amir’s contribution to our club. He’s taken us international. He’s one of us, now.” Pete came over and snatched the vest from Max, then leaned close and snarled, “You ever waylay me like that again, you’ll be grinning from a permanent smile in your throat.”

Max bared his teeth. “I’d be more worried about that if you weren’t about to be voted out of office. He hasn’t contributed shit to the club. He’s pitting you against the East. How’s that helping?”

“The officers decided. It’s done. You don’t like it, you can pick a chapter east of the Mississippi to affiliate yourself with.”

Max stepped back. Crossing his arms, he braced a boot against the side of the building behind him, settling back to watch shit hit the fan.

“Amir, my men and I have decided to present you with our club colors. When you’re with us, wear this so no one can mistake you’re one of us.”

Hatchet jumped up. “What’re you doin’, Pete? He hasn’t earned those. I can’t believe you approved this.”

Amir came to his feet. He looked at Pete. “Are your men usually so unruly?”

“Forget it. They’ll get with the program. Here,” Pete handed the vest to Amir. “Wear this with pride.” He sent a warning look around the group. “We do.”

The hang-arounds and prospects were thick outside the clubhouse. The tweakers were buzzing, like someone had upped their dose. Pete hadn’t wasted time calling a meeting after tea with Amir. His little gift had garnered a more negative reaction than he’d expected. It needed to get settled before the Easterners arrived. Several of the clubs west of the Mississippi had checked in with updates on the eastern run. Most of them were holed up in St. Louis, waiting for others to arrive before starting the ride west.

Fans were set in the windows, moving air through the sweltering clubhouse. As before, the thirty men gathered were all full patch members—no women, hang-arounds, or prospects allowed. And no members from any of the Eastern chapters were allowed either. They smelled like they’d bathed in
eau de
sweat; Max’s own stink was equal to theirs. He moved to an upwind position in the group, letting the fans blow against his back.
 

He pushed his sunglasses up on his forehead, in front of his bandanna, leaving them facing forward so the team could record the visuals of the meeting. He had his earpiece in, a special deal that fit deep in his ear and was hard to see behind his shaggy hair. It allowed only outgoing transmissions, but the team would hear everything he heard.
 

As expected, they confiscated phones as members arrived. The one he carried was configured for his false identity, with numbers that Mad Dog would have for his life in Alaska, all of which routed directly into Greer. If someone broke his password and got into his phone, nothing would appear suspicious to a snooping crackhead or tweaker.

Once a few more guys came in, low, rumbling conversations started up, one feeding another. The general mood was pissed. Infinitely. Not a good thing for the club—or the town. He didn’t give a fuck if the gangbangers killed themselves fighting the East for Amir’s dope. It did matter, however, if that violence spilled out to the civilians in the town that hosted them.

“Pete, we’re gonna kiss your ass good-bye when this vote comes up,” Hatchet spoke up, snagging everyone’s attention. “You had no business giving those patches to Amir.”

Pete laughed. “You’re one of my best enforcers, Hatchet, but I sure don’t keep you around for your smarts. Those are our patches. They claim him as a member of the Medicine Bow chapter. They claim him as
ours
. When our Eastern brothers see him identifying with us, they’ll know we cut ’em off at the knees. It’s called strategy, boy.”

“Shit. I don’t care about the East,” another strident voice broke across the others. “As far as I’m concerned, they lost their membership in the White Kingdom Brotherhood when they challenged us. They started this war!”

Aw, fuck. He had to use that word. Max looked at Pete, waiting for the would-be leader to rein things in. He didn’t. If anything, he was fanning the flames. The bastard wanted war.

“What do we get by going to war?” Max asked.

Hatchet narrowed his eyes and lobbied an insult across the group. “You a coward, Denver? Too scared to stand up for your brothers?”

Max wasn’t sure if Hatchet had been born without a brain, or if the heroin he shot had stolen it. Either way, his drug of choice had the opposite effect on him than on other addicts; it made him belligerent and witless.
 

Max smiled. “Come closer and say that,” he answered in a soft voice.

“Enough,” Pete interceded. “You guys want to fight. I do, too. We’ve been wronged. We don’t let wrongs go unaddressed. The club stands to gain millions from our work with Amir for our widows and orphans fund. We gotta protect that.”