Charles “Mooky” Retz
Nothing could go right. A simple run. Mooky had gone there for a stupid, no brainer, delivery. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.
Except, the fucking Flores family. Nothing ever went the way it was supposed to when the Columbians were involved. They were toxic as fuck when Bowie had a deal with them and they hadn’t gotten any better. What he wouldn’t give to get his club away from them.
There’d been a time when runs were his favorite part of being an enforcer for the club. The travel was the original perk—getting him out of the house and away from Angela. Add the excitement of the reason for most runs and sold. The only drawback had been missing his kids. Star lost her first tooth while he was away and quite a few of River’s baseball games went unattended. Though, how different was it from a suit-type going on a business trip?
When an outlaw motorcycle club enforcer, the keeper of the club’s reputation, went out on a run alone, well, let’s just say it had the potential to get interesting, and sometimes messy. This run had to do with keeping the relationship with the Flores family and Odin’s Fury on good terms.
While doing business with them had changed, having friends in high—or was it low places—served the club well. Staying friendly meant doing favors.
At least they paid well. Though there were times he didn’t care about the money.
Standing in the backfield of some rich idiot’s many acres of land in South Carolina, so he and his buffoon crew could test out everything Mooky had brought was a waste of his time. He had shit he needed, and actually wanted, to handle at home.
“Ooh-eee!” One of them hooted after firing a few rounds into a target down at the other end of their make-shift gun range.
Mooky inhaled deeply and tucked his hands into the front pocket of his jeans. He’d needed the time away from the tattoo shop, from the Clubhouse, from everything to think. Now that he’d had it, he’d cleared his mind, and he champed at the bit to get back.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” another one said as he put the small glock down amid the collection. He selected a pistol, held it up, and inspected it like he was some sort of gun aficionado or some shit.
Mooky pulled his phone from his pocket to check the time. If they would just get on with it, he might get home sooner than expected. Hell, maybe he could put all this divorce shit to bed. It was time to get on with this life. He and Blue could live their lives the way they should have always been living it. He could fix it.
“So, what are the benefits of this one over the other one?” The man closest to him asked in a thick accent.
Mooky furrowed his brow. “I’m not the salesman,” he said, looking the man up and down, assessing him.
He could take him if needed.
“I’m just the delivery guy. Take them or don’t. I don’t give a fuck,” the biker said.
Well, it did matter to his club. This relationship was part of a bigger deal that went down a few months ago. He knew that, but he was pissed. He had more important things to do. They made the sale. Their bosses approved of the product. These nobodies in the grand scheme could fuck all the way off, as far as he was concerned.
They didn’t have buying power. They had as much say in the deals made as Mooky did—maybe less. Mooky at least had a vote. He highly doubted these men had anything to do with the goings in their hierarchy. They didn’t have seats at the table. He doubted they even knew where the goddamn table was.
The man scowled at him. “You’re dealing in guns. You should know this.”
He kept his eye on Mooky as he pointed the gun down range.
“I guess I’ll just have to try them out and see which I like better.”
Mooky gave zero shits, which this guy liked better. The delivery was the delivery. No changes. No substitutions. He’d only stayed out of courtesy.
Without looking where he aimed, the man beside him pulled the trigger.
It wasn’t a formal gun range. There were no safety measures. No one watched over them to make sure they followed any rules. It wasn’t a surprise when a howl followed the boom of the gunfire.
Mooky didn’t move.
The man didn’t take his gaze off Mooky, so he couldn’t be the first to break the stare.
The surrounding men shouted in Spanish. If Mooky had been a better student in high school, he might have actually understood them—maybe. Either way, it wasn’t his concern. It wasn’t his man—they weren’t his people.
If this shit for brains wanted to shoot his own men, that was on him. He’d be the one to answer for it—not Mooky. He just wanted to get the fuck out of there before crazy eyes got any other stupid ideas.
“¡Andres! ¡Le disparaste, pendejo!” One man shouted from afar.
Mooky and the shooter continued their staring contest.
“¡Coño! Es malo. There’s a lot of blood.”
The pair blinked at one another as the gunman slowly lowered the pistol to the table. He cocked his head to the side. “Llévaselo a Felipe,” he hollered without breaking the glare.
Mooky lifted his brows.
“Watch your mouth next time, gilipollas.” An eerie grin spread across his face. “Come! Let’s celebrate the deal, yes?”
The change in demeanor nearly gave Mooky whiplash.
He reached to sling his arm around Mooky’s shoulders.
The biker, not a fan of being touched by others, accepted the gesture while gritting his teeth. His club had to maintain this relationship, whether or not he liked it. These shit heads were unpredictable as fuck, but they had a deal with them and Mooky couldn’t blow the deal. This idiot may be a low twat on the totem pole, but word could—and probably would—get back to Hector, the kingpin. Odin’s Fury couldn’t have that. Mooky couldn’t be the cause.
So, clenching his jaw and swallowing his pride, Mooky did his best to grin right back at the son of a bitch. “Got any good beer?”
Laughing, the other man threw his head back before dropping his arm. “No. Tequila.” He waved his arm, indicating Mooky should follow. “It’s back at la casa.”
With his hands stuffed into his pockets, Mooky nodded. Trudging behind the man, he kept his exasperation to himself. Each step closer to the house chipped away at the idea that he’d be leaving soon.