“Why, though?” Hunter had asked Keith when he first heard. The two of them had sat at the bar, drinking shots of whiskey. “Was this whole 'truce' we negotiated just a smokescreen the whole time?”
Keith shrugged. “Could be. Could be it gave Gaspar time to buy off or threaten the feds and the staties. But that ain't the biggest question here, is it, boss? What we really need to know is, was this shit sanctioned by the cartel, or did Gaspar just get bored an' greedy an' decide to expand on his own?”
Hunter sighed, putting his face in his hands. “I dunno, man. Fuck, I just...I dunno. Whatever this crap is, it's more trouble than we've ever faced down before. I mean, Gaspar's guys are mostly trained killers—former Mexican soldiers, mercenaries, real hard cases. An' they've got so many fuckin' military-grade weapons, we may as well be carryin' goddamn slingshots.
“So, what are our options?” he continued, taking another drink. “Basically, it seems like we got three. We can run, we can surrender, or we can stand our fuckin' ground.”
Keith considered this carefully. “Hell, runnin' ain't much of a choice. I mean, maybe we could go find another town to run our shit from, but by the time we got there, we'd be known as a pack of worthless yellow cowards who can be pissed on without consequences.”
Hunter nodded. “Fair point. An' surrender is an ugly fuckin' word. Sure, there's a chance we could still make a deal with Gaspar, give up a little slice of our action in Micanaw to keep the peace...”
“Yeah, but what about the next time Gaspar steps over the line? An' the next?” Keith asked. “What, are we gonna just hang our fuckin' heads, step aside, an' let him do whatever he wants? We gonna take orders from him, run his errands, an' fork over our profits like a bunch of bitches?”
Hunter shuddered. “Fuck that. At least we got a code to live by. These cartel guys, though...they're bunch of fuckin' nutjobs. For all we know, they could order us to blow away a bunch of innocent people, or do someone's kid as a warning. An' when we say no...”
“He lights us up anyway,” Keith finished. “Makin' the whole fuckin' thing pointless from the start. An' besides, if we ain't got freedom, Hunter, then what the fuck do we got, huh? If we're willin' to just bow down for guys like Gaspar, we may as well hang up our goddamn cuts an' get square jobs.”
“Which means staying and fighting,” Hunter said. “Which would probably end with all the Eagles being slaughtered.”
Keith shrugged again. “You know anythin' 'bout the Mexican Revolution?”
Hunter chuckled bitterly. “Yeah. It was a bunch of Mexicans, right? An' they revolted?”
“I watch the history channel sometimes,” Keith continued, “even though Cain likes to give me shit for it. One show was about this guy called Zapata, who led a revolution down there in 1910 'cause their president was a corrupt asswipe. An' one thing this Zapata guy said always stuck with me, 'cause it basically nailed the whole reason I joined the Eagles. 'It's better to die on your feet than to live on your knees.'”
This had made sense to Hunter, and deep down, he'd known Keith was right. Fighting back was their only real choice.
Still, it was hard enough to gear up for a fight that seemed like it couldn't possibly be won. And it was a hell of a lot harder when Hunter considered the idea that his sister might end up as collateral damage. The Eagles had strict rules about not involving their enemies' families in their conflicts, but he knew the cartel had no such restrictions. And it wasn't just Missy, either. A lot of the other Eagles had wives, girlfriends, parents, siblings, and kids, all of whom could quickly become targets for Gaspar.
Hunter couldn't bear that thought. But he couldn't see any way around it, and he cursed himself for that.
He parked his bike in front of Cain's house, putting the kickstand down and dismounting. Then he walked up to the front door and knocked. He wanted to make sure Cain was okay. Part of him felt like he owed Cain some kind of apology, but he couldn't quite think of the right words or even make sense of what he wanted to apologize for—the beating Cain had taken, or the even worse beating the rest of the club was probably about to take because he couldn't come up with a way out for them?
There was no answer, and Hunter knocked on the door again.
After a few moments passed, Hunter started to get nervous. What if the internal bleeding had been worse than anyone thought and Cain was lying on the floor, dead? What if Gaspar had sent his men to finish the job?
Hunter pulled the Glock from the back of his jeans with one hand, holding it down at his side. With his other hand, he reached into his pocket, pulling out a large set of keys and trying not to jangle them too loudly. Any time one of the Eagles got a place of his own, Hunter always made sure he had a spare key in case of emergencies.