HARDCORE: Storm MC(80)

“I still don't know what the fuck you had in mind, to be honest,” Hunter answered, “an’ right now, I don't really give a goddamn. This is what I need you to be doin’ for the club right now.”



“Seriously? I tell you I'm sick of feeling like the most important thing I do for the Eagles is cook your fucking breakfast, and your solution is to have me cook it for someone else?”



“Look, there's a lot more to it than that, all right?” Hunter snapped. “Mostly I need you to keep an eye on him an' make sure he stays put an' rests, instead of doin' anything foolish like goin' out for revenge.”



“Because that's the kind of foolish thing you'll be busy doing.”



Hunter pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. Working on bikes with loud drills and cranks and breathing in gasoline fumes never gave him a headache, but fighting with Missy almost always did.



“I need you to be with me on this, sis. He's gotta sit this shit out an' let himself heal up, an' I know he won't do it unless there's someone here makin' him. An' more than that, I need you to keep an eye out for anyone suspicious comin' around. The second it looks like there might be trouble, even if you ain't sure—hell, even if you just get a funny feelin' without seein' anythin' specific—I want you to get me on the phone so we can ride out there an' make sure you're both okay.”



There was another pause, shorter this time, as Missy digested this information. “Okay. You're right. That does sound important. I'm sorry. If that's what you need me to do, I'll do it, sure.”



“Thank you,” Hunter said. “It'll just be for a little while.”



“Good. Because I know how much you like Cain, but honestly, he can be kind of a dick.”



Hunter chuckled. “Yeah, I reckon he can. Just like I reckon bein' in the kind of pain he's in right now won't soften up his disposition all that much. Do yer best to put up with him, that's all I ask. An' try to be gentler with him than you were on Marian that one time.”



“Ugh, don't get me started on her,” Missy said, laughing a little in spite of herself. “Just tell me one thing. What kind of people should I be on the lookout for?”



Hunter closed his eyes and grimaced. He wished she hadn't asked that. He was pretty sure that if she knew, she'd be able to figure out who they were up against, and it would worry the fuck out of her.



Still, he had told her to keep an eye out.



“Anyone who looks like they're loitering or checking the place out,” Hunter said, “but probably Mexican guys with a lot of tattoos, mostly.”



Another pause, stonier this time.



“Like Gaspar's boys,” she said flatly without any hint of question.



Hunter sighed. “Yeah.”



“Fuck,” Missy hissed. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. We should pick up and leave town right now, tonight, or even leave the state. Jesus, if Gaspar's on our asses, we should probably leave the country and go set up shop in fucking Canada.”



“Gaspar ain't no boogeyman,” Hunter said, trying to sound reassuring. “He's just a man like the rest of us.”



“Yeah, except he's got about a zillion other men to hide behind.”



“I'm sure I can get us out of this,” insisted Hunter. “But to do that, I need to make sure Cain's out of the action instead of out there stirring up more shit.”



“Fine,” Missy said. “I just really hope you know what you're doing.” She hung up.



“Me too, sis,” Hunter said, slipping the phone back into his pocket.



But he wasn't so sure.





Chapter 12



Missy



Missy got up and pulled her clothes back on, swearing under her breath.



It was bad enough that she had to babysit Cain, knowing full well exactly how little he'd enjoy that prospect and how unpleasant he was likely to act toward her about it. But now she also had to worry about Gaspar and his animals turning up.



She hadn't been at the Knife when Gaspar and Hunter negotiated their truce, so she'd never actually seen Gaspar's face. That was one of the many times that Hunter had insisted she stay away from the darker side of the club's business for her own good. She'd spent the entire evening pacing the kitchen floor nervously until she'd heard from Hunter that everything had gone smoothly.



But Missy knew that Gaspar was an emissary of the Barros Cartel, whose atrocities often made the news along with footage of the Mexican towns they'd turned into smoldering wastelands.



And she knew about what happened over in Braintree.



When Gaspar first came into Dipper County eighteen months ago, the local source for coke and heroin had been a wealthy dairy farmer named Tip Tibbons. Tip's field of cows was just outside of Braintree. For over a decade and a half, he'd received regular shipments of the stuff from a crime family in Chicago and used his delivery drivers as dealers. He paid off Sheriff Hemmick regularly like most of the serious lawbreakers in the county did, and as a result, he was permitted to do business with impunity.