Possession(Sons of Odin MC)(23)

Someone knocked on the door and Vincent looked up from his paperwork. “Enter.”

J.T. stepped inside. “A sergeant with the Man-o-Wars is waiting outside.”

A rival MC based in Robstown; Vincent knew something must be wrong. Showing up unannounced either took courage or demonstrated just how stupid they were. He tapped his fingers on the desk. “Escort him inside, but don’t leave the hallway once he’s here. And check him for weapons.”

“He volunteered for a pat-down already.” J.T. left the office.

Vincent stood up and started to pace. Maybe he should contact his president in Austin to see if everything was all right at the annual rally. Every year the 1%ers in Texas sponsored a smaller version of Sturgis, attracting fans from all over the state. Leadership also used it as an opportunity to meet with allies and rival clubs to discuss business.

However, if something had happened, surely one of the other officers would have called. Vincent didn’t want to react prematurely.

He looked at the door just as it pushed open. His rival was a few inches shorter than Vincent, with dark hair and a beard. “I appreciate you seeing me without notice.”

Vincent eyeballed him head to toe, disliking his patches. The Man-o-Wars sold drugs and pimped out strung-out pass-arounds. Something the Sons of Odin never did. “I’m Vincent Ramos,” he said. “Why are you here?”

“Personal business,” he answered, extending his hand. “My name is Crash.”

Once again Vincent needed to make a snap decision. If he shook his hand, it meant he must provide safe passage for his enemy. If he refused, the lack of respect could spark a fight. The man showed up unarmed and unannounced—a crapshoot at best. The least Vincent could do was listen to what he had to say.

He accepted his hand. “Sit down.” Vincent pointed to the guest chair in front of his desk, then returned to his own seat. “Let’s get this over with as soon as possible. My Brothers may not be as accommodating as I am.”

Crash nodded. “Last night one of your members showed up at Kramer’s Saloon wearing his colors.”

Vincent blew out a frustrated breath and folded his hands behind his head. Fucking idiot. Visiting a rival club’s turf wearing a cut was prohibited unless a formal invite was issued. It kept the peace. “Who?”

“Dog Tag.”

“You have my word he’ll be disciplined. It won’t happen again.”

“Wait.” Crash held up his hand. “If that was all, I wouldn’t be here right now.”

Vincent suspected as much.

“My old lady is missing.”

“Not my fault you can’t control your woman.” Vincent started to get up.

“Two of my Brothers saw her leave with Dog Tag.”

Vincent grimaced. A fairly new member of the charter, Dog Tag attracted the attention of the opposite sex more than most men he knew. And the little bastard couldn’t keep his dick in his pants. “Was she patched?”

“Patched and tattooed.”

“Why didn’t your Brothers stop her?”

“Because she was on the back of his bike riding off by the time they got outside.”

Vincent rubbed his face, gauging Crash’s calm demeanor. How long would it last? Another reason Vincent didn’t get involved with women: half the trouble his Brothers got into involved pussy. “If what you’re saying is true, I apologize for Dog Tag’s behavior. He’ll be dealt with immediately. Leave your contact information and I’ll call as soon as I can.”

“Not good enough,” Crash said emphatically. “Cut one, we all bleed. I demand justice.”

Not the words Vincent wanted to hear. Certain rules were universal for 1%ers. Old ladies were off limits. But some men preferred to take risks—big ones. Once Vincent confirmed Crash’s story, he had to deliver Dog Tag for a fight. Or, if the Man-o-Wars wanted to push it, a club-wide beat-down. Standing aside and watching one of his Brothers suffer at the hands of his enemies wasn’t something Vincent thought he could do. As a charter officer, he couldn’t break rules, but he could bend them.

“Like I said before, leave your cell number—I’ll call when I can.” Done discussing anything, Vincent walked to the door and opened it. “J.T., get this man a drink, then send him on his way.”

Goddamned son-of-a-bitch…Fury pumped through Vincent’s veins as he stomped toward his new Harley-Davidson Fat Boy Lo. He swung his leg over the seat, then knocked his kickstand back with his boot. The engine thundered to life and he took off, headed for Dog Tag’s house a mile down Laguna Shores Road. If he caught him in bed with Crash’s old lady, maybe he’d save the charter some time and rip his head off now.