The Blood of Brothers: A Sycamore Moon Novel (Sycamore Moon Series Book 2) by Domino Finn

list of innocuous possessions. A pack of Marlboros. A Zippo with a skull on it. Leather gloves. Sunglasses.
    "No pistols?" asked Maxim.
    Ms. Banks shook her head. "Mr. James doesn't own any handguns."
    Maxim nodded his head slowly as he pondered the new information. If Clint's saddlebag had been legitimately stolen, then it didn't matter much whether there had been a gun inside or not. The skinning knife was enough of a link to the crime.
    That meant at least one Seventh Son and one Yavapai were involved. Two, if the man Clint had fought was not Doka. The Yavapai body was terrible for the motorcycle club, either way. Maxim would need to question Melody about her knowledge. If she had tipped off Gaston about a Yavapai in town causing trouble, things could have gone south quickly. He dearly hoped that wasn't the case.
    The Indian reservation was about half an hour south. A small band of them, mercenaries and werewolves, used to do business with the old Seventh Sons president. Things went sour and both gangs took hits to their leadership. The Yavapai still hated the Sons, and Maxim was sure the feeling was mutual.
    "So when can you get me out of here?" asked Clint.
    Maxim shook his head. "You're in custody. You're gonna be held until I figure things out."
    "What is my client charged with?" asked Ms. Banks.
    "I don't know yet."
    Clint slammed his hands on the table. "But what about my rights?"
    Maxim stood up to go. "Read the form next time."

 
     
    Chapter 9

     
     

    Manolo exited the black van and swiped a credit card at the gas pump. He held the fuel nozzle in place as he leaned against the side of the vehicle, casually chewing gum and watching his escort. Curtis and Trent pulled their bikes up to the storefront and went inside. Diego figured they wanted the air conditioner more than anything else. It was ninety degrees outside. That was about the peak of the summer heat in Sanctuary, but as they continued east through Arizona, to lower elevation, it would quickly get worse.

    Diego took the momentary break to get off his bike, unzip his jacket, and remove his helmet. He could feel sweat running down his arms, back, and ass. Riding in the desert was fun, but he much preferred it at night. The biker paced back and forth to get the air flowing, keeping an eye on the Mexican twenty yards away. Gaston and West were still straddling their Harleys. Ever stoic. But Diego didn't have the same confidence as they did in the events unfolding.
    "You figure it out yet?" asked Diego, uneasy.
    Gaston and West shot him puzzled looks. The president wiped the sweat through his spiked hair. "Figure what out?"
    "What the hell is going on," answered Diego. "Since when does the drug pipeline flow east? The cartel comes through El Paso. Distributes out from there. Everything moving through us comes from them to California. The only thing we've ever moved east was money."
    West scoffed. "So it's 'we' all of a sudden."
    "I'm here, aren't I? You wanted me along, so you need to hear me out."
    Gaston nodded. "I know. I didn't ask why the tar was going back east. Maybe they're having shortages. But they also have us moving SIGs."
    Diego cursed and checked Manolo again. The man was observing them but was too far away to hear. Diego kept his voice down anyway. "They're fucking guns in that van?"
    "Relax," said West. "It's a small load."
    "Guns can bring terrorism charges against us. Shit, our ACRs can do that."
    "Exactly," joked West. "So what's the worry?"
    Gaston shook his head. "Diego, I know you're nervous. Trust me. I've done this before."
    "No," said Diego. "You're not seeing something." The biker paced away a few steps as he heard Omar, who had lagged behind them on the road, roll up. Seeing the discussion, he stopped next to the group. Diego ignored him and kept talking through the problem. "Something's weird. This kind of thing is too risky for a small load."
    "It's a test," said the Apache. "The Pistolas don't trust us. They wanna see how we