Cross Fire (Padre Knights MC Book 3) (8 page)

Alejandro stood outside the Diablos' warehouse and tried to keep his pounding heart to a dull roar. He was sure they'd seen him riding up. They weren't blind, and they had to be on the lookout for retaliation. He needed to walk a fine line here—he knew that. If he moved too quickly, or was too abrupt, they'd assume he was there to try and kill people, and they'd shoot him twenty feet from the door. If he was too weak, his hands up in the air like a coward coming to beg for mercy, they'd shoot him just the same, but they'd laugh while they were doing it. No, this had to be played exactly right, and he'd only get one shot at it.  

He got off his bike, pushed the kickstand down into the dust, and walked to the front door of the warehouse like he belonged there. He didn't quite swagger, but he didn't mince either. He hooked his thumbs in his belt loops like a cowboy, and he wore his weapon on his belt. Near his hands, but not quite touching them.  

About ten feet from the door, three Diablos poured out. One of them held a shotgun, sawed off at the barrel for maximum destruction, and the other two had hand guns. All of them were trained on him, though they were aimed closer to his feet than to his head. That was something. That was respect, and a threat, but not a guarantee. He might make it out of this alive, if God was on his side.  

"I'm here to see Bolt," he said quietly. He kept his hands where they were, and kept his face neutral. Calm. He heard safeties click off, and he felt a muscle in his jaw twitch, but he kept his eyes focused on the Diablo right in front of him. 

It was the man to his right who spoke to him. He had a long scar from his temple to his jawline, looked like someone had tried to peel his face off with a shard of glass. "Yeah, but Bolt ain't here to see you, Rembrant."  

The men laughed, and it was the wrong kind of laugh. It was the laugh that said they were on their own to shoot him or not, whatever they felt would be best. Which meant that his odds of getting in to see Bolt had dramatically decreased.  

He surveyed the three quickly. Only one of them had the red hair and the green eyes, the one with the shotgun, the man on his left. Figured. Do or die, he told himself, and then he lashed out.  

He went low, sweeping Scar off his feet into the dust. Before Diablo could react, he rolled, coming up as close to Red as he could without tangling his feet up. Close—he had to get close, so that shotgun would be useless. He knocked it out of Red's hand as he came up, managed to catch it on the way down before it hit ground—that was pure luck, but it looked amazing from Diablo and Scar's point of view, that was for sure—and got behind Red, pushing the barrel of the shotgun up into Red's jaw.  

"First of all, the name is Shakespeare. Second, I'm being nice," he said, letting his voice drop low and gritty, cold and harsh. The voice that had made him Turk's right hand, and earned him the title of Prez when Turk couldn't hold it any more. "A whole bunch of my men are dead. I didn't call up to San Antonio to get the rest of my people down here, so that we could roll the fuck over you. I didn't have one of my guys plant a bomb in your car, or in your home, even though that's right in his fucking wheelhouse. I came here to see Bolt and work out a fucking truce, and that is exactly what's going to happen now, or else his family here is going to be down a head." Diablo and Scar hesitated, and he jabbed Red harder. He was impressed—Red hadn't made a sound, though from the sharp smell, Red's bladder was a hell of a lot more scared than Red was letting on. "I am not playing, boys. Now."  

The moment stretched out. If he was wrong about who Red was, if he was just some dumbass prospect who happened to be ginger, he and Red were both going to die. But if this was Bolt's little brother, like he was pretty sure it was, he'd just checkmated them.  

Scar kept his weapon trained on Alejandro and Red, but he nodded. Diablo dropped his weapon to the side and stepped back into the shadows of the warehouse. As soon as he was out of sight, Alejandro heard the sound of running feet.  

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Ali had just closed the door behind Travis when Cristina's car pulled up the driveway. Ali tried not to groan. She wanted nothing but to sit down and dial Alejandro's phone a thousand times until he picked up, but it wouldn’t get her anywhere good. She needed to focus, get through what she needed to get through. She'd tear him apart for abandoning her again if—
when
—she saw him again. She opened the door for Cristina and wrapped her up in a hug as she came up the steps. "Thanks for coming, sweetie."  

"Of course,
mami
," Cristina said.  

"Are you mad at me?" Ali asked as they settled down on the couch.  

"Mad at you? No. Do I think you're making a huge mistake, one that you'll regret for the rest of your life?" Cristina sighed and leaned back against the arm of the couch. "I don't know, Ali. I know it would be the wrong choice for me, but you're not me. Maybe you can change him, help him make something of his life that's not just blood and tears."  

"I don't want to change him," Ali said. "And this isn't about him, anyway. Not really."  

"Yeah, I know, it's about how you need to get in touch with your inner woman. But Ali—my cousin, he's not going to give you what you want. What I want for you."  

"I know," Ali said, and Cristina subsided, her eyes searching, confused. "I think that's where I've been wrong since the beginning, Cristina. I kept waiting for someone else to give me the life I wanted. And the truth is that I need to go find it myself. I can't keep waiting for it to just arrive. That's not how it works, not when it's something worth having."  

"That may be the first thing you've said that made any sense at all," Cristina said. "Do you have anything stronger than this tea? I was up with the mothers until all hours, and what a mess."  

Ali winced, went to the kitchen, and brought out a bottle of whiskey. "Do you think Mama will ever speak to me again?" she asked as she poured.  

Cristina shrugged. "Probably. I think she understands better than you think. She thought this was something she wanted. And the comment you made, about him assaulting you—that got a lot of people's attention. There are a couple of women who've come forward since yesterday, saying that they were also on the receiving end of Bobby's…
attentions
, after he'd had too much to drink."  

Ali felt her face draw tight. She'd meant to make her point to him, to find a way to put into his head that she didn't dare be alone with him again, much less intimate. She hadn't meant to tell everyone in the community that he was the next best thing to a rapist. But that was when she'd assumed she was the only one. She thought back to the way people had avoided him at parties once he'd gotten going— especially women. "I hope he gets some help for the way he is," she said, finding it the fairest way to say what she was thinking. "How's Carmac taking it?"  

Cristina threw back her whiskey and puffed her lips out. "He's trying to spin it. You're unstable, of course, and Bobby's been seeking treatment for his drinking—I could just about hear his teeth grinding at that point—and the other women are just trying to get attention, of course."  

"What's
Bobby
saying?"  

"Not much, actually. Once Alejandro left the church, he kind of… dropped into a pew and didn't move. Your mama and his cleared the guests out of the church, and the groomsmen tried to hustle Bobby out, but he was just quiet." Cristina was silent a moment. "I wish I hadn't pushed so hard, Ali. I feel like this is my fault on both sides. I shouldn't have introduced you to Alejandro, but I shouldn’t have pushed you back towards Bobby either. I should have let you make up your own mind."  

"You were doing what you thought was best," Ali said, and made herself smile. It was the truth, after all. As misguided as it might have been, it was the truth. "I appreciate that." She dug into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out the engagement ring.

She'd worn it long enough for it to need to be cleaned. She hated that it looked tarnished in her palm. As if she hadn't taken good enough care of it. And maybe she hadn't. Maybe things with her and Bobby would have worked out, if she'd just managed to put a little more effort into it.

But at the same time, he would have needed to do more, as well. More listening, more understanding, more trying. It just hadn't worked out, and maybe that wasn't anyone's fault at all.

"I don't imagine Bobby's going to want anything to do with me for a very long time," she said. "Do you think that you could get this back to him? I don't feel right having it in the house. Not after last time."  

There was a certain depth to Cristina's sigh as she picked up the ring. "It would have been so much fun to decorate the mansion with you."  

"Well, if things work out the way I'm hoping they will, you'll get to decorate something with me. Not a mansion, but maybe a little house, up near San Antonio."  

She'd hoped to get a smile, maybe even a squeal out of her friend, but no such luck. Cristina sat quietly, studying the way the light reflected through the diamond and made tiny rainbows on her hand. "So you're leaving?"  

Ali sighed. "Bobby ruined my business. It was everything I wanted, and he destroyed it to try and force me back with him. I'm done with Arroyo Flats. I got a job offer up towards San Antonio, running a program that will help kids. It's the next best thing, Cristina."  

"And it's close to Alejandro. So you can be close by when he gets killed."  

"I don’t think it's going to be like that."  

Cristina's smile was soft and sad. "That's because you're not thinking with this," she said, tapping one manicured fingernail between Ali's brows. "So I hope to hell he's doing a good job with
this
." She pointed into Ali's lap.  

Ali's cheeks flushed, and she nodded. "He's doing just fine," she said.  

"You know I just want you to be safe?"  

"I do. Promise." 

Cristina smiled, the whiskey filtering through her and softening the hard edges she spent so much time keeping filed clean and tight. "And make me a couple little nieces and nephews to play with, okay? I don't want my babies growing up without family."  

That was as close as Cristina was ever going to get to endorsing the relationship between her best friend and her cousin, Ali was fairly sure. She found a smile, somewhere deep down inside, and raised her glass. "I'll drink to that," she said. Cristina tinked her glass against Ali's and then squeezed her friend's fingers without saying another word.  

Bolt looked just like Alejandro remembered. Tall, lanky, hair like a house on fire, and standing straight up as well. "Shakespeare," he said, his hands spread wide, and his mouth in a broad grin that should have passed as easy. "So surprised to see you here. I thought your little group would have turned tail and run."  

"That’s funny," Alejandro said, "Coming from a man who attacks with no warning. Afraid to face us head on, Bolt?" He drew out the other man's name, making it a comment and an insult. Bolt's eyes narrowed.  

"How about you let Tommy go, and we'll talk about it all."  

Alejandro saw the tension in the other man's hands. He couldn’t see a gun on his belt, but his vest had been left to hang loose, and his right hand was tenser than his left—yes, rig on the left shoulder. When he moved just right, Alejandro could see the outline of one strap beneath the vest.

Still, he let Tommy—Red—go. “I am sorry for laying hands on your family. I know how I’d feel if someone put their hands on my brothers.” He let the silence ring out, let Bolt feel the strain in his voice. Because of course, the Diablos had laid hands on his boys, and much worse. “I asked to speak to you politely, but Scar here didn’t want to relay my message.” Tommy jerked away from him and went to Bolt’s side; Bolt, for his part, glanced over at Scar and laughed.

“Inside, you two,” he said. “Shakespeare and I need to have a discussion.”

The men left, leaving just the two of them outside. Bolt hooked his thumbs through his beltloops, which put his hands farther away from his gun than Alejandro’s were from his. “So what brings you here, Rojas?” Bolt asked. “I know you’re not here to beg for mercy. You’re not the sort.”

“Whereas you are the sort to gun down men who have no quarrel with you.”

Bolt raised an eyebrow. “And Crockett?”

Alejandro raised his hands in a peaceable gesture. “He crossed us. That’s just business. I know you understand that.”

Bolt’s jaw tightened. “And his old lady?”

His guts twisted, and he thought for a moment that he’d be sick. “
That
is a thing I am truly sorry for,” Alejandro said, trying to let his tone speak the truth of it. “When we moved, we understood that he was alone. That is not— It’s not supposed to be how the Padres operate.”

Bolt’s weapon was in his face so fast that he understood why Tommy had pissed himself; he had to clench up hard to keep from decorating his own pants. He’d stared down a gun before, but never into the face of a man who was this mad. “She was a sister to me, do you understand? She wasn’t business. How would you feel if it were your sister, or your woman? Huh?”

Alejandro saw him click off the safety, and he took a deep, steadying breath. “I came here to talk to you, Bolt. I don’t want this, the Padres don’t want this. I want to make a deal with you, split up the business, call it square. Please. Please let me talk to you.” Bolt’s gaze didn’t waver. “I know you know about Ali. I know you could have moved on her at the same time you took the warehouse. You didn’t. I believe that’s because you want this to end a different way. Please, man. Please, talk to me.”

Everything in Alejandro’s awareness focused in on Bolt’s finger on the trigger of the gun. He watched it start to tighten, and he forced himself to keep his eyes open, to keep his gaze on the man in front of him. To show no fear, but to also be the man he needed to be. The man Ali loved.

That was the only thing that stood a chance of saving him now.