“Well, he said to watch for Cooper, and then send him in as soon as you guys got here. He’s waiting for you.”
Talia and I walked into the clubhouse, which smelled like weed and burned chemicals. Someone must’ve gotten their hands on some seriously low-quality meth, which surprised me. You’d think with Marsh’s connections, he’d be using better stuff.
Marsh sat toward the back of the room on a couch, hand tapping nervously against the armrest. A young girl sat on his lap. She had a blank, stoned look and while I could see her hand stuck down his pants, there didn’t seem to be much action happening. Approaching them, I caught Marsh’s eye and waited for him to speak. He pushed the girl off and stood up, blinking at me through bloodshot, dilated eyes, one hand still twitching nervously.
Great. He was tweaking.
“C’mon, Coop,” he said, eyes darting toward Talia. “You stay here, baby girl. We got business.”
Talia pouted, but turned away toward the bar as I followed Marsh into a pool room. Their chapel. Lining the walls were old leather vests—colors from brothers who’d died—and a few prizes they’d taken off other clubs who’d wandered into the wrong town. Marsh grabbed a couple of pool cues, tossing one to me.
“Let’s play a game and talk,” he said. “Shut the door.”
I did, then watched as he racked the balls. He radiated a wild, nervous energy that could only come from one place. Meth. Fuck, I knew we had to play it out as long as we could, but at the rate he’d been using, things could fall apart fast. Seemed like it was worse every time I saw him.
“Gotta job for you,” he said, leaning over to take the first shot. His hand trembled. Fuck. Hopefully he’d be steady enough for me to throw the game plausibly, because I had a feeling Marsh wasn’t a gracious loser. The balls broke with a crack, and thankfully he sank two stripes for a good start.
“What’s that?” I asked, carefully casual.
“Need someone to haul some cargo,” he said, frowning as he lined up another shot, eye twitching. “Someone we can trust. You been hangin’ around for a while and you got your own rig. Figured you might be ready for a shot at some money.”
His cue skipped as he made his next play, hitting the ball off-center. Scratch. Marsh scowled.
“I’m always interested in money,” I said slowly, pretending to weigh the offer. “What’s the run?”
“We’ve got some shit for you to take up through Bellingham,” he said. “You’ll cross the border there and drop the load in Vancouver—all legal—and then drive across to Penticton to pick up another load. Come back through the border at Oroville, which is the most dangerous part of the trip. From there you’ll drive down to the Tri-Cities and deliver it to some friends of ours.”
“The path’s a little random,” I said. If I went through Bellingham the local Reapers could back me up, but the rest of the time I’d be well and truly on my own. “I can think of better ways to do it.”
“Not your job to think,” Marsh said slowly. “We’ll be watching you, so don’t fuck it up. Our Canadian partners will be at both drop points, and they’ll be in charge of paying and verifying the shipments. It’s your job to drop one trailer and pick up another—simple. Any questions?”
“Yeah,” I said. “What’s my cut?”
Marsh stared at me.
“Standard shipping rates, Coop, payable when you finish and they verify delivery. So far as you’re concerned, this is just another job.”
There was a trap if I’d ever seen one—only a moron would agree.
“It’s my ass on the line,” I said, wondering if the risk was worth it. The Reapers needed information, but I’d never be able to tell them what I’d learned if