Quasim had his phone. “Yo, I9… I fucking 9!” he yelled into the phone. The Inferno Gods had a bunch of codes, lingos, and hand signals that they all knew. I didn’t pretend to know all of them, but I had some knowledge of some of them, and I9 was basically like a fucking Amber Alert for every biker crew in the tristate to keep an eye out.
OH THEY’RE COMING
