“Pass these around,” Flint says. “I want everyone to take a good look. If someone shows up undercover here, they will most likely be a member of this group. This is the field team of the ATF’s Special Agents division. Keep in mind they might change their appearance, so look at the shape of their eyes and facial features. The minute any of these people arrive in town, we need to know so we can cover our asses. Memorize these photographs.”

“How many do you think are coming?” Rocco, the oldest member of the MC, asks.

“Maybe a team of two, or it could even be a single agent working alone,” Flint replies. “It’s a small town, so if more than a couple of people show up and start asking questions, the locals will get suspicious.”

Flint passes the photos across the table to Rocco, who starts thumbing through them.

“What are the exact charges they’re trying to nail us on?” I ask.

Flint is a lawyer so if anyone knows how much trouble we’re in, it would be him.

“The fact that we’re selling bootlegged alcohol in a dry county would be the first and the most obvious illegal activity they would go after. And the cigarettes. Not only are we selling without a license, we’re also exporting hundreds of cases every week across state lines and not paying sales or excise taxes. I suspect the Georgia Department of Revenue is involved too since the two agencies work together. It’s not as if what we do is a big secret. Everyone in this town knows about it. Hell, half of the county’s citizens are our customers.”

“All it takes is one person to turn us in,” Jesse adds. “They probably already have. The alcohol and cigarette operation needs to be suspended until this blows over.”

“How the hell are we going to do that?” I ask. “We’ve been selling out the back of the tattoo shop for years. Toby and I are scheduled to pick up another shipment this week. Where are we supposed to store the inventory? We’ve made agreements with our suppliers that we can’t back out of, and the bottles are going to pile up to the ceiling.”

“I don’t think we have a choice here,” Jesse replies. “Either we temporarily shut it down, or the ATF is going to permanently shut us down. We’ll make it work somehow.”

“Isn’t there another way?” I argue. “Our customers are going to be so pissed when they show up Friday after work and we tell them that we’re closed for business. They depend on us.”

Flint shrugs.

“They’ll have to deal with it. The operation has to be shut down for now. Let’s just hope the ATF doesn’t know about any of the other stuff.”

“Like the guns?” Toby asks with a worried frown.