Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 94076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
I could live a hundred years and never lose the thrill of pulling down on the throttle and letting my Harley fly down those vast stretches of highway.
It gives me a chance to think.
To quiet the noise in my head.
It’s when I let it all run free. All the chaos. All the doubt. All the fears. All the lingering pain and confusion that comes with being me. With the hope that by the end of the ride I can either make peace with it or know a way to destroy it.
Like the murders of Carina and Beth.
Like this obsession with Ella, and why I can’t get her out of my head.
Like not being able to let go of the past long enough to grab onto something for the future.
We’re a good crew. Me and Beast. Zac, Bear, Axe and Gambit. All battle-scarred bikers who can appreciate the medicine of a long ride.
Late into the evening, we stop at a motel somewhere in North Carolina where I fall into bed surrounded by the stale smell of old air freshener and bleach. But my body is too road-worn to care, and the moment my head hits the pillow, I crash into a deep sleep.
By the next morning, we’re gone by sunrise and end up making good time into Florida, arriving at the Rattlers’ clubhouse just before noon.
The clubhouse sits on the edge of an abandoned industrial park, surrounded by rusted chain-link fencing topped with barbed wire, and fringed by swamp and empty backroads no one dares to visit.
We nod to the guard as he opens the gate and lets us ride in.
It’s humid as hell. The kind of sticky, swampy air that clings to your skin and makes your clothes feel like you’ve been dipped in soup.
Hammer and his VP, Roach, are waiting for us at the entrance of the building.
We climb off our bikes and greet our hosts. Handshakes. Biker hugs. The usual shit.
Hammer is a foreboding presence. Wide as he is tall. His hair long, his beard longer.
“You boys have got perfect timing,” Hammer says, as we pass through the bar inside the clubhouse. “We’ve got a patch-over party tonight. A small club from the Keys are patching over. You boys should stick around. Taste some local cuisine.”
“You don’t need to ask me twice,” Axe says, already making eyes at one of the club girls hanging around the old jukebox.
Only Beast and I follow Hammer into his office. The others are here for backup. Not to take part in any conversations.
Not that they mind. They’d rather drink a cold beer after a long ride in the Florida heat.
“Thanks for meeting with us,” Beast says as we take a seat.
“You know how much I like a visit from our comrades from up north,” Hammer says, sitting behind his desk. Behind him on the wall is a massive black and red Devil’s Rattlers emblem, a coiled rattlesnake wrapped around a piston.
“Like I said on the phone, your information about the warehouse panned out,” Beast says. “But it ended up being an ambush. Someone knew we were coming.”
Hammer leans back in his chair. “I was sorry to hear the Knights ran into trouble from a tip-off I gave them.”
“Wanna bring me up to speed on how you knew about the warehouse?” I ask.
“An ATF agent I owe a favor to warned me of a shipment of contraband passing into Florida. Told me to steer clear. To let it pass. Said it was coming from a warehouse in Knights territory. Said the owners aren’t the kind to ask twice.”
“Did the agent say who the owners were?” Beast asks.
“I get a feeling it’s Bratva.”
“Why?”
“When I asked about it, he warned me not to piss off this Russian asshole.”
Bratva.
Fuck.
It means one thing.
“Oli-fucking-checkoff,” I mutter with disgust.
I sit back in my chair.
Viktor Olicheckoff.
Bratva pakhan.
Underworld kingpin.
Ruthless businessman.
And one giant asshole.
He has fingers in every underworld honeypot. Gun running. Drugs. Women. He’s a racketeering fuck who tried to align himself with the Knights in the past. But Beast told him to go fuck himself. We don’t need to be associated with an unpredictable asshole like him. He stands for all the things we don’t.
Beast opens his phone. “Bram, get me a location for Viktor Olicheckoff. Yeah, the Bratva asshole.”
When he hangs up, Beast and I share a look.
If the Olicheckoff Bratva are behind this, then we need to act fast.
“It was a matter of courtesy to let you know,” Hammer says. “I figured if the Olicheckoff were running contraband out of the counties surrounding St. Boniface, the Knights would want to know.”
“The Knights are grateful,” Beast says.
“But there’s more,” Hammer adds.
“You’re the gift that keeps on giving,” Beast replies, waiting for more bad news.
“Despite the warning from our friend at the ATF, we intercepted the truck anyway. Ain’t no ATF or Bratva asshole is gonna tell me what I can and can’t do in my goddamn town.”