Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 111416 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111416 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Talk about getting fucked up the ass without a drop of lube.
Fletch considered using that info to convince Zak to cooperate with their investigation, since the Deadly Demons were now trafficking meth in the Angels’ territory.
Fletch assumed this club didn’t have any knowledge of those actions. Yet, anyway.
But they would.
After a long discussion with the rest of the task force, they decided it was smart to make the DAMC aware of that and the territory grab before they found out by other methods and took matters into their own hands.
That could get really fucking messy. For both the DAMC and law enforcement.
By laying everything out on the heavily lacquered table before them, Crew hoped the task force could control the narrative.
And get their cooperation without too much of a fight.
Hoped being the key word. Any time they dealt with questionable organizations like the DAMC, plans could get jacked.
Speaking of jacked… Axel’s older brother was flanked by two very heavy hitters. They might be in their fifties, but they still looked like they could do a lot of damage.
For a second, Fletch was thankful that he had four at his back despite the fact only three bikers sat in front of him. Even though they all had their service weapons hidden on their person, he had no fucking doubt that all three of those bikers were packing, too. Whether they were legally allowed to carry or not.
The big guy to Zak’s left shifted in his seat. Fletch didn’t need to read his name patch or his title to know who he was.
Everyone knew him and what business he ran. They were also aware of the “security” crew he called his Shadows. What had started out as a simple security business developed into something so much more. The problem was, the Shadows were so damn good, they made it about impossible to pin anything on them.
Without solid evidence to prove any illegal activities, law enforcement was shit out of luck. The Shadows held it all.
But none of Diesel’s crew were young bucks, either, and Fletch could only imagine they’d all be hanging up their military gear at any time now and younger blood would take over the business.
“Goddamn lucky we ain’t at war,” came the deep grumble from Diesel Dougherty, the Dirty Angels sergeant at arms.
Jamison warned them ahead of time that the DAMC enforcer would try to intimidate them, would be difficult “just because” and would do what he could to shut down any negotiations between the two groups.
He hated cops and wasn’t shy about letting anyone know it.
Next to Fletch, Cross asked, “For what? Wearing a badge?”
“That’s a fuckin’ given. For settin’ up your church in our territory.”
“Your territory?” Jamison asked, then laughed.
Diesel slammed his big paw on the table and turned his attention to Axel. “I fuckin’ stutter, Axhole?”
Fletch kept his eyes glued to the men sitting at the table, paid close attention to their body language and stayed aware of where their hands were at all times.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jamison shrug. “Sure sounded like it.”
Without warning, Diesel surged from his seat toward Jamison in a threatening manner. Every muscle in that room went tight and the air turned thick with tension.
They had expected this kind of posturing, so no one reached for any weapons. They all managed to keep their cool and let the big man whose tiny wife called him the “Beast” play his game.
“Are you going to let your junkyard dog threaten me?” Axel asked Zak.
“Ain’t the first time. Ain’t gonna be the last.” Jamison’s brother said all too calmly.
The man was either stoned as fuck or naturally laid-back. Or was really good at acting.
“You know what the fuck is ours,” Diesel growled.
“It’s only a clubhouse. We don’t claim any territory,” Jamison informed him, not looking at all concerned that Diesel probably wanted to pound him into the ground.
But then, Jamison was used to dealing with these bikers.
“No?” Diesel barked. “What’s that fuckin’ patch you’re normally wearin’ on your tit?”
He was talking about the “Southwest Regional” patch their charter of the Blue Avengers wore on the front of their cuts.
Technically, the beast of a man was right. Their territories overlapped. But when it came down to it, the two clubs weren’t the same. One was more of a riding club and a solid brotherhood while the other was a complete lifestyle. The DAMC colors defined their members’ lives. They lived and breathed the MC life.
They would die for that life, too.
And that was what made them dangerous.
“We’re not in competition, D,” Jamison reminded him, not letting the big man get him worked up.
It was hard to believe that Jamison was married to and had kids with this man’s cousin. Fletch didn’t envy Jamison having to attend family holidays.
“Lucky for you. ‘Cause if we were, guaran-fuckin’-teed you’d lose.”