Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 114819 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114819 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
“Goddamn watch the fuck out,” Dev yelled, his fist coming down hard on the hood. “Did you even see me here?”
He was completely in the wrong, but the fire that lit his soul every time he had to come back into the club’s world kept him from giving a single goddamn inch.
“I gotta go. Fuckin’ prospects can’t fuckin’ drive worth a fuck,” he yelled at the driver through the windshield.
The forceful mash his fingertip gave to the screen should’ve broken his finger or the phone, maybe both. There better be some decent progress inside the clubhouse. His surprise inspection was on its way. The first of the motorcycle clubs were due to arrive this evening. The whole fucking city was freaked the fuck out per Officer Grisby, one of his law enforcement informants.
He fumed and threw out the bird to the driver, ready to take on the cage, a fight to the death.
The fucking government was exactly what he’d been taught they were. They deserved all the chaos he and his outlaw brothers were about to receive.
Two hours later
His hair was pissing him the fuck off.
The first free minute he got he was shaving this bitch off.
Hair was fucking stupid.
Dev used more force than necessary to shove the longer on top pieces out of his eyes before shrugging off his cut, laying it on the back of a barstool. He’d spent the morning packing up his old man’s nineteen eighties porn collection, along with other gross shit.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, already tired of the day. He figured he’d logged enough time at the clubhouse that maybe those on the other end of his surveillance team might not notice when he left. Just in case the always-on-it Joe or the tracking Trace clued in before he made it off grid, he made a show of telling Con-man his fake plans for the afternoon.
“I’m gonna go help paint,” Dev said loudly, carefully removing the clasp to his necklace. With care and no sudden movements, he placed the necklace on the bar top at an angle that might appear as if he was sitting there. “Don’t fuck with my shit,” he added, placing his phone by the necklace, the screen side facing down.
Con-man only glanced at him weirdly, keeping the steady work of emptying the cases and cases of alcohol delivered that morning.
“I got the weed and Xanax out of the storage room. It’s locked in the safe under the bar. It’s not enough, we’re gonna need more,” Con-man said distractedly, paying Dev no attention.
“Call Tank’s son at the lumberyard. See what he can get his hands on. You gonna be here when the Oklahoma club arrives this afternoon?” Dev asked, trying to make small talk as he went around the other end of the bar top and reached for a stack of unused burner phones and Mack’s truck keys. He grabbed a dusty old ball cap, an iPad, and a handful of cables and assorted USB adapters kept at the bar.
“Are they the ones comin’ this afternoon?” Con-man asked, pausing from stacking the Grey Goose on the shelf.
“How the fuck should I know who’s comin’?” Dev pivoted around. “What a dumbass question. Don’t you fuckin’ think I got more on my mind than which club’s arrivin’ when?”
He had to let the frustration go, move quickly before he got caught. Diesel was out on a wild errand and currently off his tail. He had to be due back soon, and Con-man’s dumb questions were taking far too much time.
For a guy who lived wild and free for the last twenty-five years of his life, having to dodge constant surveillance was a mind fuck.
Since his cell phone hadn’t rung, he figured Joe hadn’t noticed it missing from his body and maybe even bought the story that he was going to help paint—as if he’d ever do that. Now all he had to do was slide past Trace and the team parked slyly out on the road, watching every move the club made.
Dev got to the truck, adjusting the ball cap over his head, reaching for Mack’s aviators on the dashboard.
He settled into the seat, taking a good long look in the rearview mirror. The disguise wasn’t enough. Mack’s old style army jacket was in the seat next to him. It was awkward as hell, shrugging it on. Dev flipped the collar up to hide his tats.
Bikes rumbled toward the front of the building. His perfect diversion. He quickly started the truck, drove around the side of the building, waiting for the small cluster of bikers to take off.
To the annoyance of every one of them, Dev wormed his way in between the six or seven motorcycles. He kept his head turned away from the surveillance van parked across the street.
In the rearview mirror, he watched as the van stayed parked in its spot. It was shocking to his senses that he’d actually pulled off the plan. He bypassed the motorcycles and took the closest right turn, merging into traffic. He rode on the side streets, driving through neighborhoods, unsure how far-reaching Trace’s company’s traffic light tracking actually went. It took him a good forty-five minutes to go the fifteen miles to the storage unit next to their lumberyard in Duncanville, Texas.