Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 43787 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43787 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
I should be thinking about the shipment. My mind needs to be on the crates of guns waiting to be inspected. About the money this haul is going to bring in.
But all I can think about is the shootout at The Velvet Hall two nights ago.
Outsiders.
In Kings’ world. There isn’t an inch of Freedom Falls not influenced by the Kings. Who dares bring this shit to our door literally?
The entire situation still doesn’t sit right with me.
No one makes a move on Kings’ turf. Not unless they’ve got a death wish.
The steel doors loom in front of me, the heavy-duty lock already cut by one of my guys hanging, waiting for it to be pulled and tossed aside. A couple of the brothers stand nearby, waiting, tension thrumming in the air like an electric current.
I grip the handle, yank one of the doors open, and step inside. The space is packed tight with wooden crates, stacked neatly like an illicit Christmas delivery. It is a damn holiday for us. Crate upon crate, they are perfectly wrapped gifts with a motherfucking bow. The scent of treated wood, gun oil, and metal fills the air.
Crouching down, I pry the lid off one of the crates with a crowbar. Inside, layers of protective foam cradle rows of black-market firearms—pistols, rifles, a couple of sawed-off shotguns. My fingers skim the cool steel of a Glock, the weight familiar and steady in my palm.
"Clean," I mutter, checking the serials. Wiped smooth. Just the way we like them.
“Looks like the shipment’s solid,” Grit, our treasurer, comments from the doorway. He steps inside, running a practiced eye over the weapons. His long blond hair is pulled into a low tie, his face unreadable as he lifts a rifle, inspects the barrel, then nods. Profit margin is solid. Got this sold to West Virginia Kings. Transport is getting scheduled as we speak, Chux.
I snap the crate shut and push to my feet. “Good. Get ‘em counted, sorted, and ready to move. I don’t want this shit sitting around longer than necessary.”
Grit signals to the others, and the men move quickly, hoisting the crates and carrying them off the container one by one. This is just another day for us, another deal prepped, product in, and a final offload before the transaction to send these babies to their new home. The Kings run the port, and anything coming in or out that’s worth a damn moves through us. The money is good, the power even better.
But guns? Guns are just part of it. There isn’t a line we won’t cross, a parcel we won’t ship, and a dollar we will refuse.
I clench my jaw, the irritation from the strip club shootout crawling under my skin again. I still don’t know who the hell those guys were, what they wanted, and more importantly why they are here. They weren’t local. They weren’t ours. Some idiots rolled in like they thought they had a chance at taking from the Kings.
They didn’t.
And now they’re dead for it.
But that doesn’t mean I’m letting this shit go. Someone sent them, and I’m going to find out who. Those dead bodies were nothing more than foot soldiers. Whoever is on top will come tumbling down. A threat will always remain until the blood line behind it is eradicated or the reason behind it changes.
I stalk away from the container, my boots echoing against the pavement as I head toward another steel box, set further back from the others. From the outside, it looks like just another shipping unit, but the small vents welded into the upper corners tell a different story.
I step up to the heavy-duty door and knock twice.
A moment later, the lock disengages, and Looney, our enforcer, swings the door open. He gives me a nod, the ink of his full neck tattoo stretching and twisting with his movement. The drama mask tattoo under his left eye a reminder of how animated the man can be from time to time. The dim light inside flickers for a second, casting long shadows over the women at their tables.
They don’t look up. They never do.
The heat in the converted container is stifling, even with the vents worked into the steel. The air is thick with the scent of sweat, periods, and the acetone edge to the cocaine, but the women wear gloves, handling the product carefully as they measure, divide, and package the powder into neat smaller bricks, bagging some, and creating paste that will later be further diluted down for injection stacking them into manageable crates for transport.
This is the real money-maker.
Not the guns. Not the muscle.
Drugs are what keep the Kings of Anarchy at the top.
I step inside, rolling my shoulders as I take in the scene. The women—strippers, low-level girls from the clubs we own, and a few hookers who know better than to ask questions—move like a well-oiled machine. Each one is in her bra and panties, no pockets, no way to stash product without us knowing. We don’t even let their wear tampons on their periods. No reason for anything to be in any bodily canals. And yes, we search them before and after every shift. Period or not, their body is not a packing mule, they will be checked.