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)
Looney watches from the side, arms crossed over his chest, keeping an eye on them.
I glance at him. “Any issues?”
“None,” he says, his voice gruff. “Product came in pure. We’ll have everything packaged by morning.”
I nod, but my jaw is still tight, my blood still running hot.
Because while the money’s flowing and business is running smooth, something isn’t right. We came under fire in the least opportune location. There wasn’t nearly as much to gain in shooting any of us at the club. A few thousand in cash is all anyone would have gotten off of our dead bodies. And anyone with half a brain would know even if they did manage to kill us all, within days more Kings would be swarming the area stepping in to fill the gaps on our business.
Someone came looking for a war.
And they picked the wrong fucking town. It might take me some time to find out who, but I’m going to and then I’m going to end them all.
“Headed out, gonna sleep today, then I’m offline ‘til the run is complete overnight.” I tell Looney who nods already knowing what is on the schedule for today.
Taking off, I head home, crash for a few hours, then ready myself to ride.
The deep rumble of ten Harleys fills the humid night air as we roll out of town, two blacked-out cargo vans trailing behind us. The stretch of highway leading into Louisiana is dark, only the glow of our headlights and the occasional flicker of passing signs breaking through the night.
This is routine. This is business.
We move as a unit—tight formation, no bullshit. The Kings don’t do messy. We don’t do reckless. The last thing we need is some eager cop pulling us over because one of the boys got twitchy on the throttle.
I ride near the front, my bike making a steady growl beneath me. Mellow is just behind me, his gaze locked on the road. Riot brings up the rear, making sure the vans stay in line. Inside those vans, the crates of guns from a previous shipment are packed tight, locked up, waiting for delivery.
Louisiana is a beautiful state. The storage unit we’re headed to is just off the interstate, tucked in an industrial park where no one asks questions. It’s safer that way—quick drop, no unnecessary contact. We’re moving this shipment for the Central Texas chapter. They handle their own distribution. We just make sure they get what they need.
Two hours later, we pull into the lot, the bikes rolling to a stop. The vans park just behind us, engines idling for a moment before shutting off. I swing off my bike and roll my shoulders, stretching out the tension from the ride.
“Let’s move,” I say, jerking my chin toward the unit.
Riot and Mellow move to unlock the storage unit while the others grab the crates. The metal door screeches as it rolls up, revealing an empty space just big enough for the load. The men work fast, stacking the crates inside, lining them up against the back wall.
I check my phone once we’re done, pulling up my contacts before hitting Madman’s number.
The president of the Central Texas chapter picks up on the second ring.
“Chux,” he answers, his voice rough from years of whiskey and smoke.
“Drop’s made,” I say. “Storage unit off I-10, outside Baton Rouge. Unit one two one six, backside of Custard’s lot.”
We regularly use storage facilities for drops so we aren’t interacting with each other directly. This way my club makes the drop under the circumstances we feel good about, and our receiving club can manage their pickups. If either side gets caught it doesn’t take out two chapters at the same time. The way I see it, if any of us have to do time for the club, so be it, but the more I can minimize the risk to having all of us locked up at the same time, the better.
“Code?”
“King. Your boys can pick up whenever.” I tell him which means to enter the unit, the keypad code is 5-4-6-4 which spells king on a traditional phone keypad.
There’s a pause on the line before Madman lets out a low chuckle. “Smooth as always.”
“You know it.”
“Grit will have the cash within the hour. Stop at Mama RiRi’s for breakfast. My man will drop the cash in his saddlebags while you eat.”
“Pleasure doin’ business with ya, Madman.” I murmur giving a nod to Grit all is a go. This is our regular set up with this chapter. The more casual any tradeoff is the better. Movies make shit look wild. No smart outlaw wants to attract attention to a transaction. The less we can be seen together, followed and connected, the better.
“You need extra coverage ‘til you sort the other day?” He offers since this order was delayed a little bit. Our plan was the day after the shooting make this drive. I was still pissed about getting shot at and told Madman a little bit along with rescheduling the drop.