Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 121728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
However, acting on that attraction could fuck things up.
His top priority was Val and his baby girl’s needs came before any of his own. Val needed someone to be home and to take care of her when he couldn’t be.
She nodded. “Yes, I should go to bed. Goodnight, Decker.”
“Goodnight, Sloane,” he whispered after she disappeared from the kitchen.
“Ain’t this on the edge of the Dirty Angels’ territory?” Decker asked Buster, the Demon in charge of Pizza Town.
He didn’t need an answer because he already knew Connellsville kissed the area where the Angels controlled. The Demons were really pushing their damn luck.
With good reason, the DAMC did not want anyone selling drugs or even running them through their territory. Doing so could spark a war.
He’d have to check with Fletch to see if there’d been any chatter among the Angels in regards to the Demons crowding them.
Buster shrugged his heavy shoulders as he led Decker into the back.
He reworded the question. “They aware the Demons are settin’ up shop here?”
“No fuckin’ clue. Viper and Screw deal with that shit, not me. Just doin’ what I’m told. And you’re gonna do the same. Got me?”
Decker matched the man’s energy. “I’m here, ain’t I?”
Buster grunted in answer. He pointed toward a metal locker right outside a tiny office. “Put your cut in there. From here on out, take it off before you come in. We need this place to look like it’s just a fuckin’ pizza shop. No club talk. Nothin’. We sell pizzas and hoagies.”
With a side of meth and pot.
“We don’t want anyone tyin’ this shop back to our MC. It might put it on the fuckin’ pigs’ radar.”
Too late, dipshit.
Decker shrugged out of his prospect cut and stored it in the locker. “You ain’t worried about the Angels findin’ out and comin’ in here shootin’ shit up?”
“The Angels are a buncha fuckin’ pussies. They ain’t gonna do shit.”
Decker knew for a fact that wasn’t true. The Dirty Angels might have a slick way about how they dealt with threats, but they certainly weren’t pushovers. They definitely wouldn’t back down from protecting their own, as well as their territory. And when they did it, they were going to do it quietly and effectively.
From what Decker knew, the Deadly Demons stood on their own. They might have three chapters, but they were small when compared to the well-established Angels, especially with the other clubs they had at their back. Those powerful allies being the Dark Knights MC and Blood Fury MC. Those three clubs banding together created a biker army no one should ever think about fucking with.
Not if they wanted to continue to breathe.
The Shadow Warriors learned that the hard way. By becoming extinct. While fuzzy, Decker didn’t need to know the details to figure out what happened to that nomad MC. And who caused their demise.
The only reason the DAMC’s president, Zak Jamison, agreed with Fletch and Wilder going undercover with them was to use the task force as a tool to take down the Demons without getting shit splashed back on their club.
Their prez was well-seasoned, smart and level-headed, unlike Viper.
“So, what the fuck am I gonna be doin’ here? Don’t know shit ‘bout makin’ pizza.”
“Got employees dealin’ with that shit. That ain’t why you’re here.”
“Then why am I here?” When it came to this MC, playing dumb was always the smartest play.
“What did Wolf tell ya?”
“Said somethin’ ‘bout makin’ deliveries. Already got a decent job that pays the bills. Givin’ that up to only make tips ain’t gonna cut it.”
“If you do what you’re told and don’t question shit, it’ll be good for you.”
Bullshit. The money they made from meth, or even by selling pot, only benefitted the patched members. Prospects probably earned crumbs and did most of the work. “In scratch?”
“Yeah, in scratch. Ain’t just the tips. You do what you’re told, you’re gonna get a cut of whatever we sell outta this location.”
Decker scratched the back of his neck and plastered a dumb look on his face. “What’re we sellin’ besides food?”
Buster stared at him. “You don’t know?”
“Fuck no. Wolf said show up here. I showed up here.”
“Gonna be movin’ ice. A bit of bud, too.”
“Ice,” Decker repeated, acting like this was the first he heard of it. “The good shit, not the cold shit?”
Buster snorted. “Hoped Wolf wouldn’t stick me with a dumb fuck. Shoulda known fuckin’ better.” He sighed, planted a hand on his hip and shook his head. “Look, it ain’t rocket science. We get a fuckin’ order. We fill that fuckin’ order. You deliver that fuckin’ order and collect the fuckin’ scratch. Bring the fuckin’ scratch back here. Any idiot can do it, even you. The more orders you deliver, the more you make. You wanna pay your bills, you hustle. You deliver, you get back here. No detours. No skimmin’. You get caught takin’ your own cut, whether in product or scratch, you’ll be meetin’ your fuckin’ maker long before that appointment is scheduled.”