Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 109640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 439(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 439(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
That was for damn sure. “All right. Now you’re getting too goddamn mushy for me.”
“With Sasha, you got saddled with a rotten one. Just wait. When the right woman comes along—”
Crew cut him off. “Gotta go. Let me know about Hawg Wild.” He ended the call before Fletch could get in another word.
Chapter Twenty-Four
He decided he couldn’t wait for Fletch and Wilder to go to Hawg Wild. Not if he wanted his heartburn to subside.
He had sent Cabrera a few texts but they had all gone ignored.
That made him even more itchy over the whole situation. And the only way he would be able to scratch that damn itch was if he went to the outlaw biker bar himself.
He found a pair of his oldest, threadbare jeans that luckily still fit and pulled on a Harley T-shirt given to him by the dealership where he purchased Silver Foxy. Since it was still a bit chilly at night, he donned a black leather jacket. A light one that would at least cut the wind while motoring down the road but not give him swamp ass.
He left his DEA badge and ID at home but strapped on his ankle holster.
To stay anonymous, he temporarily replaced Foxy’s license plate with one assigned to the task force. He also grabbed a fake ID from the selection he kept at The Plant.
Before heading out, he tied a black bandana around the bottom portion of his face and strapped on his half-helmet. Since it was only on the cusp of being dark, he slipped on his mirrored sunglasses.
What might help him fit in more would be one of those enormous leather wallets with a chain attached to a belt loop that bikers tended to use. And maybe a pack of cigarettes or a container of chew shoved into the back pocket of his jeans.
But he had neither.
He only hoped like fuck the moment he stepped through the door at the Hawg Wild Saloon, he didn’t set off any alarm bells with either the Demons or their other fine cohorts. Because if he did, Cabrera would most likely have to break cover to help his ass out.
Or at least, he hoped she would.
When he finally pulled into the lot, he was greeted with lines and lines of bikes. For a weeknight, he was surprised to find the place packed.
Clearly the bar was doing damn good business. No surprise why the Demons wanted to buy it. Even without the drug sales, it had to be turning a healthy profit.
Unless they ended up running it into the ground like they did The Peach Pit. They did have the skill to take a diamond and crush it until it turned back into coal.
Truthfully, Crew didn’t give a fuck about their business sense, he was only there for one reason and one reason only...
The dark-haired woman with the dark eyes hustling behind the bar. He got brief glimpses of her smiling and talking with customers as she dropped off draft beers or opened bottles. She actually looked like she belonged back there. A real fucking natural.
The bar’s interior was deafening between the rock music and the talking and shouting in the attempt at being overheard above it. The crowd was made up of mostly men, but he spotted a few women here and there. Some wearing “property of” cuts and others hanging all over the nearest biker. Most likely vying for one of those prized ol’ lady cuts.
Crew didn’t get it, but then he didn’t live that kind of life. And that was what those types of MCs were, a whole damn lifestyle. He loved his brothers and he’d do anything for them since he considered them family. He’d also been part of the Blue Avengers long before the club split into separate charters. But his life did not revolve around his MC. He had a good career, as well as children he loved and wanted a better relationship with.
He couldn’t think about his kids right now. Instead, he kept his head on a swivel as he weaved his way around bikers and tables, as well as stray knocked-over chairs here and there to get to the bar, which was standing room only since every stool had an ass planted on them. And every damn customer sitting there wore a cut from a one-percenter club. Some club names he recognized, some he didn’t. He made a mental note to do some research on the ones unfamiliar to him.
He’d also tell Cabrera to keep a tally of which clubs hung out at Hawg Wild on a regular basis. It wouldn’t hurt to keep those kinds of stats.
If the Demons tried to undercut the Russos and they retaliated, he wouldn’t put it past La Cosa Nostra to find another outlaw MC to be their mules. They would need to use another criminal organization that was not the Mafia.