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)
Though, tonight he could hardly feel his damn nuts as it was. It would only get worse as the weeks went on.
Rowdy, Decker’s task force contact, appeared out of the dark to stand next to him. “Viper ain’t here yet.”
Viper was the Demons’ president and Decker was damn sure he was a stand-up kind of guy. Of course he fucking was.
The Deadly Demons MC was set up differently than the Blue Avengers. Or even the Dirty Angels. The Pennsylvania-based BAMC was made up of regional charters, not chapters. Each charter had their own executive committee and was run independently.
Decker was a member of the Southwest Regional charter with Axel Jamison as current president. Fletch was their VP, Rez their sergeant at arms, Cross their secretary, Miller the treasurer and Finn the road captain.
In contrast, the Demons chapters—both Uniontown in Pennsylvania and New Philadelphia in Ohio—did not have their own officers. They answered to the executive committee of the Moundsville-based mother chapter.
From what Rowdy relayed, Viper, along with his VP named Screw, held on to their power with an iron fist. No one messed with them but they sure messed with everyone else. And not in a fun way.
They were ruthless.
It only took a whiff of a prospect or member stepping out of line or fucking the club over, and that Demon was handled with a quick fierceness. As in, they no longer existed. Or if they did survive, they probably wished they hadn’t.
Abracadabra, make this biker disappear. Only instead of a magic wand, they used tire irons or whatever else was handy.
Decker scratched his itchy as fuck beard and leaned heavily into his newly acquired biker-speak. “He gonna show up, yeah?”
“If he don’t, gonna track down Screw. Wanna beer?”
“Why the fuck not?” In truth, he’d rather have a massive mug of coffee to warm him up, but sipping coffee wouldn’t fly at one of these shindigs. Liquor, beer, pot and whatever else, was more this club’s speed. And he needed to fit in, even before shrugging on one of their prospect cuts.
Right now he wasn’t even considered a hang-around and he hoped like hell that wouldn’t be required before he’d be allowed to become a prospect. Some clubs had that stipulation. Worse, that informal “evaluation process” could take months or even years. Decker didn’t have time for that. Neither did the task force.
While they hadn’t required that of Rowdy and Goose, that didn’t mean shit. He hadn’t seen the Demons’ by-laws and it could very well be the club didn’t have any. How they handled shit could change every day if Viper wanted it that way. He couldn’t imagine that the DDMC gave a flying fuck about rules.
So, yeah, if Viper required Decker to hang with the club a while before they’d even consider making him a prospect, it could fuck up everything. He doubted hang-arounds had the same access or insider info as a prospect.
Rowdy elbowed him. “C’mon, it’s best you wander around and be seen. The more you talk to them, the better.” He jerked his chin up at another member wearing a Demons cut. “That’s my buddy Goose over there grabbin’ a beer. We got patched in at the same time.”
Decker took those words as meaning Goose was the second undercover TFO with the Demons.
As they approached him and a keg floating in a barrel full of melting ice, Decker was impressed with how well Goose blended in with the rest of the outlaw bikers.
His long, dirty blond hair was greasy, his raggedy beard reached halfway down his chest and he had a huge beer belly spilling out from between the flaps of his leather cut. But then Goose, like Rowdy, had been undercover for a year.
A lot could happen in that time.
Fuck me if I’m still in this assignment in a year and I’ve gone that far down the rabbit hole.
Rowdy introduced him to Goose with a knowing look. The UCO’s gaze sliced from Rowdy to Decker. “Beer?”
“Yeah.”
Goose lifted a Harley-Davidson travel mug. “Got a mug?”
“No. I need one?”
The “biker” jerked on the end of his bushy beard and when he laughed, his beer gut bounced. “They got ‘em. Just don’t recommend usin’ ‘em.”
Jesus fuck.
“‘Less you need help buildin’ your immune system.”
Beside Decker, Rowdy chuckled. “Yeah, learned early on to bring our own shit. Just look around and you’ll see why.”
He didn’t have to look around the yard edged with overgrown weeds and dead grass to know what they were saying was fact. The area around the bonfire, that included some disgusting couches and both broken and unbroken lawn chairs, was only made walkable due to boots crushing down the vegetation. He doubted this property had seen a lawnmower in at least a decade.
When they arrived earlier, they had also hoofed it through the farmhouse to get to the backyard. That gave him a good firsthand view of what it looked like inside. It was the kind of house that made you rethink eating at company parties or potluck dinners.