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)
The next text he sent was to Crew, giving him a quick heads up as to what was going on and where he was headed. The man could track him on the cell phone assigned to him by the feds.
Not five minutes later, when he was heading down a dark country road in the direction Google advised him to travel, his phone vibrated on the passenger seat.
He figured it was Crew and was surprised when it wasn’t. It was Sloane.
He pulled into a dirt pull-off to read the message. I have things covered here.
Appreciate that. Sorry if I woke you.
Thank fuck she agreed to help him with Val. Otherwise, he might have had to make excuses to get out of this trip. In turn, that might’ve shined a suspicious spotlight on him after stating he was willing to do anything to get his club colors.
Instead, him being able to jump on this opportunity might reduce the time and effort needed for the investigation. The sooner it was over and the sooner the task force could be dissolved, the sooner they could all go back to their normal lives.
You didn’t. Watching TV. Can’t sleep.
He glanced at the time on the dashboard and grimaced at how late it was. He quickly typed out, Will give you an update when I can.
Be careful, came her answering text.
Always.
He took his foot off the brake pedal and went to track down a Demon named Chewie.
Decker hoped to fuck that the “truck” Chewie drove was a tractor-trailer combo that was scheduled to pick up a load of cilantro.
Chapter Sixteen
“You own this rig?” Decker asked Chewie as they motored down I-64 outside of Lexington, Kentucky.
“Kinda.”
“What does that mean?”
Chewie grabbed a soda can, put it to his lips and spit his chew juice into it. If Decker had to guess, chewing tobacco was probably how the Demon got his road name. The man had a wad of tobacco tucked in his bottom lip since the moment Decker found him along with the eighteen-wheeler parked in a lot secured by chain-link fencing out in the middle of Nowhere, West Virginia.
“Means the club bought it and put it in my name,” the biker answered.
“Damn. That’s a sweet fuckin’ deal. You only do runs for the club, then?”
“Fuck no. Do this full-time to make scratch.”
“All that scratch goes in your pocket?”
“Some. The rest goes into the club’s till. That’s the price for having them buy the rig. Worth it, though. Never coulda got one on my own.”
Decker scratched a thumbnail across his forehead. While he wanted to extract as much information out of Chewie as possible during this trip, he had to be careful and do it without getting made.
It would suck to be outed so far from home.
He noticed the man kept very close to the speed limit. “Can’t this thing go any faster?”
“Tryin’ to avoid catching those beady pig eyes.”
Going the speed limit wasn’t the only tactic Chewie used to avoid traffic citations or roadside inspections. With the way they’d hop off the interstates, hit some back roads and highways before merging back on simply to avoid weigh stations or DOT inspections, a shitload of time would be added to this already torturously long trip.
Decker guessed it would normally take around twenty-four hours to get from West Virginia down to the border. Of course, that was the travel time without any damn stops. Worse, he had no idea exactly where in Texas they were going. The Lone Star State was huge.
Add in load time and the return trip, along with a few quick stops at truck plazas for piss breaks and to grab grub, they might be on the road for at least three days.
Three fucking days in an old Peterbilt with a broken seat spring poking him in the ass every time they hit a damn pot hole or speed bump.
Chewie also wanted to avoid the “pigs” inspecting his log books. He had to be on something to keep him awake for the whole trip there and back.
Great.
His eyes slid over to the cell phone clipped into a holder attached to the dashboard. “What’s that app you’re usin’?”
Decker glanced back over at the biker, whose belly bumped against the steering wheel.
“Tells me what weigh stations are open.” Chewie spit more tobacco juice into the can. It had to be close to full by now.
And every time Decker got a whiff of it, he wanted to gag like the woman sucking Screw’s dick.
If it spilled, he was diving out the window head first.
“Why you need to avoid the weigh stations?” he asked, pretending he was clueless. “We’re empty right now.”
“Ain’t about the weight.”
“Then why keep detourin’ and addin’ all this extra travel time?”
“Less fuckin’ headaches. Gotta avoid DOT inspections. If this truck gets yanked off the road, nobody’s gonna be happy when the load ain’t picked up or delivered on time.”