Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126148 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 631(@200wpm)___ 505(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126148 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 631(@200wpm)___ 505(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Yeah, they’d had enough with their fellow uncle-brothers and brother-cousins disappearing. They were protecting the few who remained.
Shade had been right, though. They’d soon have to shut down the Clan Plan for the winter. The cover was getting thin and once snow hit the mountain, anyone going up there would stand out like a flashing beacon and make an easy target.
Rook would prefer not to get shot at. About as much as he preferred not to get dragged back to jail for breaking his current parole.
Which he did about every fucking day. Especially since he was trespassing right now and had not only a loaded Beretta tucked into the back of his waistband, but a ten-inch knife on his belt. He also had a joint tucked in his wallet. But he’d left that back in the Honda where he’d parked it in their hiding spot. The same spot where they’d found the crematorium’s van the night Shade got his head bashed in by an aluminum baseball bat.
Shade had built a good hidey-hole for the van, so they kept using it. Problem was, they’d been lazy and hadn’t used it the last time when Jet Bryson came across them. They weren’t making that mistake again. Because of that fuck-up she was sure to keep an eye on the area and had probably spread the word around their pig pen.
Five-o might be on high alert for any questionable activity on Copperhead Road.
For some reason, they didn’t fuck with the Shirleys, but they didn’t want anyone else fucking with them, either. Rook guessed they didn’t want anyone poking at the sleeping bear.
He ducked behind a bush that wasn’t so bushy any longer. But the night was dark since the moon was in hiding due to the cloud cover, so he doubted he’d be spotted.
Fuck, he hoped he wouldn’t be spotted. No matter what, he wasn’t moving. He was staying right where he was so he could watch what the fuck was happening in the main clearing tonight.
It wasn’t what he expected. Normally, if the women were working late, they were either making meth or reloads, or both. The men usually took care of the moonshine stills and assembling long guns out of parts they got from wherever the fuck they got them.
Buying rifle parts on the black market and putting them together to make semi-automatic or even fully-automatic weapons probably made them untraceable. Bonus, no ID and background check required like normal citizens trying to legally purchase a firearm. The Guardians of Freedumb didn’t believe they should have any kind of government identification, that it violated their freedoms.
What-fuckin-ever.
Whenever those inbred goat fuckers got tossed in the slammer, they were given something to identify them, whether they liked it or not. A mug shot, a set of prints in the system and an inmate number. It was easier to stay off the government radar if you didn’t get caught.
Not one of the snot monkeys spawned from Shirley loins were born in a hospital, had a birth certificate or a social security number. Not one.
So, yeah, no Shirley existed until they got caught doing something dumb.
Or dangerous.
Like making and selling meth. Making and selling moonshine.
Or fucking girls younger than the legal age of consent.
However, Manning Grove PD tended to turn a blind eye as long as the Shirleys didn’t bring their fuckery to town. What a bunch of goddamn hypocrites.
If Rook knocked up a fourteen-year-old, where’d he end up? In the joint.
If he made and sold moonshine? In the slammer.
If he made and sold meth? Behind bars.
If he drove a vehicle without a license, registration or insurance?
For fuck’s sake... With a cracked-open skull and a lack of memory along an interstate before spending a couple of years in juvie.
Once he got out, his father taught him a lesson the Dietrich way about stealing cars and getting caught. That lesson was almost as bad as the lesson the State Trooper taught him along Interstate 83 late one afternoon. Not quite, since Rook hadn’t woken up in a hospital when Dutch was through with him.
But one lesson his father did teach him was, when you make a fucking mistake you’d better learn from it.
Rook did.
Though, he made a few more mistakes before he got good with stealing vehicles.
However, his last bid in County had nothing to do with stealing a cage. Nothing at all.
But when he got sprung the last time, he was too old and too big for his old man to teach him a lesson about getting caught.
Dutch was too old, too. Not to mention, too fat and too focused on chasing tail to worry about what his oldest son had done. He no longer gave a fuck when Rook ended up in jail. In fact, now he expected it.
He wouldn’t even visit. Not once.
Didn’t matter. Why the fuck did he need family when he was doing a bid? He’d made plenty of “friends” inside.