Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 132031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 660(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 660(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
His mother stumbled and sputtered her words, nothing coming out as clear language, as she scampered down the staircase.
Dev tossed his hands in the air again, this time in disregard when neither of his parents could form an intelligent word. He turned away, heading the few steps back to his shop. Done with this. “You can trust, when this club is mine, old man, your fucked-up chaos is done. I don’t fuckin’ care who you want where. Diesel. Second? Fuck you very much. Doesn’t change the facts. When you’re dead, all this is mine. Could you die today, please?”
He didn’t even want the club, he just wanted to see exactly how red his old man’s face could get. Maybe push Fox into cardiac arrest, thinking about the disappointing Devilman taking over his legacy.
At the door of his parlor, Dev turned back to see his mother barreling down on his furious father. He gave the scene a final blow.
“And to get it straight in your fucked-up head, I’ve never been second. When I decide to be around, I’m in the back, standin’ by my brothers who’ve been treated like shit by your fucked-up selective tradition. You just ensured, I will become prez and shit’s gonna change faster than the dirt can hit your coffin.” Dev raised both hands in the air, giving a double bird salute, flipping his old man off.
“You swore to me you’d be discreet,” his mother screamed, picking up a tire iron off the ground as she got within feet of his father. Dev lifted his eyebrows, impressed. She was physically fit where his old man had turned decrepit. She had a solid chance.
More shit started flying toward Dev, causing him to have to dodge the projectiles. His father raged about Dev, ignoring the real threat as far as Dev was concerned. “Old lady, this is your fault. You let him act however he wants.”
His mother screamed a warrior’s yell and started beating on his father. “My children know what you’ve been doing to me?”
Dev ducked inside the ink parlor, knowing he’d need a moment to regroup before he picked up his tattoo machine again. He worried his young client heard the brutality of this particular fight. He closed the door behind him.
Birthday girl yawned at him and smiled, barely looking up from her phone. Her earbuds were in her ears. She looked content as hell and completely oblivious to the turbulence in the other room.
Shit, he needed a hit off the Xanax she was on. Seemed like powerful stuff.
“Hang tight a little longer,” Dev murmured. She just stared at him. He decided on sign language and lifted a finger toward her. She nodded.
He ducked out of his shop again, bypassing the destruction he’d incited a moment ago. At this point, one of the mechanics was pulling his mother off his father. She’d drawn blood based on the scratches to his face.
He let them go at it and went toward the parking lot, fist flying forward, violently fighting the air, wishing he’d landed one on his old man. Sent his loser ass to the ground. Allowed himself to redefine the hierarchy through his fists.
Then he’d decide what place to allow his old man to ride in.
Chapter 10
This felt closer to right than anything else he’d done since landing on Texas soil.
The federal government’s DOJ had extensive and researched procedures and rules in place for a reason. They were designed to keep every person they employed protected and safe.
As an agent, Cash knew the boundaries he needed to keep this case within. If he stepped outside of those rules, documentation and reasoning had to be given as soon as humanly possible. It kept everyone on the same page. When those lines blurred, or got crossed for whatever reason, it was damn hard to get the structure back.
No, the AG’s office hadn’t been forthright with the intel on the utter chaos inside this case. The reason was clear. His approach needed an unbiased level head in order to assess the ground operation. But at least in this moment, inside the field office of the Dallas DEA, Cash felt closer to normal than he had since the beginning.
He’d become concerned it was going to be him against an entire inept regional office.
Today’s meeting gave him access to the six-person team who were in-office personnel, officially assigned to monitor all of the DEA’s field activity on the Disciples of Havoc. These were the information keepers. The place where the mounds of intel on the Disciples was professionally structured and held securely, ready for whoever had proper clearance and wanted to dig in. It appeared this team worked like a well-oiled machine, in direct contrast to the undercover operatives out on the street.
Cash sat at an eight-foot table, in a secured, smaller room, filled to capacity with six semi-private cubicles. A young intelligence specialist, Ben Cross, gave a refresher on the surveillance gear to be planted inside Dev’s apartment. Training he’d had many times over the years.