Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 117443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Fishtail whistled. “Right down to business,” he observed.
“That’s pretty much how I do things,” Jack agreed.
Fishtail nodded and took the assault weapon. He inspected it, looking like a kid on Christmas morning. Chris really didn’t want to think about the amount of damage this ‘kid’ could do with a crate full of AR-15’s.
The Buzzard’s second took the demo model back when Fishtail handed it to him.
“Well now,” Fishtail said. “Got your payment right here.”
Jack bid his second and Chris to follow him and the six men parted the sea of Kamploops Kings like the Red Sea in order to get to the back of the panel truck. Fishtail opened the back himself and Chris saw bricks of weed stacked on pallets.
Prior nodded his acknowledgement of the enormous amount of marijuana and Fishtail smiled again as Prior handed him the keys to the truck they’d escorted up from Rapid City. Fishtail handed over the keys, presumably to his truck. “Been a pleasure, then, Preacher.”
“Have to say I feel the same,” Jack replied.
Fishtail turned to close the door to the panel truck and that’s when Jack “Preacher” Prior, who was obviously no Preacher in any sense of the word, pulled out a glock from his waistband and fired one round into the back of Fishtail No-first-or-last-name’s head.
Before the younger man’s body could hit the ground, everyone went for their guns. Chris spun around, back to the truck and brought up his Eagle. Amid the shouting, the Buzzard’s second slapped a clip into the AR-15 and leveled it at the group of Kings directly in front of them. Remarkably, the King’s own second pulled out a 9 mil but before he could aim it at Prior, the King’s third man shot his co-hort in the neck. It was then that Chris realized that while every single person from the Buzzards and the Kings had a weapon at the ready, approximately two-thirds of the Kings were pointing their guns at the other Kings.
“Alright listen up!” the third shouted. “We got a lot to discuss.”
No shit, thought Chris. He risked a quick glance at Hawk and Easy both had weapons drawn.
“Now, I started this club,” Number Three announced. “It was me that got us the clubhouse, me that secured the deal with Montreal. You fuckers turned on me and voted this piece of shit,” here he kicked the limp body of poor Fishtail, “in as Prez. Well, I’m taking my club back. Right now.”
He nodded at Jack. “Got a supply line opened up. Ain’t gonna be no one-time deal. The Buzzards give us hardware, we pay in bud. Don’t gotta deal with that cartel shit on either end. And we got us a source supplying us to move east and start takin’ over territories.”
Chris groaned inwardly. Leave it to Jack to realize that the grizzled Number Three was just a Napoleon-in-Exile and exploit his need to regain power.
Number Three made it clear that the only vote was “yes” for the minority one third. Jack tipped his metaphorical hat at the man, tossed the keys to the panel truck full of weed to his own second and bid the Kamloops Kings good day. Chris, reluctantly, helped the Buzzard’s second to put his bike in the back of the panel truck and then walked to his own Harley.
He straddled his bike, grabbed his helmet, and glared at Prior as he put it on. In a low voice he asked, “What are the odds this place’ll be a mass grave after we leave?”
Prior shrugged. “Ain’t my problem. Got in, got out, got paid, and you kept your cool, like I knew you would.”
Chris ground his molars. “So we’re square.”
“Oh, we’re square.”
Prior signaled to the Buzzards to mount up and the group headed back out the highway. Chris didn’t spare a backwards glance for the poor sons of bitches they were leaving behind. At least they were one percenters, he told himself. They had to know what kind of life they were signing up for and that it might lead to an early grave.
At the first opportunity, Chris signaled to Hawk and Easy to break off from the pack. They took highway 12 to 73 South rather than share 85 with Prior and the Buzzards. At a rest stop, he called Tex to let him know that he didn’t need to grab Slick and high-tail it south and all was well. Or mostly well. Jimmy hadn’t said much after watching the murder of a guy his own damn age and Hawk was just as reticent. Neither of them appeared to be mad at Chris, though, and he thought that was something, at least. Tex could tell by the tone of his voice that while they may have made it through unscathed, Chris was definitely troubled. He knew better, though, than to ask over a cell phone for details.