Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 159500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 798(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 532(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 798(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 532(@300wpm)
Today’s job should be easy. We’re going to meet a new potential supplier of MDMA. Extremely minor league stuff, but we might be coming back with cargo, so it’s better if we go in force.
Minutes later, the whole chapter’s in the saddle, heading north like a swarm of hornets. I’m surprised when Puck leads us right, toward the territory claimed by the Vultures, but it’s not as if I can question him. Still, when we arrive on the narrow road that serves as a border between our territories, my hands stiffen on the handles, because it would have been easier and faster to go along the coast instead.
Dick-wagging—that’s all this is.
Fine. We do have a truce, so it’s not like I expect us to be shot at just for driving through here. The day is much sunnier than usual for May, the landscape of endless trees calms me, and if all goes well, no one will be reporting our presence here to the Vultures.
As far as I know, most of the Butchers are hungry for blood after my brother’s murder. Finding the killer is a point of pride, and the issue won’t be buried even if my recovery pushed us back in the search. Our bet is that someone from the Vultures knows about the deed.
Everyone knows Prophet is into some occult fuckery with that witch mother of his. At least I think she’s his mother, since I’ve heard her call him ‘son’. So the crow left inside my brother’s open chest was an obvious message to us. And yet they won’t admit it, even though only a dead vulture would have made their guilt more obvious.
All this means is that our truce won’t last. I don’t know when it’ll break down, but until then, I want to get my hands on Road’s body. Maybe he’s also worried about the fragile peace between our clubs, and that’s why he’s been so insistent about meeting up?
Cutting through the woods like a machete, we only pass a handful of cars, but about halfway through our journey, Puck raises his hand and signals everyone to slow down. I attempt to look ahead, but the sun’s blinding me despite the dark goggles I’m wearing, so I follow his example and brake. I’m practically motionless by the time I notice a familiar motorcycle parked on the side of the road. Sloppily sprayed with neon blue and red paint, it’s the pride and joy of Rooster, the Vulture Hollow MC prospect. Blood runs cold in my veins, but it’s too late. We’re all parked, and he somehow hasn’t spotted us yet.
My first thought is that he’s hiding, not knowing how to deal with this unexpected confrontation, but I soon spot his blood-red mohawk a bit farther between the trees. Facing away, he’s rolling his head to a fast rhythm and bends down every now and then to pick something up from the ground.
Is he… gathering mushrooms?
“Puck? What’s the plan here?” I ask, taking off my helmet, but the impulsive ass is already headed Rooster’s way. In that way, he’s much like Roadkill. Just much uglier.
My call does grab the prospect’s attention though, and like his namesake, he straightens his neck and looks around. As soon as he spots us, he pulls out his phone, wide-eyed, and plucks something out of his ear. What a fucking idiot.
But despite initially freezing like a deer in the headlights, he stuffs his phone down his pocket and puts away both of his earbuds. The shake of his hands is unmissable even at a distance, but soon, he’s nonchalantly walking back to the road, as if he wants to demonstrate how little he’s affected by the pack of predators surrounding him.
“You guys wanna piss? Go ahead. Was just about to ride back,” he says and attaches a little baggie to his belt.
I don’t care about this piece of trash, but I don’t want to lose our truce with the Vultures over him.
Grizzly leans toward me. “He might just be a prospect, but he’ll know something.”
“Whoa there! We just have a few questions,” Puck says, and stands between Rooster and his bike.
There’s one of him and ten of us. He better talk if he knows what’s good for him.
The kid’s eyebrows rise, and his lips form a silly ‘O’. “Ah, okay, I get it. So, like, when you want to start the ignition, you’ve got to turn this key—”
I grab Puck’s arm before he can launch his fist at the damn kid and make a little swirl with my fingers, prompting all my brothers to form a circle around him. And there it is—that stiffness in Rooster’s shoulders, the sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air. He knows there’s no way he can escape this without losing face.
So he stays and meets my gaze.