Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 63579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
My heart breaks for her, because it’s bad enough when you can’t get police to listen, but even harder when the child isn’t yours to begin with, so they take it even less seriously. It’s apparent that she adored Marcus, but nobody has listened to her pleas for help.
“I’m so sorry they didn’t listen to you,” I say, giving her a sympathetic smile. “Do you think they just didn’t want to look into it further?”
“I think Marcus didn’t matter to them, and they didn’t want to spend money and resources on a foster child. He’s not the only one to have gone missing in this area, and if you ask me, there is something more going on.”
I suspect as much, but I don’t tell her that.
“I have heard whisperings,” I admit, acting as though I don’t know a great deal about it. “I just figured that’s all they were.”
Shaking her head, Viv’s eyes narrow. “There have been a lot, and they really expect everyone to believe they all ran away? Isn’t it strange that they’re all boys and all of them were in the system? That’s not a coincidence.”
She’s absolutely right.
“Have you expressed your concern to the police?”
She shakes her head, sadly. “The police are just as much the problem in this town. No, sadly, nobody wants to hear what we have to say.”
“Well, you can rest assured that I’m going to do everything I can to bring this to the surface. I might not succeed, but I’m not going to give up until I’m certain I’ve explored every damned angle of this.”
Smiling, she reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Thank you.”
I finish up with her and then get into my car, writing down as much as I can so I don’t forget a single thing. Then, I make my way over to the club. I want to talk to Colt, because I want to know why a club so powerful, hasn’t done more in the last twenty years to bring these people down. I know they’ve got their fingers in plenty of illegal pies, so why haven’t they done something for Western?
It's his club now, sure, but before he got out, it was all on Colt.
Arriving at the club, I walk up to the gate, which usually has people standing around it. The gate is closed, but it isn’t locked, so I remove the chain and push it open, closing it once I’m in. Glancing around, I narrow my eyes. It’s quiet, and I can’t seem to see anyone milling around. Narrowing my eyes, I glance at the open roller doors and see there are a few people in there, mostly women, and one man. They’re all smoking and oblivious that I’ve just walked in. If they’re the protection right now, they’re doing a really shit job.
I move to the main house and find the front door locked, so, I walk around the side of the house, peering in the windows to try and see what the hell is going on. There are a heap of bikes here, so I know they haven’t gone for a ride. What else could they possibly be doing? I’ve done my research on clubs, mostly so I don’t seem ignorant, and I know they do a thing they call “Church” where they discuss whatever it is they discuss in a club. All the important things they plan on doing. It’s like biker club business meetings.
Women aren’t allowed.
In fact, women aren’t allowed in a lot when it comes to biker clubs.
If you’re an “old lady” then you’re considered gold to the man you’re with, but even then, you have your place.
It’s strange, but it works.
Reaching the back window, I use a pile of chopped wood by the door to push myself up so I can peer through. The large open area is filled with bikers, and on the floor is a huge roll of black plastic that is coating the entire floor. There are probably thirty bikers standing in the middle, surrounding something, and when one of them moves, my eyes widen.
There, on the ground, covered in blood and completely battered, I see something I never would have wished to see at any point in my young life, and certainly not coming from a man who I have come to care about. Western is standing, his large frame hovering over a man who looks like he has been beaten so badly he isn’t alive any longer, but when his arm twitches, I realize that he is.
Blood pours from his mouth as his body jerks, and that blood sprays all over the black plastic on the floor. My eyes widen even farther when Western reaches around and pulls out a gun from the back of his pants. As if in slow motion, my brain not comprehending what’s actually happening, Western points the gun at the man on the ground and pulls the trigger. The bullet whips through his skull, causing a spray of blood to explode from the side of his head.