Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 73311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 367(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 367(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Once I made it to my bike, I started stuffing my saddle bags with all of my belongings, happy when I realized it would all fit.
What I wasn’t happy about, though, was the fucking spray-painted white gang sign that was on my seat.
“Mother. Fucker,” I growled the moment I saw it.
How I hadn’t caught it before was a miracle.
Now that I was looking at it, it was unmistakable.
I was just about to run back inside when the distinct sound of gunfire filled the air.
Automatically, I crouched down low, my eyes scanning the area as I took everything in at once.
The prison was located in the heart of the town, though that wasn’t intentional at the time.
The prison had been here first, and then all the other places followed it.
On one side of the road was a gas station with about four people filling up their vehicles. All of which were staring around, wide-eyed, as they tried to figure out what that sound was.
Most of them likely thought it was fireworks since it was the day before the Fourth of July, but they’d be wrong.
There was a distinct difference in sound when it came to a gunshot and fireworks.
Those that didn’t regularly hear the sound of gunfire likely wouldn’t be able to make that distinction in the middle of the city, a place where one shouldn’t be hearing gunfire.
Me…well, I knew.
Across the street from the gas station was the elementary school—which, thank God, was out for the summer.
To the left of the prison stood the strip mall where about five buildings stood.
People were milling around that like nothing was amiss.
To the right of the prison was Druids.
At least there, people were paying attention.
Druids was owned by the club, and most all of the workers at Druids were working there part-time. Their day jobs consisted of cops, firefighters, a few businessmen, a nurse, a doctor, a teacher and a bladesmith.
The two outside were Truth and Tommy Tom. Truth was the bladesmith/teacher, while Tommy Tom was the doctor.
They were both crouched down much like me, staring around, trying to get a gauge on where the hell the gunshot had come from.
Then the barking started, causing me to turn in the direction of the barking.
That’s when I saw it.
A Caucasian male about 18-25 years old, five-foot-eleven-inches and about two hundred pounds, was running up the sidewalk trying to shove something back into his pants that were falling down around his knees.
Tattoos or some sort of Roman numerals ran up and down the length of his arms. His face was also sporting ink, and I grimaced before I took off from behind my cover.
The barking continued, and I wondered if maybe the dog was struck with the bullet, but I kept my eyes on the man.
Walking quickly, I stepped right out in front of him, causing him to hit me with the full force of his body. He pitched over my extended leg and fell into a heap on the ground, staring up at me in stunned silence.
“What did you do?” I asked him.
Right around the time I finished the question, screams started to fill the air.
High, panicked ones that clearly said that something was very, very wrong.
My eyes flicked up to the sidewalk where he’d just come running from, and my stomach sank.
By the time my eyes flicked back down, it was to see the man trying to reach his right hand into his pocket.
“No,” I snapped. “I don’t think so.”
I stepped on his wrist, stilling his movements.
“Move another inch and I break this wrist,” I told him. “Did you shoot him?”
I gestured to the man that was laying on the concrete about fifty yards away. The beautiful German Shepherd at his side, barking so loudly that it echoed off the buildings around us.
Tommy Tom made it to the man that’d taken the bullet—the man who was way too still—and I gritted my teeth, hoping for a good sign of some sort from Tommy Tom. But the only thing I got was a shake of his head.
My breath froze in my chest.
The kid tried to yank his hand out from under my boot, and I did the only thing I wanted to do, which was transfer my weight to the foot that was holding the man’s wrist down.
With a quick twist and grind, the satisfying crunch of the man’s wrist snapping filled the air.
The man screamed.
The entire scene took less than a minute, tops.
But it was enough for me to realize three things.
One, this man was about to be in a world of hurt.
Two, the rest of the police department was, too.
Because the man who was shot, and just pronounced dead by Tommy Tom, was a police officer.
One of the oldest and most experienced on the entire force.
And three, The Dixie Wardens MC, all two thousand strong, were about to go fucking berserk.