Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 105803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
St. Boniface doesn’t need the kind of changes developments will bring to a town that has been famous for its quiet historic streets and sleepy coastal vibe for more than a hundred years.
“We’ll keep an eye on the situation, but I think we made our point,” I say.
“You think those fuckers have anything to do with Dodger’s death?” Axe asks.
“Disappearance,” Viking reminds him with a dark growl. “We don’t know he’s dead.”
Lars looks at his father. “His bike was found at the bottom of the cliffs. His cut has washed up. He’s dead.”
Viking looks unconvinced. He’s the only man in this room who thinks there is still a chance Dodger will show up one day. He folds his big arms across his chest. “I still don’t believe it.”
“Because you don’t want to. But this club was Dodger’s life, old man. He wouldn’t stay away by choice.”
Viking’s fist meets the table beneath it with a bang. “Then why don’t we know what happened to him? Bram has hacked into every damn street camera from the night he disappeared, and we still don’t know a goddamn thing.”
“Viking has a point,” Gambit says. “In light of what has just happened with Gaston, is it possible he had something to do with Dodger’s death?”
“Disappearance,” Viking rumbles.
It’s very possible. Because my brother is as unpredictable as my father was, and everyone in this room knows it.
“There is nothing to suggest he was even with him the night Dodger disappeared,” I say. “Law enforcement believes he rode off the cliff. Perhaps it’s time we do too.”
“Fuck the cops.” Viking crosses his arms again, his face twisted into a scowl. “Someone knows what happened that night.”
“And if they do, then we will find them,” I reassure him. “But until then, we need to keep moving ahead.”
Lars leans forward and rests his inked forearms on the table. “And what about Gaston?”
The club knows what he did. Knows he broke the code we live by and not one of them was surprised. I didn’t need their vote to throw him out of the club. But even if I did, not one man would object.
“He’s now a Nameless Man. Let’s not talk of him and what he did. His name is not to be spoken in this clubhouse.”
I remove a baggie from the breast pocket of my leather cut and throw it on the table. Inside is a yellow-white powder. On the outside is a logo of a skull and crossbones, with a bulging eye protruding out of one of the eye sockets. It’s the phantasia logo. Our phantasia logo. But what is inside the bag is definitely not our product.
“What is this?” Viking asks.
“One of our patrols picked it up from an overdose they came across in Devil’s Kitchen last night. It’s a phantasia knock off.”
The mood in the room changes. Phantasia is our largest trade. The only true phantasia berries are grown on clubhouse grounds. Eaten fresh, they taste like a sweet berry. Added to drinks, they make the flavor out of this world.
Dried and ground up into a powder, they can get you higher than cocaine and give you a better orgasm than ecstasy.
It’s also not addictive. Which makes it more appealing than narcotics and alcohol.
For more than a hundred years, the Knights have sold phantasia exclusively. The formula is a carefully guarded trade secret. Only a sworn Knights alchemist and the president know the recipe, and it’s a recipe that hasn’t changed since the beginning.
Decades ago, a rival gang saw the potential in the trade and decided to move in on our territory. Coke was too hard to get, and the phantasia berry grew wild throughout St. Boniface, so this rival gang brought war to our doorstep by trying to take over our trade.
After we decimated them, our alchemist at the time wanted to ensure nobody else could produce true phantasia except for the Knights and so he spread a virus through every plant that grew outside of the clubhouse grounds.
The virus destroyed the DNA structure so no one could replicate the effects of pure phantasia. It’s kept our recipe pure in the decades since.
The logo on the front of the baggy tells me someone has either reused the bag, or someone is synthetically creating their own phantasia. And it’s deadly.
“Our patrols haven’t seen anyone dealing,” Lars tells the men in the room.
“Which means they’ve missed them,” I add. “Someone is feeding this shit to our townspeople.”
Lars brings his bright blue gaze to me. “I’ve increased patrols, and we won’t stop until we find the dealers.”
Lars is the club enforcer and a damn good one.
Bear picks up the baggy and holds it up to inspect it. “It’s yellow,” he says with a look of disgust.
“And it’s deadly,” I add.
“Do we know what effects it brings on?” Ryder asks.