Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 111416 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111416 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
“Understood,” Fletch answered quickly, before Cross or Jamison put in their two cents and made things worse. “Again, you’re not our target. My partner and I won’t be digging around trying to come up with shit to nail any of you. We’re a drug task force and the Demons and their distribution ring will be our sole focus. Promise you that.”
“Promises can easily be broken,” Zak murmured.
Fletch could see the man’s reluctance, so he assured him, “Not if I can help it.” He stretched his hand across the long table. Zak would have to get up to shake it.
The biker at the head of the table only stared at it, then shook his head. “Too early for that. Once you get the vote. If you don’t, then no fuckin’ reason for us to cross palms.”
Fletch tipped his head in understanding. Zak did the same.
Right now they had each other’s respect. But it was extremely fragile and Fletch needed to make sure nothing fucked with it.
Or the task force could be fucked.
Hell, he and Nova could be fucked if they were deep undercover and the club turned on them.
Crew stepped up next to Fletch. “Seems we have a tentative deal, pending your members’ vote. Now… I have one last request…”
Chapter Eight
Nova stared through the passenger side window at the 2003 Harley Softail parked in the next spot.
After packing her bags, she had picked up her assigned silver 2005 Dodge Durango with almost two hundred thousand miles on it. How the wheels hadn’t fallen off yet, she didn’t know. The engine had a bit of a tap, the suspension squeaked and blowing on herself would cool her better than the air conditioning. The interior also smelled like an ashtray full of crushed Marlboro Light cigarette butts.
When Crew had held out the keys, she simply stared at him. He grinned and shrugged. “You know how this works.”
That she did.
The Durango was part of the DEA’s fleet of seized vehicles, along with the older Harley she had parked next to. Both vehicles were now officially registered to one Terry Parker, formerly known as Shane Fletcher.
She was no longer Nova Wilder, either. Instead, she now went by Sandy Douglas. At least for however long this particular undercover assignment lasted.
She raised her eyes from the Harley to the metal staircase that rose from the side lot of Shadow Valley Pawn to the second floor. A pawn shop owned by the Dirty Angels MC.
New day. “New” ride. New persona.
She sucked in a deep breath and when she released it, she blew out the real Nova Wilder and began her journey into turning into a biker babe. Or biker bitch, more like it.
Either way, an ol’ lady.
She gritted her teeth at that title.
To prepare, she had done a shit-ton of research on motorcycle clubs, including their structure, terminology and lifestyle. Also on their women, whether they were ol’ ladies, sweet butts, house mouses—she couldn’t imagine they were called house mice—or just female hang-arounds.
She had a hard time wrapping her head around why a woman would want to live in or deal with such a patriarchy. To be involved in an organization where they held no power. Where they were considered property of their ol’ man or even the club itself.
But then, she’d dealt with the same type of mindset when she went undercover with the Russo crime family.
Men held the power there, too. The women took care of the domestic duties—even if it only meant managing the household staff—and of themselves, to make sure they looked good on their husband’s arm. Just like a fucking expensive accessory.
Nova didn’t understand why those women cared so much about how they looked or how they dressed and accessorized. If they did it to keep their husbands from straying, they were wasting their time. While deep in the Russo organization, most of the men she’d been around didn’t know how to keep their dick in their pants. The whole reason she had targeted Russo Jr. was to get her borrowed high heels in the door.
If La Cosa Nostra was considered “upper” class, an MC was the exact opposite. No true biker was wearing a thousand dollar suit simply for a lunch meeting. They preferred denim and leather. They also weren’t wearing overpriced Clive Christian cologne. They smelled like exhaust, beer and weed with a hint of pussy.
Two different worlds. Same goals.
Power. Money. Territory.
All in the name of their “family.”
Like she did before she infiltrated the Russo family, Nova watched hours and hours of video of various outlaw MCs, the bikers and their women. From surveillance footage and interviews to court testimonies. She paid attention to how they moved, how they acted and how they talked.
With La Cosa Nostra, she had to act like she had class. With the MC, she’d have to act crass.