Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 125531 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 502(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125531 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 502(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
“Before we break, you know what we need to do…” Trip started. “From the ashes we rise…”
The prez raised his arms and the rest of them raised their voices to call out, “For our brothers we live and die!”
Whip hoped to fuck none of them had to die.
He had complete confidence that Trip and Judge would do their best to keep that from happening.
Chapter Two
Whip let up on the throttle of the bike he was currently straddling. He refused to call it a sled because it was a Yamaha. A “real” sled was a Harley Davidson or even an Indian. American made. With a deep rumble that could make a woman squirm.
He grinned as the customer’s bike slowed. Leaning over slightly, he listened carefully to make sure the tapping noise from the engine was gone.
Fuck yeah, it was. He was a pro at fixing anything with an engine, two wheels and handlebars.
Dutch always rode his ass by calling him an “idiotic savage” instead of an “idiot savant,” even though Whip knew deep down inside the old man secretly appreciated his mechanical skills.
Was he an idiot? Sometimes. But wasn’t everyone? Neither Dutch or his two sons, Rook and Cage, were any kind of geniuses, that was for damn sure.
The ball busting was to be expected and nobody took offense. To work at Dutch’s, thick skin was required. Actually, more like Teflon. Quick reflexes were also needed to avoid getting clocked by a flying wrench when Dutch lost his shit.
The Yamaha, owned by a long-time customer, was old enough to be a classic and came into the shop regularly. Usually the customer brought it in right before riding season for Whip to go over it from fender to fender to make sure it weathered the winter okay. But this time when he started it, the engine had a little rat-a-tat-tat.
Now it was as quiet as a mouse. Dutch would be happy that it had been a quick fix so Whip could move on to the next repair on his clipboard.
Every time one of them had to take a vehicle on a long test drive, they’d been taking it out of town, down Copperhead Road and past the lane heading up Hillbilly Hill.
They didn’t drive up the lane but if they spotted any activity from the road, they immediately notified Trip or Judge, who were working on some sort of plan they had come up with after that last church meeting.
So far, they hadn’t shared that plan with the rest of them yet.
They said they would once it was solid. Whip had no reason to doubt that.
He twisted the accelerator again and sped out of town. He wore his baseball cap backwards so he wouldn’t lose it and dark shades protected his eyes from the sun, bugs and debris as he shot down the back country road, heading toward the mountain.
Every time he approached that dirt lane with the multitude of hand-painted, grossly misspelled “no trespassing or else” signs, the little hairs on the back of his neck stood and ice slithered down his spine. Today was no different, even though the weather was warming up.
Spring was in the air and the organized, now bi-monthly club runs had started back up. Something they always all looked forward to since it was a time to relax and bond with their brothers. Every club run reminded him of a family reunion, especially now that the family was growing like crazy.
He turned onto Copperhead Road and slowed down again, his eyes scanning the woods as he rode. The trees weren’t full of leaves yet, but they would be soon, making it more difficult to see anything on that hill.
Even when the trees were bare, the compound was too far up to see it from the road. But for now? They were looking for anything out of the ordinary or even men hidden in the woods with long guns that would poke a few holes through him or his brothers.
Whip already had enough holes in his body, he preferred not to add any extra.
Once the Shirleys were gone, the club should buy the property. He doubted the deed was in the Shirleys’ name and if it was, they certainly didn’t pay any fucking property taxes since they believed taxation was theft.
Maybe the Fury could buy it from the county for the back taxes owed. He’d have to suggest that to Trip or Sig. If the club owned it, then nobody could rebuild on it. And by nobody, he meant the Shirleys or any other clans from the stupid as fuck Guardians of Freedumb.
Once the mountain was safe and secure, it would be kind of cool to build a place up there in the woods instead of dropping a modular home on top of a foundation in the little neighborhood that was growing on the farm. The field on the other side of the tree line was turning into a mini-suburbia. He expected white picket fences and swing sets to appear next.