Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75405 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75405 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
“Yeah. Something seemed wrong. He was headed toward your office.”
“I’ll check it out. Can you tell King I need to see him and tell him where I’m at?” This could be it. It also makes me feel better that Craven seems completely clueless. I know T had Craven at the top of his list, but the idea that my second in command might be in on all this was just something that hit me hard. A man needs to know he can depend on the men he appoints. It doesn’t help that I’ve wished I’d have given Grunt the position and always had regrets that I didn’t.
“Sure thing. I’ll do that now,” he says.
“Thanks, Craven. You and I need to catch up soon. I got some shit I’d like to talk to you about.”
“Like what?”
“I’d like to call a vote to have T brought in as a member. It seems we’re on our way to making an alliance with the Savage Brothers MC.”
“Fuck,” he mumbles. “Not sure how I feel about that, man. You know if the BMR’s find out all hopes of aligning with them will be blown to shit.”
“The Savage Brothers are bigger, and they have connections BMRR can’t touch,” I point out, getting annoyed all over again that Craven is pushing for an alliance with another club on the other side of the state. The BMRR is a piece of shit club and there’s not a one of those motherfuckers I trust.
Craven snorts and I don’t have time to deal with his bullshit. “Can you let King know? We can talk about this later. I want to see what’s going on with Sledge.”
“Sounds good. Going now.”
He walks off without looking back. I thrust my hand in my hair and push it out of my face. There’s nothing ever simple in this damn place. Some days I think of packing it all in. I feel my gun in my holster. I could be walking in on an ambush. I should wait for King, but I’m not going to. This is my motherfucking club and if they think they can get rid of me easily, they need to think again. When I get outside of my office, some of my wariness leaves. Tweet is standing there. He didn’t even enter my mind when it came to someone trying to get rid of me. Tweet is a computer genius, but he’s also a dull knife when it comes to commonsense. He acts like a kid—not a thirty-year-old—and it’s not intentional. It’s just who he is.
“Hey, Tweet. What are you doing here?”
“Boss, Sledge went into your office. He and Gina were fighting. I don’t know what was going on, but she stormed out and he refused to leave. I thought I’d stand out here in case you needed me. He looked mad. I wanted you to have some backup. I mean, it hasn’t been that long ago that your house was shot up.”
“Appreciate you lookin’ out for me.”
“That’s my job, Boss.”
I open the door and I’m on high alert. I don’t know whether to worry or be glad I have a man at my back. Suddenly, it doesn’t feel right. My point is proven when I hear the click of a gun. I hold my hands up and turn to look at Tweet. Damn, I have been blind and stupid. I wouldn’t have thought this motherfucker had the balls to pull this kind of shit. Once I face him, I do my best to shield the fact that I’m reaching into my cut to pull out my own gun.
“Tweet, man. What are you doing?” I ask.
“No hard feelings, Ford. I like you. You’ve been decent to me.”
“Then why are you doing this shit?” I ask as I secure my gun in my hand. I just need a couple more seconds…
“It’s not personal. I mean, hell, it’s a dog-eat-dog world out there. You’ve made enemies and they want you gone. Now, I don’t really care, but they’re giving me a hell of a lot of money and you know what they say, money talks.”
“I’ve heard that. You know what else I’ve heard, Tweet?”
“What’s that?” he asks, proving I was at least right about the fact he’s stupid.
“Dog shit drools,” I growl.
“What’s that even mean?” Tweet asks.
For an answer, I shoot the asshole in the gut. Tweet is a big motherfucker. The last I heard, he tipped the scales around four hundred pounds. He’s got a buzz cut and wears a baseball cap all the time. I figure shooting him in the gut is risky, but he might survive long enough to get the names of the people he’s working for. Besides, it’s the biggest target and right now that’s what is most important.
“You shot me,” the motherfucker says, like he can’t believe it. He falls back onto the floor, his hand capped over the wound while blood is flowing out like a small river.