Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 130761 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 654(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130761 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 654(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
“What the fuck do you want?” the fucker demanded.
“Here on a rec from Beau Ayers,” I replied casually. I held out my doctored Aryan Brotherhood card Tanner had forged, and the ’roid-head took it from my hand.
He checked my name then leaned in, beckoning with his fingers for the others to hand over their cards. He took the cards into his small office. I watched with rapt attention as he entered the numbers and names into a computer.
“Cowboy?” Vike said under his breath. Cowboy frowned at Vike and his totally inappropriate timing. “That pineapple-cum thing? Does eating it really make your juice taste the shit?”
“Vike,” I hissed. I grabbed his arm and wrenched him to sit forward in his seat.
“What?” he asked. “If it’ll get more club sluts munching on my junk, like my love juice is pumped with piña colada, then you bet I’ll be eating my weight in the good stuff!”
I kept my hand clenched on the wheel, subtly lashing out and slamming my fist into Vike’s thigh as the ’roided fucker came back.
“Marines?” he asked. I nodded.
“Sniper.” I clocked the same tattoo on his forearm as I had on mine.
“WMDs,” he confirmed, then nodded at me as a sign of respect. He looked into the truck. “Fuck up the rules, you won’t be leaving. We run a tight ship. Ain’t no brother above Meister’s law.”
The guard moved back and tapped the roof of the truck cab. The barrier lifted, and we pulled out onto a dirt track that stretched on for a good few miles. The two flags I had seen from the road came into view—the Texan Lone Star flag, and the Stars and Stripes. Then as we turned the corner, smaller flags began to appear. Swastika, Confederate, and the white cross of the KKK.
“Shit,” Viking said quietly.
A clone of the ’roid, armed with exactly the same gun, signaled us to a parking lot. Dozens of trucks were parked up. “Busy weekend,” Vike commented. Dark had set in, and as we got out of the truck, the smell of burning wood filled the air.
“There’s a rally,” I said under my breath.
The guard approached and flicked his chin. “Missed the start of the rally. Go in and you’ll be shown to your rooms. The rally is on the far field. Just follow the path, then you get to choose your pussy and shack.”
I nodded as if I knew what the fuck he was talking about. I didn’t. “A shack?” Cowboy said quietly as we made our way to the entrance.
“Guess we’re about to find out,” I answered under my breath.
Then we entered the town.
Our digs were basic—single, dorm-style rooms, side by side. Vike and Flame were beside me, Cowboy on the other side of Vike. We dumped our bags then headed outside.
“It’s like there’s been a fucking nuclear apocalypse or some shit,” Vike said as we looked around the town. Old buildings were littered around the desolate land. A bar sat at the end; a long barn took up the east side. I narrowed my eyes, looking for signs of life. The windows of all the buildings were barred up, and apart from a few guards, there was no one around.
One of the guards approached us. “Rally’s that way. Pussy afterward.” We walked toward the field. Didn’t need no directions, simply had to follow the orange glows coming from the Klan fires.
“Remember the salutes,” I said, checking behind me to make sure the guard was out of earshot. “Left arm out, fingers spread in the middle, right hand making a ‘K’ against your stomach. If they give the Texan Aryan Brotherhood salute, raise your index finger, ring and little finger on one hand in response. Tanner said it’ll be mainly guards who greet each other this way, but be aware just in case. And if they raise the standard right-arm Nazi salute, repeat and reply with ‘Heil Hitler,’ ‘Sieg Heil’ or ‘White Power’—it’ll be easy, just repeat what they say.”
“Shit.” Vike shook his head. “What’s with all the sign language crap? Maybe Styx should have come.”
“Christ knows,” I replied as we turned the corner.
Flame growled low in his throat at what lay before us. About forty or so men, dressed in standard shirts and jeans and, of course, there were the hooded men, a sea of cone-headed white hoods. My hands balled into fists when I saw a huge motherfucker in the center of the circle, standing right in front of a burning cross.
Meister.
I assessed the surroundings, noting the potential exits if shit went south. I led the way and joined the circle of men. Several greeted us with the standard Klan salute of a left arm raised. I had to force myself not spit in the face of every smug bastard that flicked his head my way.