Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 79261 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79261 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
I proved myself, my worth, to a bunch of corrupt criminals.
It wasn’t a lifestyle.
It was a way of life.
The only one I strived for.
That Jameson trait ran deep in my veins. I determined the who, what, when, and where in life. Anyone who didn’t approve could go fuck themselves.
Bottom line, I lived and breathed for my family. Everything else was just a means to an end for me. The world truly wasn’t a good place. Seeing bloodshed wasn’t out of the norm for me. My dirty hands were in everything from drugs to guns to clubs. I guess you could say I was the epitome of organized crime. There was very little that I didn’t own and operate.
Politicians.
Police.
FBI agents.
They were all corrupt and in my pocket. Not a damn thing could be traced back to me. I’d built an empire on nothing but shady-ass shit. Laundering money through my clubs was how I remained off the radar. There was a reason they were number one.
The darkness surrounding me only dragged me further and further into the black abyss. My demeanor always read of nothing but power and control, portraying the perfect image of the envied leader. The older I got, the more my mother loved to remind me how I was the spitting image of my old man.
From our deep-set gray-blue eyes, narrow face, high cheekbones, strong square jaw, and pointed nose to our stubborn, bullheaded personalities. Our dark brown hair was always long on the top and shaved on the sides, reminding me of a military cut. We were both tall, slender, and had ripped, tattooed bodies. He taught me how to shoot everything from handguns to assault rifles, and I’d been hitting targets at seventy-five yards out since I was twelve.
My parents thought if they taught my older sister Harley, younger brother Owen, and me the power of weapons, it would keep us away from them. Little did they know, it couldn’t have been further from the truth when it came to me. I was always strapped because I had to be. It came with the territory of who I was.
My life was private, and because of that, my family remained unaware of my illegal activities. With that said, my old man wasn’t blind. To this day, he hadn’t questioned me about the life I led. I think some part of him knew that our true nature would somehow shine through his genes, and he could do nothing about it.
I answered my call, instantly asking, “How many assault rifles in the crates?” to the black-market arms broker on the other end of the call.
“Six to eight,” he replied in a thick Russian accent.
“It’s either six or it’s eight. Which one is it? I don’t have time for your bullshit.”
“Usually six.”
“Usually six? So what you’re sayin’ is that you were tryin’ to fuck me when you already knew it was six? You just wanted me to pay for eight, yeah?”
“No, that’s—”
“That wasn’t a question. My reputation speaks for itself. Would you like me to remind you what I’m known for?”
His silence told me he wanted to tell me to eat shit but knew better.
“I want a thousand rounds of ammunition for each of those rifles.”
“We can do four hundred.”
“If I wanted four hundred, I would’ve said four hundred. Now, that’s six assault rifles per crate, and I want two hundred crates. I’ll pay you three grand a crate. That’s five hundred a rifle and a hundred and fifty thousand for the ammo. Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars total.”
“That’s too low. We need—”
“The crates need safe transportation until they’re offloaded at the shippin’ port in downtown Miami. I’ll pay you half now and half when they get delivered.”
“Let’s nego—”
“If you want to negotiate, I’ll find someone else.”
He sighed deeply. “We take on a high risk doing this, and what you’re offering isn’t much for the risk.”
“Seven fifty isn’t an offer you should refuse. Your risk is being more than well compensated. They’re wholesale rifles, and I’m movin’ them onto the streets. The serial numbers need to be shaved off, and that’s gonna cost me a pretty penny. If you don’t want to take my deal, I can reach out to the Albanians. You’re not the only sons of bitches I can buy from, so take it or leave it. But next time you call me, don’t waste my fucking time with your bullshit excuses. We’re not selling Girl Scout cookies, motherfucker. We’re in the business of making things happen, so either you make it happen or I’ll find someone who will.”
He cleared his throat. “Right… we’ll have them delivered next week.”
“I need them Tuesday.”
“My friend, that’s four days from now.”
“I’m not your friend, but since you think I am, then we’re not gonna have any problems, ya feel me?”
“Right… well then, would you be interested in the women we picked up? They’re ready to be transported. If you’re—”