CHAPTER FIVE

Dek

Slamming my hand into the brick wall, I grit my teeth and look down to see blood trickling from my split knuckles.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” I mutter.  The phone call I just got from the President of the Devil’s Dust, Katherine charter, informed me that the chick I had a one-nighter with four fucking months ago, is sniffing around, trying to find me.  There’s a reason she can’t find me.  I don’t want to be found.  Shit in the club has been declining rapidly since we brokered a deal with a crew of Italians who have done nothing but cause us trouble ever since.  Sure, they get the goods for us—drugs, guns, fuck, they even offered women if we wanted them.  But aside from the product, they’re a bunch of unreliable fuckwits to deal with.  The problem is, they’re fuckwits with heavy backing from the mafia, and they have made it crystal clear if we were to renege on our deal, we wouldn’t like the consequences.  The Devil’s Dust isn’t weak.  We don’t back down and we definitely don’t appreciate threats being made against our club.  But that doesn’t mean we’re dumb.  We’ll play this smart, and hope to Christ we come out alive.

It was because of the Italians’ threats, and sensing some unease, that I decided to go nomad.  Since I don’t have an Old Lady and a tribe of kids, I nominated myself to hit the road and attempt to find out intel on the Italians.  They’re a secretive bunch of cunts, and so far, I’ve got nothing.  Pisses me off.

As shitty as this part of my job is, I can’t deny the beauty that surrounds me.  I pop the top off a Great Northern and swallow a good mouthful.  The stars are bright tonight, the air is still.  Leaning my head back on my bike, I let my thoughts drift.  I don’t remember it, but when I was three, I was adopted by the people I consider my parents.  Just seven years later, the only man I knew as my father passed away.  Devastated me.  Three years ago, the woman who raised me died of cancer, leaving a gaping hole in the space where I had begun to believe I didn’t have a heart.  I started hanging out with the Devils when I was sixteen, eager to have the influence of a man in my life.  I missed my dad and, fuck, I needed someone.  Tokka took me under his wing and taught me about bikes and mechanics.  When I was eighteen, I turned Prospect for eighteen months.  Seven years ago, I was patched in.  Best day of my life.  Worst day of my mum’s.  I can’t help the chuckle that vibrates my chest.  Mum didn’t like my club life, yet she couldn’t deny how happy it made me.  Inside that hinge-joint fencing, I felt like I was someone. 

Now, out here, alone on the side of the road near the water, watching a dock we know belongs to the Italians, I’m starting to feel less and less happy.  More fucking stuck.  In a rut.  This situation with Olive nosing around for me makes things worse.  Now is the worst time for her to be hanging around.  Too dangerous.  We had a great night of explosive fucking—a night I’d be glad to repeat at any other time.  But not now.  Not this time.  She needs to give up already.

Movement by the docks catches my attention and I instantly sit up.  Taking my infrared binoculars from my saddlebag, I scan the area.  Two Italians dressed in suits exit a black SUV and walk toward the dock.  Their lips are moving, but I can’t make out the words.  One checks his watch, the other types a message on his phone, both sporadically glancing out to sea.  Five minutes later, I watch as a boat pulls in.  They start unloading wooden crates I recognise as containing either drugs or guns.  I know, because they’re the same crates the Devils get their shipments in. 

 

An hour later, the dock is cleared and no evidence of the illegal transaction remains.  I fire off a text to Tokka, noting the date, the car driven, distinguishing details of the boat, and the amount of crates unloaded.  He texts me back almost instantly despite the late hour, and informs me our intel is positive the Italians will be unloading another shipment at the same dock at the same time, tomorrow evening.  He wants me to follow them and try and get a lock on their warehouse.  Adrenaline courses through me as I type back an affirmative.  After eight months of being nomad, shit is finally, fuckin’ finally, starting to get real.

 

 

 

 

Two weeks later

“Your girl isn’t givin’ up, brother.”

For fuck’s sake.

“What the fuck. First, she ain’t my girl. Second, try to suss out what she wants.  She didn’t strike me as a Stage 5 clinger, but I could be wrong.  There’s a first time for everything,” I add on a mutter.

“I don’t know, man.  Aubree’s a good kid and she’s been friends with Olive for years. Not sure she’s just looking for a repeat.”

“What the hell could she want then?”

“No idea, Dek, but I’ll do my best to find out.”

Fuck.  She needs to stay away.  She needs to forget she ever met me.