Twisted Steel: An MC Anthology: Second Edition Elizabeth Knox (cheapest way to read ebooks .txt) 📖

brothers are gathered around a table quietly discussing our plan. I walk past, knowing and trusting that our VP will let me know whatever it is I need to know for this run.

I push out the door and dig a pack of smokes out of my pocket, dipping my head to light up. Shane is already out here, smoking and talking with Wolf. He looks over at me.

“What the fuck was that shit?”

“I have no clue.”

“If Cajun’s doin’ the Deputy Sheriff, we may have a problem.”

“Why’s that?” I ask. “Maybe we’ll have her in our hip pocket.”

“This is Cajun we’re talkin’ about. Have you ever known him not to piss off a woman? Last thing we need is him pissin’ off that one.”

“Don’t worry,” Wolf cuts in, staring at the cigarette cupped in his hand. “She’s not gonna be a problem.”

“Oh, and how is that?” Shane asks.

Wolf grins. “We’ve got shit on her. Seems the Deputy Sheriff has a pension for Ecstasy. I got her on camera making a buy.”

“Christ. What’s the world coming to when our city’s finest are druggies?” I chuckle.

Mack, our president, walks outside, followed by Crash and Red Dog. They head to their bikes.

Cole, our VP, comes through the door next, and lifts his chin at us. “Mount up, boys.”

Wolf flings his cigarette, the glowing tip arching into the dark night and follows.

Shane drops his under his boot, grinding it out, and I take a final drag before doing the same.

Five minutes later, we’re roaring up I880, headed toward Oakland. Mack and Cole ride at the front of the pack, then Crash and Wolf, then Red Dog and I, with Cajun and Shane bringing up the rear. The hoard of eight of us zooms up the fast lane, cars scattering out of our way when they hear our load pipes behind them.

God, I love wearing this patch. Evil Dead MC rules this state, border to border.

Cole lifts his left arm up, giving the signal and in a synchronized move only a pack like ours with years of experience riding together can make, we swing into the right lane to surround a Silver Mercedes. It only takes a minute for us to force it to the shoulder, Cole and Mack in front of it, Crash and Wolf on the side, and the rest of us in back.

I idle my engine behind the expensive car while Cole dismounts and moves to the passenger side. My gaze drops to the vanity plate that reads NTGUILTY. Behind the wheel is our MC’s lawyer. He’s a slick asshole, but he wins, and that’s all we care about.

Plus, he’s dirty as hell; always giving Cole the down-low on any rats we may want to track down, like the one we’re after today—a small-time dealer that’s invaded our turf one too many times. He’s been warned, but that apparently hasn’t infused into his drug-addled brain.

Cole leans down to the window and they have a short conversation, where I assume he’s getting the address for this idiot, who is—lucky for us—on probation. Cole slips an envelope out of his cut and passes it through the window. Then he straightens and jerks his chin at us.

A moment later we’re back on the Interstate, hauling ass toward wherever our VP is leading.

Ten minutes later, we pull up at a three-story apartment near Fruitvale and Piccoli Road and dismount.

The place is run down, but it’s got decent security, with iron gates that prevent access to the outdoor stairwells.

Cole stares up at the second-floor walkway that runs along the building, a waist-high iron railing traveling the length. “Someone gets up there, they can unlock the gate for the rest of us.” He turns and locks eyes with me. “Green, you’re up.”

Lucky me.

I pull a pair of leather gloves from my back pocket, and yank them on, then stare up at the place wondering if I can jump high enough to grab the lower rungs of the railing and pull myself up. I walk over, take a breath, and give it a try. I hit the concrete header with my forearms, barely managing to grab a bar with one hand, straining hard. Before I can get my other hand up there, I slip and fall, slamming onto the concrete drive.

“Eat a dick, gravity,” I hiss, feeling the wind knocked out of me. Red Dog leans over me, extending his hand to pull me to my feet.

“Want to try that again with a boost this time, moron?” he asks.

“Fuck off,” I gasp.

He chuckles, and laces his fingers together, bending for me to step into them. I put my boot in his hand, and he heaves me up to easily grab the bars and pull myself up and over.

Thirty seconds later, I’m opening the iron gate for the rest of my brothers to follow me up the stairwell.

Cole leads us to the correct door and we stand out of sight while he knocks. The door opens a crack with a chain bolted, and a woman peers out.

“Yeah?”

Cole boots the door, and it flies open.

She screams, stumbling back as we all shoulder in.

Dipshit is on the couch, toking on a bong, but drops it and crab-crawls backward over the side, trying to make his escape down a hall.

Crash darts after him, shoulder driving him into the drywall, and leaving a dent where the dude’s skull was.

He falls to the carpet, holding his head. “Oow. Fuck, what’d you do that for?”

Crash and Wolf beat on the moron for a minute, then haul him to his feet and pin him to the wall, while Cole gets in his face.

“Thought I warned you about just what turf you could sell your low-quality crap in.”

“But that leaves me, like, shit for area,” he whines through a broken nose, and spits out a mouthful of blood.

Shane holds the girl quiet, with an arm around her body, and his gloved hand over her mouth.

I scan the apartment. It’s a druggie shithole; used needles scattered on the table, and