Chapter One
The rundown farmhouse would not be featured on the show Million Dollar Listing any time soon.
Or ever.
He originally thought the party would be held at the Deadly Demons MC’s church in Moundsville, West Virginia. While they were in West Virginia, he had no fucking clue where they were exactly.
It was safe to say he didn’t like that.
He also wasn’t thrilled with the fact he stood in the midst of a one-percenter MC trying to blend in.
But here he was.
To prepare, he had gone on a shopping spree at a thrift store to buy clothing to help him fit in. And to fit his weight gain.
He pressed a hand to his gut under his worn leather jacket.
Beer, pizza and cupcakes—the last baked by Axel Jamison’s wife—had done the trick. Every day he’d stand naked in front of the full-length mirror and watch the muscle definition he’d worked so hard to achieve slowly disappear.
He’d gone up a size in both his shirts and jeans. He only hoped when this assignment was over, the extra weight he packed on would disappear just as easily.
But he’d run out of time and the weight gain hadn’t been enough, so one afternoon a week ago, Crew walked into a task force meeting at The Plant and threw a fake, but realistic-looking, silicone belly in the middle of the conference table. The idea was fucking genius—though, he’d never tell Crew that—since it made him look like he sported a beer gut without actually having one.
However, he drew the line at fake tattoos. True bikers would be able to tell the difference between the lick-‘em-and-stick-‘em body art versus real tattoos done by an ink slinger. While he was dedicated to this job—and the task force—there was no damn way he’d volunteer to sit in a tattoo chair to get some random prison or biker tats for a temporary assignment.
Not even a permanent one. Any tattoos he had, or would get in the future, were for him and him alone.
Thank fuck it was long-sleeve weather, so most of his body would be covered anyway. As long as this assignment ended before next spring when the weather got too warm, he’d be golden.
He only volunteered for this undercover work after Crew couldn’t find anyone else to do it for one reason or another. Plus, jumping on the opportunity to go under as a prospect got him out of doing surveillance or transcribing wiretaps.
Would he rather take an undercover assignment other than being a prospect for the Deadly Demons? Hell yes, but unfortunately, this was the only one currently available.
He didn’t mind the clothes. Or riding an older Harley not nearly as nice as his own. Or even getting into the habit of using sloppy English and biker slang. What he hated most about it was the untrimmed scruff on his face, and being unable to hit the gym five days a week to maintain his hard-earned physique.
His nostrils flared. Also, add in the unwashed stench mixed with weed filling the air. Not to mention, the filth in and around the farmhouse made his skin crawl.
He imagined his younger sister had ended up in plenty of dumps similar to this off-the-beaten-path farmhouse in her search for her next high. Probably surrounded by the same type of people, if not worse.
Joining the Tri-State Federal Drug Task Force had been a no-brainer when Crew threw the opportunity out there to him and his fellow Blue Avengers. He didn’t think twice about fighting the onslaught of drugs coming into the area, especially with an operation this large and this dangerous.
The task force was made up of three groups of fifteen members each. He belonged to group two that covered southwest Pennsylvania, while group one covered the mother club’s area in West Virginia and group three was handling the outlaw MC’s recently formed Ohio chapter.
To get his foot in the door as a potential prospect with the newer Uniontown chapter of the Deadly Demons, he had hooked up with a task force officer from group one to arrange a meet with the president.
This particular TFO had been undercover with the Moundsville chapter in WV for over a year now. He’d gone under as soon as the task force was formed and had only recently become a fully-patched member.
Group one actually had two TFOs undercover with the mother club. And if successful, Decker would be the first TFO from his group to go undercover with the Pennsylvania chapter.
If he was successful. The biggest issue was passing their scrutiny, despite being in his late thirties. An older prospect wasn’t completely unheard of, but it wasn’t the norm. Most bikers Decker’s age were past the point of wanting to be a bitch for an outlaw MC. And being a prospect meant just that.
To pass muster, he would need to do shit he most likely wouldn’t want to do. Worse, it could be illegal shit, whether selling drugs or even getting violent.
Basically, prospects were patched members’ slaves for about a year. They couldn’t say no, even to the stupidest shit, and if they did, they could be stripped of their prospect cut, if not worse.
Becoming a recruit for the Demons might be more difficult at this juncture since the members were overly paranoid. Rightly so, since the club was trafficking five kilos of uncut meth every month by picking it up from a Mexican cartel at the southern border and delivering four of those kilos all the way to La Cosa Nostra in Pittsburgh.
As payment, they took one kilo for themselves, then turned around and took that pure “ice,” broke it down by mixing it with filler, packaged it for street sales and made a killing for the club and its members.
It was quite the enterprise.
One the feds wanted to break up.
And, of course, the main reason Decker was currently standing on the unmaintained property out in the middle of Bumfuck doing his best to blend in.
He’d met with Fletch and Wilder to go over language and mannerisms, since they’d been undercover and living with the Dirty Angels MC for about a year now.
He held his hands, palms out, closer to the blazing bonfire, trying to warm his numb fingers. Riding a “sled” during a cold snap in late October was not his idea of fun. But then, most diehard bikers rode into the start of winter and some were crazy enough to ride all year round.
No fucking thanks. He preferred to keep his extremities and not lose any of them to frostbite.
While he rode the sled assigned to him by Crew to meet up with Rowdy, the undercover TFO—first to go over their story, before following him over to the party—he hoped like fuck Crew found him a four-wheeled ride with working heat before it truly turned into extreme blue ball weather.
Though, tonight he could hardly feel his damn nuts as it was. It would only get worse as the weeks went on.
Rowdy, Decker’s task force contact, appeared out of the dark to stand next to him. “Viper ain’t here yet.”
Viper was the Demons’ president and Decker was damn sure he was a stand-up kind of guy. Of course he fucking was.
The Deadly Demons MC was set up differently than the Blue Avengers. Or even the Dirty Angels. The Pennsylvania-based BAMC was made up of regional charters, not chapters. Each charter had their own executive committee and was run independently.
Decker was a member of the Southwest Regional charter with Axel Jamison as current president. Fletch was their VP, Rez their sergeant at arms, Cross their secretary, Miller the treasurer and Finn the road captain.
In contrast, the Demons chapters—both Uniontown in Pennsylvania and New Philadelphia in Ohio—did not have their own officers. They answered to the executive committee of the Moundsville-based mother chapter.
From what Rowdy relayed, Viper, along with his VP named Screw, held on to their power with an iron fist. No one messed with them but they sure messed with everyone else. And not in a fun way.
They were ruthless.
It only took a whiff of a prospect or member stepping out of line or fucking the club over, and that Demon was handled with a quick fierceness. As in, they no longer existed. Or if they did survive, they probably wished they hadn’t.
Abracadabra, make this biker disappear. Only instead of a magic wand, they used tire irons or whatever else was handy.
Decker scratched his itchy as fuck beard and leaned heavily into his newly acquired biker-speak. “He gonna show up, yeah?”
“If he don’t, gonna track down Screw. Wanna beer?”
“Why the fuck not?” In truth, he’d rather have a massive mug of coffee to warm him up, but sipping coffee wouldn’t fly at one of these shindigs. Liquor, beer, pot and whatever else, was more this club’s speed. And he needed to fit in, even before shrugging on one of their prospect cuts.
Right now he wasn’t even considered a hang-around and he hoped like hell that wouldn’t be required before he’d be allowed to become a prospect. Some clubs had that stipulation. Worse, that informal “evaluation process” could take months or even years. Decker didn’t have time for that. Neither did the task force.
While they hadn’t required that of Rowdy and Goose, that didn’t mean shit. He hadn’t seen the Demons’ by-laws and it could very well be the club didn’t have any. How they handled shit could change every day if Viper wanted it that way. He couldn’t imagine that the DDMC gave a flying fuck about rules.
So, yeah, if Viper required Decker to hang with the club a while before they’d even consider making him a prospect, it could fuck up everything. He doubted hang-arounds had the same access or insider info as a prospect.
Rowdy elbowed him. “C’mon, it’s best you wander around and be seen. The more you talk to them, the better.” He jerked his chin up at another member wearing a Demons cut. “That’s my buddy Goose over there grabbin’ a beer. We got patched in at the same time.”
Decker took those words as meaning Goose was the second undercover TFO with the Demons.
As they approached him and a keg floating in a barrel full of melting ice, Decker was impressed with how well Goose blended in with the rest of the outlaw bikers.
His long, dirty blond hair was greasy, his raggedy beard reached halfway down his chest and he had a huge beer belly spilling out from between the flaps of his leather cut. But then Goose, like Rowdy, had been undercover for a year.
A lot could happen in that time.
Fuck me if I’m still in this assignment in a year and I’ve gone that far down the rabbit hole.
Rowdy introduced him to Goose with a knowing look. The UCO’s gaze sliced from Rowdy to Decker. “Beer?”
“Yeah.”
Goose lifted a Harley-Davidson travel mug. “Got a mug?”
“No. I need one?”
The “biker” jerked on the end of his bushy beard and when he laughed, his beer gut bounced. “They got ‘em. Just don’t recommend usin’ ‘em.”
Jesus fuck.
“‘Less you need help buildin’ your immune system.”
Beside Decker, Rowdy chuckled. “Yeah, learned early on to bring our own shit. Just look around and you’ll see why.”
He didn’t have to look around the yard edged with overgrown weeds and dead grass to know what they were saying was fact. The area around the bonfire, that included some disgusting couches and both broken and unbroken lawn chairs, was only made walkable due to boots crushing down the vegetation. He doubted this property had seen a lawnmower in at least a decade.
When they arrived earlier, they had also hoofed it through the farmhouse to get to the backyard. That gave him a good firsthand view of what it looked like inside. It was the kind of house that made you rethink eating at company parties or potluck dinners.
“That typical?” Decker asked, making a mental note to throw some shit in the leather saddle bags on his borrowed bike. Just in case he found himself at more of these gatherings.
“For some. Others don’t give a shit. ‘Specially the ones that are fucked up on drugs or booze. Once they’re at that point, tainted food or drink ain’t gonna do shit.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Rowdy agreed.
“Heads up, bogey at two o’clock,” Goose warned under his breath, glancing over Decker’s right shoulder.
Here goes nothing.
The president of the Deadly Demons stepped up next to Rowdy, whacking him hard on the back. “Yo. Heard you’re lookin’ for me. What the fuck you want?”
Using the light from a single spotlight shining down onto the yard and glow of the huge bonfire full of old tires and who knows what other toxic shit, Decker turned and checked out the man he needed to impress. Or at least not piss off.
Decker’s best guess was that Viper was in his fifties. He could be younger but if so, he’d lived a hard life.
A black skullcap covered his long hair, he wore a stained Sturgis Bike Week sweatshirt under his black leather Demons cut, as well as the typical biker boots and worn jeans. Tattoos covered the back of both hands and the section of neck Decker could see through his overgrown beard. The man also had a snake tattooed along the side of his face. Starting at his hairline, the reptile’s body curled along his temple, with the head of the viper disappearing somewhere in his beard.
Classy shit right there.
Rowdy jerked a thumb in Decker’s direction. “My man here’s interested in prospectin’ for the club.”
An eyebrow hiked up Viper’s forehead as he turned to stare at Decker. “Yeah? Why the fuck you wanna do that?”
“Guess the question is, why the fuck not?” Decker answered, meeting the head biker’s shadowed eyes.
“Ain’t an answer.”
“Best one I got,” Decker countered.
Decker could barely see Viper’s pursed lips through that bushy mess on his face as the man studied him some more.
If Viper was trying to intimidate him by simply staring, he would fail.
“Got a sled?”
“Sure do. Parked out front.”
“Know how to keep your mouth shut?”
“Done time, so yeah, know when it should be open and when it should be shut.”
Viper turned to Rowdy. “How long you know him?”
About ten minutes.
“Must be about ten years now,” Rowdy lied.
Jesus.
“Yeah? Why didn’t you bring him ‘round sooner?”
Decker rushed to answer before Rowdy did since he wanted to be the “director” of this undercover assignment, not anyone else. This way he’d remember the details of his character and lessen the chance of fucking up. “Just recently got out after doin’ a nickel inside.”
Viper’s bushy eyebrows rose and he turned to take a closer look at Decker. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Decker answered, making his voice gruffer than normal.
“Where at?”
Decker once again hurried to answer before Rowdy since the UCO didn’t work in PA, so he might not know that prison system. “Mercer.”
“For what?”
“Possession.” Drugs were right up the Demons’ alley.
Viper raised his chin and stared Decker down. “Got a nickel for possession? Or for fuckin’ up?”
“Fuckin’ up. Had to survive somehow,” Decker answered, jerking up one shoulder as if doing five years in prison was nothing but a cake walk.
Viper considered him for a few more seconds before reaching into his cut and pulled out a fucking joint.
Great.
Goose rushed forward to light it for him, surprising the shit out of Decker. What, did Viper need to be treated like a king and the Demons were his damn subjects?
With the joint tucked between Viper’s barely visible lips, the lit end flared, giving his rough face a ruddy glow. After a second deep inhale, he held it out to Decker.
Fuck.
Forget that it was pot. He was more worried about putting his mouth on the same object as Viper. Hygiene wasn’t a top priority when it came to the Demons.
Taking it reluctantly, Decker put it to his lips and sucked the smoke into his mouth, pretending to inhale.
He handed it back to Viper but the prez shook his head, indicating that Goose or Rowdy should take it next. Goose snagged it and took a long hit.
Decker blew the smoke out of his nostrils before he started coughing on the trash weed. He knew having to do drugs would be a strong possibility, he cursed himself for not being better prepared. Especially with his virgin lungs.
Rowdy took a small hit similar to Decker’s before passing it back to Viper who asked, “What were you possessin’?”
He guessed this was sort of like a twisted job interview. “Blow.”
“You know your ass ain’t gonna be your own for at least a year? Gonna be ours. One of us tells you to do somethin’, you gotta do it. No negotiation. No backtalk. No questions. You do it. You up for that?”
“Rowdy told me all about it. Sounds like freedom to me after livin’ the last five fuckin’ years in a fuckin’ cage.”
“He tell you how much it’s gonna suck?”
Decker chuckled. “Yeah. Know it. Can’t be worse than bein’ behind bars.”
“You’d be wrong,” Viper said. “Inside, you got screws protectin’ you. Out here, we don’t even got your back ’til you’re handed your patches and are one of us. If you make it that far. ’Til then, you’re nobody. You’re a part of the club but ain’t a part of the club, if you get my meanin’.”
“Got it.”
“Not sure you do. Most don’t. Most prospects start out strong, then decide this shit ain’t for them. It ain’t worth it. They run home to Mommy.”
“Ain’t gonna run home to my mommy. Rowdy assured me any shit I gotta eat’s gonna be worth it.”
Viper shot Rowdy a look. “Guess we weren’t rough enough on him, then.”
“Bah,” Rowdy huffed. “Just ain’t a pussy.”
The Demons president reached out and wiped his finger behind Rowdy’s ear. “Still wet back there. You willin’ to put your ass on the line to sponsor him?”
“Fuck yeah,” Rowdy said with confidence. “Never woulda brought him tonight if I wasn’t.”
Viper took a hit from the joint, and while he held the smoke deep down in his lungs, he stroked his long beard, once again staring at Decker.
Maybe he was trying to get Decker to break. He made sure to meet the Demon’s eyes and not look away.
“Anyway,” Rowdy started, “at the last meetin’ you mentioned gettin’ more prospects for both Uniontown and New Philadelphia.”
“Yeah?” Viper spat on the ground.
Decker didn’t react. He acted like he was used to people spitting at his feet.
“Yeah. Or did I hear wrong?”
Viper turned his attention back to Rowdy. “Didn’t hear wrong.”
Rowdy slapped Decker’s chest. “Then Jake here’s gonna be perfect for Uniontown.”
Viper squinted at Rowdy. “Why’s that?”
“‘Cause he’s shackin’ up with some bitch near there.”
The prez’s head swung back toward Decker. “You got an ol’ lady?”
He shook his head. “Nah. She ain’t my ol’ lady. Just a slit I’m fuckin’. Keeps a roof over my head, food in my gut and my dick wet.”
“They ain’t worth much more than that.” Viper sucked loudly on what teeth he had remaining. “Alright. Gonna think about it. Will let you know, brother. But remember,” Viper leaned in and jabbed Rowdy’s chest with his index finger, “that means it’s your ass on the fuckin’ line if he fucks up.”
Rowdy stood his ground and gave the DDMC president a single nod. “Aware of that. He ain’t gonna fuck up.”
Viper took a step back, dropped his bearded chin to his chest and gave Rowdy a warning look. “Better fuckin’ hope not.”
There was a lot more said in that look and behind those words than hit Decker’s ears. He figured it had to do with their drug enterprise.
This club was not simply a brotherhood that lived a biker lifestyle, they wanted to build an empire.
One that the Tri-State Federal Drug Task Force wanted to crush before it was done being built.
After the prez wandered away and was out of earshot, Rowdy turned to Decker. “Don’t fuck up.”
****
He thought he was a smart guy.
Now Decker questioned that, among other things, as he pulled his borrowed ’84 Harley-Davidson Softail up to the Deadly Demons’ church in Moundsville, WV. Rowdy called him two days ago and told him that to become a prospect, it needed to go before the Demons’ officers for a vote.
That vote was happening quicker than any of them expected.
The front lot was full of Harleys, both older and newer. If the number of bikes equaled the number of Demons inside, then he’d be walking into a lion’s den while wearing a meat suit.
He shut down the bike and sat staring at the old car dealership. It was a hell of a lot bigger than the gas station in Uniontown, that was for damn sure. Actually, it was a lot larger than he expected.
The glass windows in what would’ve been the original showroom had been replaced with brick. Probably for good reason. He had no idea if the Demons had enemies, but if they didn’t before, they might now due to them expanding their territory.
And bullets meeting glass could be deadly. A fact they considered when his own MC renovated The Plant. Plus, not having windows kept whatever was happening inside their church hidden from curious eyes.
A barb-wire-topped chain-link fence with solid plastic slats extended out from both corners of the large brick structure and then encircled the rear of the property ensuring even more security and privacy.
While the sprawling building itself was pretty nondescript, the number of Harleys and the huge Demons logo painted on the front gave the building’s purpose away.
Like the gas station in Uniontown, the Demons weren’t hiding the fact that this was their church and this area was their territory. A not-so-subtle warning to other MCs and maybe even nomads.
Decker pulled his cell phone from the inside pocket of his lined leather jacket and shot Rowdy a quick text: Here.
His answering message came a few minutes later: Stay there. Will come get you when they’re ready for you.
Decker assumed only the officers had to vote on whether he’d get a prospect cut tonight, not the whole membership. But, like considering himself smart, he might be wrong.
Either way, he hoped shit went smoothly and he was handed his prospect rocker without a hitch. If he wasn’t, the task force would have to figure out another way to get their foot in the door of the Uniontown chapter.
He got off the borrowed bike, approached the building, leaned back against it and propped his boot on the wall.
Then he waited.
