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)
Chapter Twenty
AK
Secluded farm, La Cruz, Mexico
My stomach was flat to the roof as I waited, the sun coming over the horizon. It beat on my back, taking me back to Iraq. I breathed steadily, eyes scanning the abandoned farmhouse. We had been here for two hours now, flanked by the cover of darkness. I checked the other positions: Hush and Cowboy at the north, Tank, Tanner and Bull at the south. Flame and Viking were to the west, and beside me were Styx, Smiler and Ky. Ash and Slash were in the dilapidated barn we were using as a hideout, with the truck and the bikes. Rider had been given a gun and told to guard the truck. Fucker could be handy in a fight.
The meeting with Diablos had gone surprisingly smoothly.
“We need passage to Mexico,” Ky had told Chavez, the Diablos’ prez. Like Styx, he had inherited the title when Styx had killed his father in the Mexican war, straight after Chavez’s dad had put a bullet in Styx’s dad’s skull. There was no love lost between the two sons, both in their twenties and of similar build and savageness. But with a “You owe us, and when the time comes, I’ll be cashing that shit in,” from Chavez, the deal was done, and we’d crossed the border, no questions asked, no detection from the cartel, border patrol, or even better, Meister and this Garcia.
“Heads up,” Ky said from beside me as kick-up from the dirt road mushroomed in the distance. I whistled, telling all our brothers shit was about to go down. I focused through my scope and watched as a single Escalade approached.
I tightened my hold and set to strike. The farmhouse was silent as the Escalade came to a stop. It was bulletproof, armored. Expensive as shit. Fuckers clearly expected trouble on a daily basis. And they had money. A lot of it.
I breathed deeply, watching, blocking everything out, as the door opened. A muscled Mexican stepped out of the driver’s side, rifle in his hand. He scanned the area, but clearly, having been here many times before, expected no trouble.
Exactly what we fucking banked on.
He opened the back door, and a slick-looking motherfucker stepped out onto the dirt. He was tall and toned with jet-black hair.
The boss.
Garcia.
I heard Ky growl. Styx put his hand on his shoulder. I glanced to my left. Ky’s face was more livid than I’d ever seen in all the years I’d known him. Styx didn’t look too different, but that fucker knew when to be patient and when to kill.
They knew this asshole. Clearly. And by their reaction, this fucker wasn’t easy meat. But there was no time to find out more.
Three more men got out of the back seats. More muscle. But that was it. Five in total.
The buyers.
Traffickers.
Minutes passed while they all talked and laughed. Like being about to trade my fucking woman was nothing to their prick lives. I wanted to pull the trigger so bad. I wanted to blow a hole in each of their skulls, but there was still no sign of Phebe. No sign of—
The sound of oncoming trucks came from the dirt road. I turned, silently, and through my scope saw four vans: three large ones and one small one.
My heart started firing, but I held my cool. I felt the tension coming from Ky beside me. I checked the brothers were ready. They were braced, guns at the ready.
Two minutes later, the trucks stopped, and Meister jumped out of the cabin of the smaller van. The drivers of the main three vans remained in their seats. The smaller van kept my attention. If the cult whores were in those vans, what the fuck was in the smaller one?
Meister and Garcia shook hands, and I wanted to laugh. The king of the Aryan Brotherhood doing business with a Mexican. Hypocritical fuck.
They talked, and we waited. Then a loud shout came from the back of the smaller van. The hair on the back of my neck pricked up when I recognized that fucking voice.
Phebe.
And she didn’t stop. Her hands smashed on the doors so loud that Meister’s back stiffened in annoyance and he marched to the back. He threw the doors open, and through my scope I saw three figures: Phebe, a blonde and . . . Grace.
I held out my hand and hit Ky’s arm. I pointed to the van, signaling she was there. Then Meister was pulling Phebe from the back. No sooner had her feet hit the dirt than he sliced his hand across her face. Her head snapped back, and when I looked up close, I saw that she was beaten . . . and my blood boiled when I saw the dried blood on her dress.
He’d touched her . . . that fucker had touched her.