Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
I was a brother in the ways that counted, but I belonged to a different chapter. That meant I didn’t get much of a say about anything, unless I was asked directly. So, I sat back and kept my mouth shut while Preacher and the others made their plans.
It had been just over twenty-four hours since we’d brought Cain to the clubhouse, and the clock was ticking. Scouts didn’t just disappear without someone noticing, not when a war was on the horizon.
We had no problem finding the warehouse. It was exactly the way Cain described. It was fairly large, but it had seen better days. The doors were rusted, the windows blacked out, and the roof looked like it had been recently patched. There were a couple of motorcycles parked in the rear, along with a beat-up truck.
Ghost and Memphis had spent the better part of the day parked out of sight with a surveillance camera, sharing their every move with us back at the clubhouse. We’d been watching long enough to see that these guys weren’t in any kind of rush or panic. They had food delivery guys rolling in and out of there, dropping off food and booze like they didn’t have a care in the world.
They certainly didn’t seem to be concerned about their missing brother.
Either they hadn’t noticed that he hadn’t returned, or they thought he was off doing what he was told. Either way, it worked in Fury’s favor. When the third dasher pulled up to deliver more beer, Goose chuckled, “We should just dash them a big fuck you and be done with this shit.”
“Yeah,” Skid scoffed. “Here’s your beer with a side of AK forty-seven.”
“I’m thinking more explosive, like here’s your tacos and a stick of dynamite.”
“Hold up.” Creed thought for a moment. “That might actually work.”
“Come on, brother.” Goose shook his head. “We were just fucking around.”
“I know but think about it.” Creed leaned back in his chair. “They’ve got these guys coming in and out of there like clockwork. What’s one more? And if we can get something in there, an explosive or even spiked booze, it could give us a real advantage.”
“And when their brothers hear the mayhem from down the street?”
“You gotta remember, they’re trying to build their numbers, and they’re already down,” Memphis answered. “Hell, we took out five of them at the Vault. That only leaves what? Six or seven tops?”
Cain had already confirmed the five or six members, but we knew nothing about the clubhouse or the setup. But that didn’t stop Preacher from saying, “Number doesn’t matter. They’ll be caught off guard by the fire, and we’ll use that to take them out.”
“And cover up?”
“We torch the clubhouse, too,” Creed answered, sounding like it wasn’t a big deal. “It’s out in the old industrial port area. Not much going on out there, especially at night.”
And just like that, a plan started to unfold. It was a little off the wall, and it needed some work. A lot of work. But the premise was there.
Shep got to work, and Preacher called in a couple of favors. An hour later, they had a possible plan.
A small explosive, a case of 151 Rum, and a door dasher who was quick on his feet, and if he could get them to accept the order, we would be one step closer to being rid of these fucking Coyotes.
It didn’t take long to get it all lined up.
Now we just had to see if it would work.
Shep went over every detail with our delivery guy, and once he was certain he understood the plan, he set him up with a wire and camera, making sure we could see and hear everything that went down. Memphis secured the explosive at the bottom of the crate of booze and put it in the backseat of the car before sending him on his way.
We gathered a block over from the warehouse, waiting and watching as he went to make the delivery. Memphis and Goose hovered over Shep’s shoulder, watching the screen as he pulled up to the warehouse and got out.
Our guy looked like any other delivery driver. He wore his cap low, jeans, and a T-shirt, and he even had a “We Deliver” sign on his car door. It was already dark, which we all hoped would work to our advantage. He grabbed the crate of booze from the back seat and hauled it up to the side door.
Before he had a chance to knock, one of the Coyotes stepped out to meet him. He was a hefty fella with bright red hair and a thick, red beard, and his clothes seemed to be at least one size too small. Another stood next to him. He wasn’t as wide as the other, but he was thick around the middle and had a long, black beard.