Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle by Jerry Langton Page B

one asked.
    â€œWhat vehicle?”
    â€œOh, okay, smart guy,” the fat one continued. “Do you mind if we take a look at that envelope you have in your hand?”
    â€œYes, yes I do,” Ned stammered.
    â€œThank you, sir,” the younger one said as he pried the envelope from Ned’s hand. “Most people we stop are not quite as helpful as you.”
    â€œAsshole,” Ned mumbled under his breath. The fat cop backhanded him across the jaw. Ned tried his best to pretend it didn’t happen, but he could taste blood in his mouth and instinctively checked his teeth with his tongue to see if any were loose.
    The young cop turned the envelope over in his hands, as if trying to find clues from the outside.
    â€œJust open the damn thing,” the fat cop scolded.
    Ned sank.
    A puzzled look crossed the cop’s face. He pulled out a fistful of shredded paper.
    Ned couldn’t help but smirk.
    â€œOh, yeah? Oh yeah, tough guy, you think you’re something?” the fat one shouted just before he gave Ned a whack in the ribs with his baton. “Not so fuckin’ smart now, are you punk?”
    Ned collapsed and curled up with the pain. The cops laughed; the little one gave him a small, impotent kick. Ned tried to laugh at him, but it hurt too much.

    The last time Steve Schultz was this excited, it was Christmas morning and he was five years old. He was bursting with the exact same kind of anticipation because he knew he was going to get his patch that night. It wasn’t just a matter of pride. Once he was a full-patch member of the Sons of Satan, he would be allowed much more autonomy in business, and he would no longer have to be at the beck and call of the guys who had rank on him.
    The one notable exception was Ivan Mehelnechuk. Steve didn’t like the short and ugly little tyrant at all. Ever since Steve showed up, Mehelnechuk started pushing him around. He’d call him up, any time of the night or day and make him do something. From getting him a pizza to roughing up a debtor, there was no job too mundane for Steve to do. And he never paid him anything, never even said thanks.
    But it was time for the annual meeting of the Sons of Satan and it was the Martinsville chapter’s turn to play host, so Steve knew he would have to keep playing ball for now. Steve had been a prospect for the club since last year’s meeting. Not that many prospects get promoted to full member after just one year, but Steve was confident he would be.
    In that year, he had brought the club a lot of revenue. His two escort agencies—Heaven’s Angels Executive Escorts and AAAAA Budget Escorts—yielded a lot of untraceable cash and supplied dancers for local strip clubs. And he had done what many bikers had tried and failed at for years; he infiltrated Martinsville’s gay village, supplying cocaine, meth, ecstasy, and steroids to a small network of four competing bars.
    But that didn’t seem to matter much to Mehelnechuk. The night before Shultz knew he was to get his patch, he got a text message from the boss, instructing him to help some fat middle-aged guy from out of town who was celebrating something and throwing some big bills around at the Wild Flower dance bar.
    Steve had helped in more substantial ways in the short-lived and one-sided war between the Sons of Satan and the Lawbreakers in Martinsville. He had supplied his associates with C4 plastic explosives which he’d bought from a second cousin in the army. He had also helped dispose of the corpse of a Lawbreakers-associated drug dealer who’d been killed by a Sons of Satan-associated drug dealer after a beer-fueled softball game.
    Steve knew the Sons of Satan were in desperate need of men like him. There had been many arrests lately. By the time the annual meeting came around, four of the most senior Martinsville Sons of Satan—including long-time national president James “Jimbo”