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Brick stepped inside the office and leaned back against the wall, “Not everybody’s perfect high is sunshine and flowers.”
“There are some sick motherfuckers out there,” Deuce added.
Rooster nodded toward the MacBook, “Some of the data is pretty bloody.”
“He kept the footage?” Talon asked, shocked by the revelation.
“You mean we got a snuff film on one of our laptops?” Gate asked. “What thefuck, boys?”
Stash held up his hands, “Yes to the film, but it’s not ours. We just piggybacked on what was already there. We spied on it. We didn’t download it.”
“They’ll never know we were there,” Rooster promised.
“You know who needs to see this,” Stash added.
“Holy hell,” Gate said. “Anna.”
“So the operation runs like what?” Deuce asked the room at large. “Bring in some heavy hitters, get them strung out on…. What’s it called?” he asked, looking toward Stash.
“Clinical name, Utopia,” Stash said.
“Street name, Pixie Stix,” Rooster tacked on. Then he shrugged, “That’s the solid form. Crystallized like sugar.”
Talon straightened, “So it sounds either high dollar or like a kid in a candy store. Either way, it’s an easy sell.”
“Add to that, beautiful women, brought in to be whoever or whatever your altered reality needs them to be….” Deuce trailed off.
“And you’ve got a recipe for disaster,” Brick mumbled.
“Video tape that shit, and they’re on the hook for life,” Deuce said.
Gate looked up at a knock on the doorframe, “Yeah, Tank?”
Tank, mohawk buried under a backwards Atlanta Braves baseball cap, stuck his head in the door. “Free to speak, Gate?” Tank asked.
“Yeah,” Gate answered on a frown.
Tank glanced around the office and then went on, “Word on the street is, Spider’s dead.”
And just as Gate digested that news, his cell rang.
He checked the number and answered on the first, “Hello, Judge.”
Chapter Ten
Cowboy Hats and Tiaras
Widow Maker
Widow Maker, the Bloody Saints’ Sergeant at Arms, better known as Maker to his brothers, laid on a fairly comfortable mattress in an overly frilly bedroom that occupied nearly half of the tiny trailer where Lizzie made her home.
Given the location of the trailer and the obvious frugality that went into furnishing it, Maker was surprised that the mattress was comfortable at all.
He was a big man, some might say massive, his feet hung off the foot of the bed, and his body took up three quarters of it. Not usually a recipe for rest and relaxation.
But the body pressed up against him, lush ass to his throbbing groin, dissipated any potential physical annoyance like vapor.
Maker rolled to his back, one arm keeping Lizzie’s body tight to his side.
