White Wolves MC: A BWWM Interracial Romance (4 page)

Still, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of simultaneous dread and satisfaction, knowing that Bolo’s entire operation had been demolished in a single night and that he was being held without the possibility of bail in some federal penitentiary hellhole, his lawyers trying to figure out how they could explain away his seized cellphone records, not to mention the tons of cocaine and guns.

Satisfaction because it made me feel like I had hitched my horse to the winning cart. Good to know that bad guys like Bolo still get what’s coming to them.

Bad guys like me, a little voice in the back of my head couldn’t help but remind me.

But there was dread too because I knew we would expand to fill the void left by Bolo’s boys. There would be violence. There would be bloodshed. And Fatman had started rattling his saber.

“The FBI fucked him up. Helicopters, troop carriers, the whole nine fucking yards. I tell you what, I’m not going down like that. One shot from this sucker and BOOM—no more flying Feds.”

“Do you even know how to use that thing?” I asked absently, knowing the answer already.

Fatman pointed to a chimney sticking up from one of the half demolished factory buildings.

“You see that? That smoke stack?”

“Sure I do. I’m not as blind as your last wife was.”

“Just watch, you clever son of a bitch.”

He clacked a round into the chamber, cocked the rifle, and, sweating and grunting like a diabetic hog on its last legs before the slaughter house, lay prone, cradling the rifle. But once it was in his hands, it came alive. He aimed it easily, with relaxation and confidence.

A single round cracked out of the rifle, a small cloud of smoke bursting from the barrel. Less than a moment later, the smoke stack shattered, bursting into a miasma of finely ground steel dust.

“Not bad. You just have to see them before they see you,” I said with a shrug, trying to give the impression that I was unimpressed, trying to keep him from getting too confident.

“Oh, I will, Viper. I will,” Fatman said, wiping the sweat from his brow and cackling. He sat back up and squinted at me in the sunlight, looking like some sort of demonic Buddha.

“I know the Feds are coming for me,” he said with a snarl. “And I’m not going down without a fight.”

Why was he telling me this? Did he… Did he know?

I was tempted to kill him right then and there. I had my gun on me. I’d be able to draw it and execute him, one single round to the skull, before he could turn the rifle on me. Even if he had handgun hiding somewhere beneath that blubber, my reflexes were still faster than his, no longer dulled by drug addiction.

But no. Stick to the plan. Stick to the fucking plan. Hold off. If I killed him, they’d hunt me down. I figured I had no chance of evading them, not in the long run.

The only way, the only way to survive, the only way to get out of this gang alive… Was to take them all down.

And so, I held my fire. I just shook my head.

“You paranoid old son of a bitch…” I muttered, stalking back into the clubhouse.

“Hey, Viper… Can’t wait to meet that new lady of yours. When you gonna’ bring her by?”

“When I’ve fucked her so many times that I don’t care if any of these cocksuckers stick their dicks in her too,” I shot back, not even looking over my shoulder.

“I wanna’ meet her. Gotta’ make sure she’s good enough for my boy Viper,” Fatman declared, staggering to his feet. Was there a note of threat in his voice? What did he mean?

No. I was the one being paranoid now. This was just the usual banter.

“I’ll tell her to dress real nice for when I bring her home to meet the folks,” I scowled. Back in the clubhouse, someone had already drunk my whiskey and I had to pour myself another glass. The Seminoles were losing and Manuel had smashed the coffee table. And Misty was passed out behind the bar, barely breathing.

Oh yeah. I was sure as hell ready to leave this life.

Loyalty be damned.

MERCEDES

This was to be the pow-wow. The first time I met Viper, or rather, James MacKinnon, the man to be my partner on this operation. A full member of the White Wolves MC. And one scary asshole.

Doug picked a filthy, seedy as all get out motel just off the highway for our meeting. It was the kind of place where everyone was transitory, where no one paid any attention to anyone else. The kind of place everyone just wanted to get away from as soon as possible without looking back.

Funny. For some people, that’s what their entire lives are like.

The motel’s parking lot was almost totally empty when I pulled up. I knew which room to go to. Number seventeen. Each motel room door had a different number, but all were painted the same garish red, now faded to a hideous pink. The smell of something dying hung in the hot air as I parked and strode towards the door.

I knocked twice, and then three more times in rapid succession, and then kicked the door gently. This was the code, what I had been instructed to use to let Doug and Viper know that I was who I was supposed to be.

The door cracked open and Doug’s familiar face greeted me, as did a wall of smoky, stuffy air.

“Jesus, you couldn’t have gotten a non-smoking room,” I muttered as I ducked in.

“No air conditioning either,” Doug said with a sheepish grin. I saw a cigarette smoldering in an ash tray on the table and I wondered if he had gotten the smoking room on purpose.

And then I saw him.

He sat hunched over on the motel bed, the figure he cut clashing brilliantly with the kitschy floral pattern of the motel duvet cover. He looked something like a ‘80s punk who had moved down to Florida, with a tight white t-shirt and a leather jacket, covered in patches and spikes, stretched over it. Tattoos crept up his neck—a saw the letters “U,” “N,” “F,” “O,” and “R” stretching down from beneath his jaw. Unforgiven, I guessed? On the other side of his neck, I noted a grim reaper, surrounded by flames, leering at anyone who got close.

And now, I was supposed to get close to him.

He looked up at me. I saw he had more tattoos on his face—small ones, tears, beneath his left eye—three of them. His face was beautiful in a kind of tragic way. He had a long scar stretching over his cheek from the corner of his mouth—I guessed it had been torn, somehow. His eyes were dark hazelnut, and his hair was a dirty blonde. I couldn’t tell if he had gelled it, or if he simply hadn’t washed it, but it was tousled in a way that made it look like he had just stepped out of a magazine.

I felt an uncomfortable flutter in my chest. A flutter I hadn’t felt in a long, long time. A flutter that warmed me, warmed my gut, warmed my chest. I bit my lip and forced myself to keep looking at him.

“Viper, say hello to Special Agent Mercedes Powell,” Doug said, interrupting my reverie.

He stood. He was six feet tall, give or take, with broad shoulders and a kind of angry swagger in his step, a swagger that made him look like a bomb ready to go off or a wild animal that had only just barely been caged and controlled. The kind of animal it was a sin to try and tame.

“I’m Viper,” he said, his voice lacking any emotion whatsoever. “James MacKinnon. But everyone in the White Wolves calls me Viper and you should too.”

“Right,” I said, offering him my hand. His grip was firm, but not intentionally—some men try to crush your hand when they shake it, but Viper clearly just didn’t know any other way. “Special Agent Powell. Good to meet you. I look forward to working with you.”

“Ditto,” Viper grunted, his eyes narrowing. That probably meant he was lying. I would have to remember that for the future. Eyes narrowed means he’s not being truthful.

I noticed that he had even more tattoos on his hands—a tiger, roaring, on his right one, and a shark on the left. His knuckles were even tattooed—“HATE” on the right hand and “LOVE” on the left.

We all sat at the table and Doug handed us binders containing our assignments, along with summaries of all the relevant intelligence that Viper had collected over the past few months.

“We’re calling this Operation Snakebait,” Doug began, lighting a new cigarette. A halo of smoke surrounded his head, making him look like a saint in an old masters painting. If only he were.

“The objective,” Doug continued, after a few puffs. “Is to force a collapse of the White Wolves Motorcycle Club. We plan on doing this by eliminating the White Wolves’ leader, Emmet Byrne, goes by ‘Fatman,’ while simultaneously seizing enough of the club’s illegal assets that continued operation will be impossible.”

“What about other high ranking members? Is there any chance that there might just be a power struggle?” I asked immediately, looking up from the dossier.

“The White Wolves don’t maintain a rigorous hierarchy. Viper is perhaps the best positioned to take over if Fatman is out of the picture, and he’s on our side,” Doug answered. Viper nodded.

“He’s a dangerous guy, but he’s not a strategist. He rules with an iron fist—no subtlety. Micromanages everything. No one else knows how the club’s finances and shit works. Holds it all real close to the chest.”

“You don’t even know?” I asked, frowning.

Viper gave me a deadly, disgusted look.

“I don’t like books and numbers. I like riding and cracking skulls.”

“Sounds like the White Wolves have too many guys like that. Sounds like you need someone who can actually run an organization.”

“Well, Jesus fucking Christ, why don’t you fucking offer your services as a gangland consultant?” Viper spat back. “How much do you bill per hour?”

“Listen, you Hell’s Angels-reject,” I started but Viper stood and cut me off.

“The Hells Angels are a fucking corporate joke,” he snarled. “We’re the real deal—real scary ass one percenters.”

“Viper, calm down,” Doug said, not raising his voice one bit. That was Doug—he always spoke like he was ordering at a restaurant, and he usually got what he wanted.

And, yet again, he did. Viper sat down, smoldering like a camp fire that refused to go out.

“Doug, I ain’t working with this mouthy bitch,” he growled.

“What the fuck did you call me?” I all but screamed, standing up and ready to leap over the table and scalp him.

“You heard me,” he snarled once more. “Bitch.”

“Calm. Your. Selves,” Doug whispered, he voice barely audible. Somehow, that got our attention. This middle-aged, mild-mannered guy who looked more like an overworked accountant than anything else could always command a room if he wanted to.

“Viper, speak to Special Agent Powell respectfully when you are communicating in a professional context and not in the field. You will be working with her, and that’s final.”

Then, he turned to me.

“Powell, understand that Viper is a veteran and has several of the symptoms of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. He may sometimes say and do things he doesn’t mean or that he regrets. Isn’t that right, Viper?”

He shrugged.

“That’s what the VA doctors tell me.”

“To continue with the brief…” said Doug, sighing. “Special Agent Powell will pretend to be in a relationship with Viper—the slang term for such a position is ‘old lady,’ as in ‘Viper’s old lady.’”

I rolled my eyes but I held my tongue.

“Viper has already begun to mention his new ‘old lady’ to the club, so that Special Agent Powell’s appearance won’t come as a surprise. In the meantime, Viper will give Special Agent Powell a crash course in the customs, culture, and skills necessary to pose as an authentic motorcycle club member… Or, at least, the girlfriend of one.”

“He’s going to train me?”

Viper grinned, but there was no joy in his smile.

“That’s right.”

“Once Viper is satisfied with Special Agent Powell’s progress, he’ll introduce her to the club and have her initiated. From there, we’ll proceed with the operation and, at the earliest opportune moment, arrange a sting to arrest Fatman and as many White Wolves personnel as possible. In the meanwhile, Special Agent Powell will collect as much intelligence as possible on the illegal operations and, especially, assets, of the White Wolves MC. Once Fatman is gone, we’ll swoop in and castrate the club’s resources—drugs, money, weapons, stolen vehicles. Even if the remaining members try to continue the gang, they’ll be too impoverished to be an effective criminal force.”

It wasn’t a bad plan. It was just crazy enough, just dangerous enough to work.

The only issue was, it was predicated on my being able to convince the White Wolves that I was one of them. And on Viper being able to control himself.

Damn it. Such a jerk, but so good looking.

Good god, where did that thought come from? No, I had a job to do—and I wasn’t going to let myself get distracted from the task at hand.

But wasn’t the only reason I was doing this job to have a distraction? A distraction… Isn’t that what I wanted, what I needed most of all?

No. No. No, Powell. Keep your head in the game.

“Any questions so far?” Doug asked, his look still cool and calm as he took both of us in. Dumbly, we shook our heads.

“Good. Then we can continue. Powell, you’ll need to turn in your sidearm.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry—we’re just assigning you a smaller pistol, something more easily concealed. Especially when you’re not wearing much of anything.”

Viper snorted and I felt myself flush, in spite of myself.

I drew my sidearm, my trusty full-sized Glock, removed the magazine, and decocked it. I slid it over to Doug and he accepted it, passing me back a much smaller Glock, one that would fit in the palm of my hand.

“This is like a toy,” I mumbled. Doug grinned.

“You’ve still got six rounds of .45 ACP in there, so it’s definitely no toy.”

He was right about that. I tucked the gun into the back of my pants, mentally noting that I should acquaint myself better with the feel and handling of it later.

“So, what kind of training am I going through?” I asked, glancing at Viper.

“Viper? Would you like to elaborate?”

He sighed, rolling his eyes like a spoiled kid in a grade school classroom.

“Well, first, you have to learn to ride a motorcycle.”

“Fine.”

“Not that you’ll actually be allowed to ride any of our bikes. It’s a thing that everyone does—the guys teach their old ladies to ride their bikes, but deny it, deny that they ever let any bitch touch their bikes.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Welcome to MC life, sister,” Viper growled. “You’ll at least have to appear knowledgeable about motorcycles.”

“Right. That makes sense.”

“And you’ll need tattoos.”

I raised my eyebrows in surprise and dismay.

“Tattoos?”

“Yeah. Lots of them.”

“I can’t get temporary ones?”

Viper gave a short, cruel laugh.

“No. If you want to roll with the White Wolves, you need real ink.”

I bit my lip but then scowled. No one was looking at my body these days anyway, so who would care if I had hideous tattoos splayed all over my skin?

“And, of course, Viper will teach you all about the history and traditions of the club. Everything you’ll need to know to blend in and be seen as a real member, a real… er, old lady.”