The Roaming Devils Motorcycle Club had been one of the top one-percenter clubs in Atlanta. The former president, Razor Dennison, had left the club in a mess with the police and the members in general. Not only had Ryker forcibly taken over and become president himself, he’d banished his father from the Atlanta charter hoping that solved the problem. And it had. For the most part. With Razor out of the way, it made sense that Ryker could steer the club into a more legitimate path. That had been his goal, but the cocaine they produced wasn’t so easy to get rid of and the deals they had with their customers had to be fulfilled before they could pull out completely.
It was a work in progress.
But he was trying. God knew he was trying to right all the wrongs and make up for the things his father had done. It wasn’t an easy feature, but he thought that eventually, one day, the club would get there.
The cops knocking on his door and questioning him about drugs was a normal thing. Pat Hawkins, Ella’s father, had been looking for the Roaming Devils’ coke warehouse for a while now. The building sat north of town and had enough drugs to put away the entire club for life. The police never seemed to catch a break, and they’d always been careful when going to and from.
So sitting in a dank room, handcuffed to the table in front of him, didn’t really surprise him. Nor did the bogus drug charges. Pat had really pulled out the big guns to get him where he wanted him. They grasped at straws because they always grasped at straws when it came to convicting them of anything. Ryker knew it. He wasn’t scared of his girlfriend’s father. Judging from their actions, something else going on, something that probably didn’t have anything to do with him or the club. Ryker couldn’t help wanting to learn more.
The grungy off-white door opened, and Pat walked in. Without preamble, he slapped a photo onto the table before Ryker. The picture was of a dead woman who had been shot in the head. Blood coated nearly everything in the photo while a gun lay off to the side of her shiny and clean. Ryker glanced up at Pat.
“Tell me you’re the one that is importing those off-the-market weapons and this whole process ends right now.”
Ryker snorted. “Guns? No, thanks.”
Pat pulled out the seat in front of him. “There are women dying on the street. Dopeheads that you sell that poisonous shit to. Prostitutes that you stick your cock into. This weaponry is military grade and they don’t need to be in the hands of criminals. Where the fuck can I find them?”
Ryker sat back in his seat. “The only woman I stick my cock into is your daughter, and she is far from being a skanky prostitute.”
Pat’s fist landed a blow against Ryker’s jaw, knocking his head back with the force. Blood filled his mouth as he chuckled. Pat still had a chip on his shoulder. Ryker spit blood to the side of him and stared at his girlfriend’s father. For Ella’s sake, he wanted to believe that the two of them could come to an agreement. He’d do just about anything for her, and deep inside he knew Pat felt the same. Their war with each other was strictly between them.
“Who is importing these weapons into Atlanta? How are they getting into the city?”
Ryker wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “What makes you think I fucking know?”
“Because you know everything going on in the black market.” Pat’s beefy presence was less than intimidating to Ryker. He wasn’t scared of the cop. He knew without a doubt that if anything happened, Ella would be devastated. Pat didn’t want that. “Or at least your father did when he was club president. If you’re half the leader he was, then I assume you know what I need.”
He just had to bring up Ryker’s father. “We’re not exactly friends. Why would I tell you anything if I did know?”
“Give me the fucking info and I’ll offer you immunity for crimes prior to your Roaming Devils leadership.” Pat leaned forward. “Ella won’t have to watch you walk away in handcuffs to spend the rest of your life in jail when we find your father’s body floating in the river, or wherever it is that you put him. Did he go up in flames like your grandfather?”
Ryker stared at him. “You can’t offer me shit.”
“No, I can.” He pulled out a piece of paper in the folder he had sat on the desk. “Right here. You give me the info, you cannot be held accountable for the Roaming Devil’s past sins. Because right now, it’s not looking so good for you and your club.”
“Mmm.” Ryker laughed. “You’ve got nothing. You’re so desperate for information that you’re grasping at straws hoping that you’ll find something to make me bite.”
“What about my daughter?”
“What about her?”
“You really want to do that to her? Let her get attached to the monster you are just so she can pine away after you’re locked up for the crimes you’re guilty of? Give me something on the guns and Ella doesn’t have to see you behind bars for now.”
“Ella’s not going to see me behind bars because you’ve got nothing on me.” Ryker glanced around. “And since you’ve got nothing on me, I’d like to be released.”
“Goddamn it.” Pat slammed his fist on the table. “These men are using these weapons to terrorize women on the streets. What if they went after my daughter? What if they shot and killed her? You can be first-class scum on your own time, but every decision you make affects her.”
Pat pushed the folder toward Ryker. The woman was pretty. Blonde hair. Skinny. Ryker could see the profile he had on her. She was a former beauty queen who’d gotten hooked on coke. If he had to guess, she couldn’t pay her bill. And when she couldn’t pay her bill, she’d paid with her life. But it didn’t explain why the gun had been left behind. He stared at the bullet hole in her head. It was a horrible setup if someone was trying to pin a suicide on her. The hole was too far back to be self-inflicted at that angle.
Ryker rubbed his swollen lip. “What’s the profile you’ve got on this?”
“That’s none of your business.”
Ryker glanced up at him. “Then undo the fucking handcuffs.”
Pat blew out a breath. Ryker was pretty sure it killed him a little inside to share what he knew with Ryker. “We’ve got a few deaths where the women are posed the same. The wound is the same. The gun is the same make. The women are all former successes. This one was a beauty-pageant winner. Former Miss Alabama, to be exact. We’ve had a brilliant scientist show up on the streets with the same profile. And we’ve had an attorney.” Pat stared at him. “What’s stopping them from going after a doctor next?”
“And you want to get the guns, not the one’s doing this?”
“The guns lead us to the ones doing this.” Pat collected the papers in the folder and closed it. “Who are they? What is their motive?”
Ryker shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Pat sighed. “You’re a fucking worthless piece of shit.”
He stood, leaving the small room. Ryker thought about all the connections he had and who would have the most info about this. The gun wasn’t branded, but it was unique. He’d never seen it before, but it stood out enough that if he did, he would remember. The shiny metal was a stark contrast to most guns’ muted steel color. It was almost as if they’d polished it to be noticed.
The door opened and a uniformed officer came in. He undid the cuffs. “You’re free to go.”
Ryker rubbed his wrists. “I’m assuming I get to find my way home.”
“There is a payphone out front.”
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