Joker hated waiting.
When he’d been vice president of the Raiders MC, the guys waited for him and hung on his every word. All he had to do was nod his head or crook a finger, and his every damn wish was met. He’d lived that life for over ten years, and the power and notoriety was a tough habit to break.
The wooded area surrounding the Raiders’ clubhouse in upstate New York provided the perfect cover for the surveillance van while remaining close enough to receive adequate reception on the black-and-white monitors.
Joker shifted in the van’s uncomfortable bench seat he’d been forced to sit on for the last forty-five minutes. But since his girl, Daisy, conwoman extraordinaire, was scamming Digger, the psycho president of the Raiders, Joker felt compelled to watch this shit go down. Especially since she was doing it for him.
“I don’t get it.” Sheena, Daisy’s best friend and fellow conwoman, nodded toward the monitors. “Why would anyone want to be a biker? That clubhouse is a shithole.”
Joker had once called the tumbledown building home. He’d grown up in the club, then swore to defend his brothers until that turned out to be a joke on him.
“It’s supposed to revolve around not caring about society’s rules while being loyal to your brothers and living free.”
Sheena whipped her head in his direction. “How’d that work out for you?”
Not good.
A month ago, his thirteen-year-old son, Derek, had lain in a hospital bed, hanging on to life with a bullet hole in his chest because of a power struggle between Digger and Joker. Luckily, the kid survived, but that was one grudge Joker wasn’t willing to forgive or forget.
“The ‘living free’ part gets a little fucked up when you got an egomaniac like Digger running the show,” Joker said.
Joker could handle anything Digger sent his way, but to use his son as a pawn in their dirty game crossed way over the line. So far over the line that when he contacted their charter club, the Las Vegas Serpents MC, they were more than happy to step up. It seemed Digger’s crooked deals threw shade on everyone, so much so that Cobra, the Serpents’ president, agreed to help take down Digger.
Joker peered out the window into the pitch blackness. He’d given his whole life to the club and had thought living as an outlaw biker was the only thing that mattered. Until it wasn’t.
“It’s the egomania that’s going to work in our favor.” Sheena adjusted the monitors, and a picture flashed on the screen. It showed Daisy and Rattler, the Serpents’ road captain, sitting at a table in the Raiders’ clubhouse.
Joker stood as much as his six-foot-four-inch frame would allow and tried to stretch the kink out of his spine. He leaned over Boa’s wide shoulders to get a closer look. The Serpents’ tech genius, who assembled most of the equipment, resembled a prize fighter, not a computer geek.
Digger entered the picture heading straight for Daisy. Shit, he hated seeing his girl having to deal with that scum, but Daisy had assured him she knew what she was doing, and this was the first step of Digger’s demise.
* * *
Daisy and Rattler sat in the now familiar clubhouse at Digger’s table. At first, Daisy had been skeptical about the Serpents’ ability to pull off a scam. As she’d instructed Joker, running a con was about finesse and timing, not smashing and grabbing. Much to her surprise, Rattler had a flair for acting; dressed in a long-sleeved shirt that covered his MC tats and his shaggy hair slicked back into a ponytail, he resembled the ideal Hollywood metrosexual assistant.
Daisy dressed the part of a Hollywood director wearing a classy mix of business casual with just enough exposed cleavage. They each carried the proper fake credentials, but once Daisy mentioned Digger starring in HBO’s version of Sons of Anarchy five days ago, the sting was on.
The first time she’d entered the rundown roadhouse, she sensed the disdain along with an undercurrent of deceit. The sticky, splintered wood floor and dinginess matched the guys milling around the bar and pool tables.
The stench of stale beer, smoke, and body odor assaulted her senses. She and Rattler exchanged a side-eyed glance as they settled themselves at a table in the back to wait for Digger.
“Hey, motherfuckers,” Digger bellowed across the room.
Daisy kept her game face firmly in place, but she longed for the day when this ended. Digger was even worse than Joker had described. He had a cold, flinty glare that made her feel dirty when he looked at her, his thin lips lingered in a permanent smirk, and he had a bulky body that he didn’t mind using to push people around. Literally. Two nights ago, when the bartender hadn’t brought him his drink fast enough, he grabbed the poor kid by the T-shirt and slammed his face into the bar. The kid dropped to the floor, unconscious, and Digger laughed. Most times, he was jacked up on something, which did nothing for his already psychotic personality.
Taking down this scum would be sweet.
Tonight, Digger greeted his fellow bikers with fist bumps and backslaps, although over the last week, Daisy observed some hadn’t been entirely receptive to him. They hid it well, but she’d caught the glances behind his back along with a general tension that vibrated through the dilapidated clubhouse.
Digger ambled over to them, all swagger and false bravado. There was not one redeeming quality about this man—from his matted hair and gnarly beard to the stained T-shirt that barely covered his hairy beer-belly protruding over the waistband of his grubby jeans.
He plopped himself into the chair closest to Daisy and leered at her, then leaned in. With a smile plastered on her face, she tried to ignore the onions on Digger’s breath and the body odor wafting around the T-shirt he’d worn for the last three days.
She edged away slightly, but he grabbed her hand in his massive claw and squeezed. Daisy focused on the letters etched on each of his fingers, which spelled out DEATH, as she fished out a little recording device from her purse with her other hand.
Digger opened his fist and examined her fingers. “Nice hands. Sure would look good wrapped around my cock.”
Daisy inwardly cringed for two reasons: the obvious of touching anything on Digger’s disgusting body, no less his cock, and knowing that Joker had visual and audio in the van and could see and hear every word.
* * *
“You see what I’m talking about?” Joker slammed his palm against the inside of the van, then glared at Boa. “This ends now.” Joker pulled on the door handle of the van and pushed it open.
Taking a back seat was its own brand of hell because all he wanted was to barge into the Raiders’ clubhouse and blast Digger once and for all.
He’d fantasized about all the ways it could go—slow and painful or fast and sharp—but those dreams remained hidden in the darkness of his mind.
Boa crowded behind him and slammed the door shut. “Chill the fuck out.”
Joker glared at Boa, then stormed to the front of the van and flopped into the captain’s chair, barely controlling the hatred he harbored for Digger. He’d run the Raiders MC into the ground with his one-sided deals and double-crossing allies, and the need for retribution lived in Joker’s soul like a cancer.
“I can’t stand this fuckin’ waiting.” Joker scrubbed his hand over the stubble on his jaw.
Four weeks ago, Digger had shot Derek in the chest on a crowded subway platform. Two weeks ago, Daisy, the owner of Joker’s heart, had devised a scheme to take Digger down, and one week ago, Joker had promised not to interfere. Of course, at the time, Daisy’s sweet body was squeezing him in a way that made his eyes cross.
Note to self: Don’t agree to shit when I’m balls deep in a beautiful woman.
“Daisy knows what she’s doing.” Sheena assured him.
In truth, he trusted Daisy with his life. They’d met in steamy Miami when Joker had been involved in his final deal for the Raiders to save him and his son. Daisy had been trying to outwit a vindictive drug lord. When their fucked-up situations inevitably had fallen apart, they were forced to work together and rely on each other. Great, for those who believed in storybook endings, not so much for the realists who’d dealt with vicious fuckers who never gave up.
“Three rules of a good con.” Sheena counted off on her fingers. “Finesse, self-control, and patience.”
She annoyingly emphasized the last word. And yeah, she was right, but the cramped, humid van amped up his instinct to knock down the door and throw a fist.
Boa glanced at the monitors. “The beauty part of this scam is it’s outrageous enough to play on Digger’s ego, but not too wild that he won’t take the bait or suspect he’s being conned.”
“No problem there, he’s as stupid as he is shady,” Joker said.
“Normally, money is the prize or the promise of it.” Boa smirked. “But Digger’s addiction to power and notoriety will end up kicking him in the ass.”
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