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“You mean Hardass,” Jessica said with a soft laugh.
“Just like I told O. Don’t start or I’ll slip up and call him that to his face. Let’s focus, people.” He continued on with what he was saying. “They’re tiny and can’t be seen. You’ll be able to hear everything that happens.”
Each of the members on his team set the earbuds into their ears.
Once outside, O touched his arm and said softly, “Be careful.”
He rode the bike over to the clubhouse located in Montebello that looked more like a fortress than a bar. The gate was open but Dean knew the tall chain linked fence topped with rhubarb, a term used to define barbed wire, secured the area. This place could be locked down tighter than a drum in a flash.
He stopped the bike just shy of the place so he could take a look from afar. There were numerous bikes parked outside. Through his comm link, courtesy of the DOJ, Dean could hear his teammates clearly.
Jessica said, “Their leader is—”
“Peter Dos Santos. Goes by the nickname Dos. He’s six-two, 195, medium dark hair, blue eyes, and runs the MC like a tyrant. He’s the same age I am, young to have inherited the club after my father’s successor, William ‘Billy’ Norton, died in a knife fight in a bar in East LA.”
“I take it you know him.”
“I know him,” Dean said through gritted teeth. They had been what he called pseudo-friends. Dean didn’t enjoy the club or the members much, but when he was a minor, the pressure was high from his dad. He was forced to play pool or darts and hang out for hours while his old man drank himself into a stupor. There were many nights before Neo came to live with them and Riley was born that Dean spent in the back with his dad passed out on one of the many cots they maintained for the members to crash in if they needed to.
He hated it. The smell of beer, vomit, and unwashed men.
But there was one thing he did love. Motorcycles. The classic Softail he rode was a beaut. He had to give it to his dad, his taste in bike muscle was excellent.
“Dean. Don’t push too hard,” O said softly. “It’s been a while since you’ve been back. They may not be receptive.”
“I have no doubt that my sob story will open them up, make them smug with the knowledge that they were right. The establishment sucks. These dumb bastards don’t understand that the establishment keeps everyone free, including them. They’re nothing but a bunch of disillusioned lost boys looking for somewhere to belong. As if crime and their collective elevate them.”
He released the kick stand and revved the bike, the sweet sound of the motor purring in perfect harmony. He put it in gear and roared the short distance to the clubhouse. The front of the building was concrete. The few windows were covered with metal bars. It housed a bar with pool tables and dartboards. Food was served as well with a full working kitchen that members maintained. Their last cook may still be there. He went by the cliché name of Cookie.
To the left were two large doors bearing their black heart logo. They opened up to a garage where members could park their bikes. Just inside the entrance was a thick wooden door to their meeting room. Only the president had the key. Dean doubted much had changed there, a huge table with a bunch of chairs. His dad had a small bar set up in the corner.
In the back was the room with the cots, several showers, and bathrooms, along with another large area for storage of various items.
This was the room he wanted to see.
He dismounted from Stella and unbuckled his helmet, setting it on the seat. He slipped on his wraparound Oakley sunglasses and squared his shoulders. “I’m going in,” he said.
“Copy that,” Jessica replied, and he smiled. Felt like old times when he’d been on plainclothes missions during his tenure as a SEAL.
Memories flooded him and swamped him, putting him in the right mood to bad-mouth the Navy. The anger he’d tried to keep under wraps was given free rein, and with it came the pain, the longing, and the loss, all wrapped up in a bitter pill he was forced to swallow.
He pushed through the front door into the main bar. The area to the right of him was filled with pool tables and the dartboards. Men clad in leather and denim milled around with cues. The other side was filled with tables and chairs, and in the middle was a round, polished metal bar to serve both sides.
Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at him. He could hear cars on the road outside in the hush that fell. He spied Dos at a table with Tubby, Roach, Sandy, and Cal. All of them had been very close to his father. Dos’s eyes widened. Cal and Roach exchanged whispers, their eyes narrowing. The tension ratcheted up in the room, but Dean knew how to stay cool even in the desert heat. The tension washed off his back and only fueled his intent.
In the stillness of their surprise, Dos’s voice boomed out. “DeanfuckingTeller. What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were still selling out to the Navy.”
Dean smirked and braced his feet in a gunslinger’s stance, his jaw tight. “I was until they screwed me over. My father was right. Fuck Uncle Sam. Bunch of spineless assholes.” The muscles in his gut hardened with so many unpleasant memories.
Dos lifted his huge frame, and his three lieutenants did the same. Dean’s target was Tubby. He remembered him being a pushover. Overweight, his paunch overhanging his waistband, he had stringy blond hair and a scraggly beard. He hadn’t changed a bit, except for the wrinkles on his face. He was a weasel and the weakest link. A pothead and motormouth, he might let some of the secrets of the club slip.
Dean’s gaze never wavered, and he met Dos’s piercing hawklike gaze. His face was etched with years of hard dealing, but he still had the same aura of power. He stepped forward, a calculating glint in his eyes. “What do you expect from us?”
“The brotherhood I was missing. The real brotherhood.” He had to work not to choke on those words. “They kicked me out on my ass without a thought. Robbed me of my career and my livelihood. I gave them everything and they kicked in my teeth. I’m back to get my due. Because The Black Heart Nation knows how to extract justice!”
Dos headed toward him with menacing steps and Dean braced himself. He was either going to throw him out on his ass or welcome inside. If he blew this, they would be at square one without a lead in this frustrating and dangerous case.
Dos went toe to toe with him, all up in his face. “You want justice, Teller?”
