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Chapter One
Jennings Abel should have a whiskey in his hand. He should be sitting alone at a dinky bar in East Canon, Colorado, eyeing up the pretty bartender who poured his drinks.
He should be watching her full breasts bounce with every move she made. Half the men in town went there to see her on Friday and Saturday nights.
Ah, yes. Jennings could use a little eye candy while knocking back shots.
Instead, he was sitting at a bar the next town over, being served drinks by a tattooed ex-con named Dean while babysitting a bunch of criminals.Buthe’d reached a new inner circle. That made it all worth the suffering.
Just being invited to the Shadowlands bar gave Jennings a position in the biker gang he’d spent months infiltrating.
He brought the whiskey to his lips. The glass was greasy either from sitting on some shelf or never being washed at all. His bet was on the latter.
He slammed the shot and then set the glass down with athunk.
Two of the guys he’d come here with gave him twin head bobs of appreciation. What first impressed the Disciples about Jennings was his ability to hold his liquor—something he showed them on a regular basis. He was the only guy in the club who could drink that much and still remain completely lucid.
“Get my brother another!” Karl called to Dean. The bartender didn’t pause to glance at Jennings to gauge if he’d had enough. He just poured the shot and slid it across the bar to him.
Jennings grunted in thanks and wrapped his fingers around the glass.
Being here brought him one step closer to theinnerinner ring. The final layer of this crooked operation would then be peeled back. Soon he would take down the entire operation.
Jennings and the FBI task force he worked with, known as Sentry, had spent nearly a year getting to this stage. Since Jennings had the best chance of fitting in with the biker gang, he started by hanging around them. Then, once he was invited to the clubhouse, he made himself useful by offering to buy beer or perform other errands.
Soon he was being asked to tag along with them on various “runs” that usually involved a secretive exchange in a dark alley or parking lot and ended up back at the clubhouse draped in whores and smelling like booze.
A feminine hand curled around his chest and nails raked down to his abs. The smell of cheap perfume and cheaper tequila hit Jennings’s nostrils. He settled a hand over the one inching toward his dick and twisted his head to meet the stare of the blonde draping herself over him.
“Hey, sugar. You one of the Disciples?”
He stretched his shoulders, angling to the side to show her the leather cut he was wearing and showing off the official patch. He’d been patched into the club not ten days before.
“They don’t make guys like you anymore.” She leaned closer, bringing the scent of sour breath laced with tequila. She nuzzled his neck. “Why don’t you take me for a ride on your hot bike?”
He brought the shot to his lips. Knocked it back. The alcohol burned a path to his stomach. “I think you’ve had too much to drink. You couldn’t even stay on my bike.” He looked over her head at the group of women giggling and waving at him. “Your friends want you.”
With a small nudge on her ass, he sent her back to the group.
“Another,” he grated out to the bartender.
Karl and his other companion Mack stared at him hard enough that he felt their gazes drilling into him.
“What?” He leveled a look at both.
“You gay, man?” Karl’s already stiff countenance was even less animated than usual.
“Yeah, we never see you with any women.” Mack was nicknamed after the semi-truck for his size. Being six-six and two hundred fifty pounds made him the biggest man in any room.
Jennings huffed out a laugh. “I’m not gay. I just don’t go for women like that. I like to leave the best STDs for all of you assholes.”
For a second, neither of them got the joke. Then they burst into loud laughter that turned a lot of heads their way.
Jennings’s lips quirked at one corner and he chuckled even as he realized his slip. He needed to fit in with these guys, even if it meant drinking to the point of a daily hangover. While he wasn’t willing to go to the clinic for gonorrhea, he needed to make it look like he stuck his dick in some pussy.
He set his boot on the floor and pushed off the barstool. “Gotta piss.”
As he walked away, he made sure to exaggerate his walk and make it look like he’d had a bit too much to drink. Some major partying in his early twenties gave him a high tolerance for alcohol, but he needed the guys in the club to let down their guard with him. He needed into that final circle—the one that picked up the drugs from over the border.
