About now you’d be right in assuming I’m not faithful to my estranged wife. If she was anyone else, and if I was in any other marriage there’d be no question I’d be faithful. Monogamous. If I was married to Priss, (a man can dream), I can’t imagine looking at another woman, let alone touching one. It just wouldn’t happen. I’m not going to make excuses for who I’ve fucked or how many of them. It also isn’t a closely guarded secret that my apparently devoted society wife has stepped out on me more times than I can count either.
I wouldn’t say we’ve got an open marriage, although she’d like to think we do, that’s her justification for why she does it, I just don’t give a fuck about who she sleeps with. In my mind an open marriage means that a discussion has been had and both parties agree to the conditions. The fact is I only know about her getting around spreading her legs for whoever’s got the fattest wallet, because I ran into one of her many man-toys leaving our place in Chicago when I dropped in once to ask her about signing the divorce papers.
Charlee wasn’t backwards in coming forwards when she told me she has needs, and seeing as I’m not around she has to fulfil them she gets it elsewhere. Again, if she were any other woman, especially Priss, I would’ve been eaten up by jealousy, but in Charlee’s case I simply shrugged it off and left. No harm no foul in my book. We’re both doing it, I haven’t stuck my dick in her for fourteen years, so who am I to say anything about where she gets her kicks. Charlee hasn’t asked once about where I’m getting it or from who, and I’m glad she hasn’t because that’s a question that’d go answered for a fuck of a long time, like forever. I know she’s smart enough to figure out I haven’t been celibate all these years, but I honestly don’t think she cares enough to ask.
Most of the time I pick up a woman at a bar or club in Boulder when I’m on a run. I don’t believe in shitting where you eat and the last fucking thing I need is for some woman to pull the bitch-card out and get in Priss’ face about what I’ve done with her. Yeah, no.
My motto for the last fourteen years has been ‘One and done’. I won’t deny it and I won’t fucking apologise for it. I don’t care where I fuck a woman as long as my dick gets wet and I blow my load. I try to make sure she gets hers first, but once I’m done I’m out whether she got it or not. No exchanging numbers. No repeat performances. If I can get away with it, and honestly I have more often than I like to admit, no names. I’m not an asshole about it. I explain upfront what I want and if they expect more than that I move on to the next one. I won’t fuck someone that isn’t completely aware of my end game, it’s not fair to them and it sure as hell isn’t fair to me. In saying that, it’s been so long since I’ve fucked a woman I couldn’t even give you an exact month, let alone week. My cock’s interest in anyone other than Priss has taken an extended leave of absence, and the outlook on his return is shaky at best. I can’t say I blame him, but I seriously need to burn off some of this frustration. A man can only take so much before he snaps. Working out isn’t cutting it anymore and the only other outlet I’ve found successful is a good, long, hard fuck. However because of my cock’s disinterest I’ve had to settle for jacking off in the shower twice a day.
Motivational material isn’t an issue when I’m alone with my dick in my hand, and as sad as it is to say I’ve had my best orgasms that way, and have for years. All I have to do is recall Priss in her tiny white bikini, nipples straining the thin fabric to the point I can almost make out the colour of them. Imagine them in my hands, how they’d feel, what they’d taste like. All that gorgeous blonde hair curled around my fists as I fuck her from behind, her tight heart shaped ass grinding against my groin. Long tanned legs wrapped around my waist as I drive in and out of her tight wet pussy. What makes me the hardest, makes me cum harder than I have with any woman, is imagining her saying my name as her orgasm takes her. That’s the stuff of pure fantasy. Her breathless whispers in my ear begging me to take her harder, faster, more. Looking into her eyes as I cum inside her has my cock jerking against the zipper of my jeans just thinking about it.
Last night it was almost impossible to fall asleep with today’s conversation with Priss looming over me. It didn’t help I received the first phone call I’ve had in a year from Charlee demanding I take her to some fucking stupid benefit dinner next month either. Telling her politely, not really I was pretty blunt actually, to fuck off and hanging up on her I ended up having a few beers with Arrow and Cage at Rough Shod. To say it was hard sitting with my two business partners, and best friends knowing that within days everything they know about me, and the club we love is going to be blown apart is an understatement. I’ve got no idea how they’re going to react to what they’re about to learn, but it’s not a stretch to assume they aren’t going to take the news well.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Hunter
Sleep Now in the Fire – Rage Against The Machine
The tension at Church last Wednesday wasn’t just due to the news of Priss’ attack, it going public, albeit that would’ve been enough. The weight of the decision the four of us have to make next was hanging like an anvil over our heads. Having your hand forced isn’t what any agent, FBI, CIA, DEA, or otherwise wants. It heralds a loss of control and up til now, for six years four months and seventeen days to be precise, we’ve been in complete control of every situation. Every decision. Every problem solved with our input and agreement. Now there are so many variables it makes it impossible to plan a strategy with a good chance of success.
All we know, Priest, Pipe, Reaper, and I, is this shit needs to be handled delicately. Well as delicately as a bunch of undercover FBI agents that belong one percenter MC members can handle a situation. Which come to think of it isn’t fucking likely to happen. Delicate isn’t exactly an attribute we look for when we’re recruiting prospects or agents. On second thoughts, we’re truly fucked. As in, royally F.U.C.K.E.D.
Stepping over the threshold of Priest’s office after Church I’m met with an invisible, but powerful wave of foreboding. Every man in this room knows the outcome of the next half an hour will make or break families. Alliances. The brotherhood of the MC we all love. And don’t think for one second the decision to blow our cover is based on my desire to claim Priss as my own because it isn’t. Not in the slightest. Regardless of if it was my motivating factor or not these guys wouldn’t let that factor in.
Priest and Pipe have been tossing the idea around for months, mostly it’s a whole lot of complaining that they’re too old to be living a double life, and a bit of guilt mixed in for good measure at the fact it’s taken them so long to get to this point. At the end of the day I know Reaper will follow those two into the depths of hell and back so he doesn’t even need to voice which way he’s leaning. While he doesn’t offer his opinion he sure as shit has one. Thankfully, for his sake, it aligns with the prez and VP most of the time, so he gets out of having to use his underused vocal cords. If the man had a daily word limit he’d never reach it. Grunting however, he’d abso-fucking-lutely make his quota there.
Priest’s in his chair behind his solid timber desk flipping a pen between his fingers like a coin. Pipe, while he looks relaxed sprawled out in the recliner in the corner of the room, but I know him and I know he’s anything but. I’ve seen the man in action and he can go from half asleep to having a suspect in a chokehold in less than thirty seconds. The only man deadlier than Pipe is Reaper, and that’s only if you take me out of the equation. No one knows where Reaper’s skills came from, or how varied they are, but if I had to take a guess I’d say the man has a side project we know nothing about, nor does he ever have any intention of sharing about it. However, straddling a simple timber dining chair at right angles to Priests desk is the Devil’s Spawn MC’s SAA looking about ready to burst an artery, definitely a different facial expression to his usual scowl.
This discussion isn’t to decide whether it’s time to shut down this long-term operation. It’s also not about whether we decide to forego our undercover work and
assimilate entirely with the MC. That was agreed on three months ago. It’s time for us to put a permanent end to the operation that is singlehandedly credited with the incarceration of twenty-six MC members, and over a hundred middlemen, transporters, dealers, and informants. We met our objectives and not one of us is under the delusion that with a bit of digging our covers will hold up to any decent hacker if the motivation is right. And that’s a recipe for fucking disaster right there. No, this meeting is solely to hammer out the how’s and when’s of informing our families, and what we do about the blowback that’s going to cause with the MC. Because it’s inevitable, it’s going to cause blowback and the four of us aren’t sufficiently equipped to handle that. With the way I just armed eighteen brothers, the personal firepower I know they’re packing at home already and in the saddlebags on their bikes I doubt a fucking swat team of twenty would be well equipped enough to bring Devil’s Spawn MC low.
We’ve talked about this at length, gone round in circles doing it, shit it was like being on a fucking Merry Go Round the first few months after I brought it up. Finally we came to the consensus that we tell our families first. In Priest’s case Brenna and Kendall. Pipe will take care of explaining it to Cage. And Reaper the poor bastard has to tell Steel and in turn Lou. I don’t envy him that job. I’d rather have my arm hacked off slowly by a fucking chopstick than have to explain this shit to Lou. That bitch is insane on the best of days, but I can only imagine this new development will blow the lid off insane and catapult her straight into the land of fucking whacked.
In their eyes my part’s easy. I only have to tell Tilly and Priss. The bastards don’t get it though, and there’s no point trying to explain it to them. Their families. Their kids. Their fucking grandkids love them. They might be pissed, shit, they might even kick their asses collectively, but eventually they’ll be forgiven. The three men sitting across from me have lasting ties to their families built through years of experience, love, and legal bonds in the way of marriage. I’ve got fucking nothing. Sure, I’ve got my mom and dad, grandpop, and my blood brothers, but when it comes to Tilly I’ve only got the brotherly, or fatherly depending on how you look at it, connection we’ve established over the years and in light of this that will be shaky at best. And Priss… I might be unconditionally in love with her, but her feelings for me are very much up in the air. And if that isn’t the most unsettling thing I’ve ever experienced coming into this, I don’t know what is.
I take a seat on the leather two-seater couch facing Priest’s desk crossing my ankles, closing the door and locking it behind me when I came in to make sure we don’t get interrupted. Not waiting for them to start, because I just want this over and done with I ask,
“So what’s the verdict? I assume we’re all here because you’ve reached a decision about how we’re doing this?”
What no one, other than the people in this room know is Pipe, AKA Agent Jerimiah Prescott Marks, is the senior agent in charge of operations for this assignment. I had no idea either until they finally approached me after my meeting with Damon years ago when he filled me in on the fact there were already deep cover agents in place within the MC.
According to Priest he ended up with the president’s patch due to his late father, Demon, being Devil’s Spawn MC’s VP. It was the natural order of things that when the reigning president died with no son, nephew, or male relative to succeed him Priest would next in line to take the gavel. Setting up the best cover I’ve ever been witness to Priest took the position so as not to draw suspicion like he would’ve if he turned it down. Thus beginning the longest undercover sting the FBI has ever run.
Aside from occasionally being the deciding vote, or overriding popular consensus Pipe for all outward appearances differs all decision making to Priest. And it works, or it has done for twenty odd years. This ultimately won’t be a voting matter though, Pipe will have to make the final call. I just hope he chooses right.
With his elbows on his knees, Pipe leans forward not addressing anyone in particular. His face is lined and it’s plain to see the man has agonised over this for a while. It looks like he’s aged ten years in the last month alone.
“Yeah, you could say that Hunter.” During these meetings is the only time I get called anything other than Tank. After being in the MC for a year or so, I almost forgot my given name. “The only way this is going to work is if we come clean at the same time. Not together in the same room, that shit would be akin to courting disaster, but on the same day. Hopefully around the same time because fuck knows what’s going to happen when the masses find out. Gossip and rumour spread like wildfire in and out of the MC, it won’t take any more than twenty minutes tops and that’s being generous, for the news to get around if we don’t head it off at the pass. We need to feel the situation with our families out, see where they stand, how they take it before bringing it to the table.” I wholeheartedly agree. I‘ve said the same thing from the beginning so he’s got no objections from me. “Chances are it’s not going down the way we plan it regardless of how well we handle it. If I’ve learned anything over the years with the MC it’s to expect the unexpected. I’m not looking forward to telling my son I’ve been lying to him for years, and I know you men aren’t either, so keep it short and sweet. Answer any questions they’ve got, but do it in a way that doesn’t leave that shit open ended for more questions, we don’t need this shit to carry over for weeks, it needs to be wrapped up ASAP. Your guess is as good as mine when it comes to the reaction of the brothers. Whether we come out of this intact or missing a few vital organs, who the fuck knows? It’s a risk we’re going to have to take either way, because I can’t see any way clear of it before it blows up in our face in a way we can’t control.”
He’s right. What prompted us to out ourselves was a shit ton of death threats the four of us started receiving a month and a half ago. They came by regular mail addressed specifically to us at the clubhouse. If it wasn’t for the content of the letters I would’ve laughed. I mean who sends fucking mail out of CSP, (Colorado State Penitentiary), expecting to remain anonymous when it’s got a fucking prison postmark?
It took less than an hour to track down which inmates were sending them and block all outgoing mail and visitor privileges for the foreseeable future. Pipe even went as far as paying a visit to Justice, Satan’s Sons SAA, who’s currently incarcerated for the maximum sentence of twenty-five to life with no chance of parole, to put a stop to it. All I can say about the success of that trip was that Justice got a good laugh at Pipe’s expense, and we’ll leave it at that.
Reaper still looks edgy as fuck, and confirms it by saying,
“Anyone have a contingency plan? Anything?” He shakes his head in disgust when no one speaks up he says, “Yeah, didn’t think so. Look assholes my business is here, my son, my grandbabies, and even my pain in the ass daughter in-law. I’ve got more ties to this fucking joint than any of you do, and as far as I see it I’m taking the biggest risk.” Priest clears his throat wanting to intervene, but Reaper doesn’t give him the chance. “I’m not going to go against any decisions we’ve already made so slow your roll Kane.” Fuck. He must be pissed if he’s bringing out the given names too. “All I want to make clear is that I’m staying. After this all goes down that is. I don’t give a fuck if the brothers go postal, and I’m even past the point of caring whether Billy and Lou give me shit for this. I’m not leaving everything I’ve built, and you all damn well know after this case is over I was retiring anyway.” He was, it’s true. At the age of forty-six Special Agent Maximillian Andrews is soon to be retired after almost thirty years in the FBI.
Like I said before, these three men were recruited straight out of high school, and were trained in-house unlike the multi-step process other potential recruits have to suffer through. Seeing as most of the FBI’s agents are sourced from local PD, SWAT, and Secret Service candidates that don’t quite make the grade, (yeah, we take off-casts that don’t make it elsewhere), a lot of the foundat
ions are already laid. That in part is good and bad. Good because we don’t have to train them from scratch. It’s a huge investment of time and money to induct one new recruit, so it’s not a negative if another arm of the law has done the groundwork for us.
The drawback however is a lot of them are assholes. Okay, all of them are assholes. Aside from that they’re already getting set in their ways, doing things how they believe they should be done or they were taught by whichever organisation they came from. That shit’s a problem when you’re working closely in teams of four to six. You’ve got to implicitly trust the men you’ve got at your back. It you’ve got too many differing opinions on how shit should be carried out you have confusion. If you’ve got confusion you get dead. Fast.
Training Priest, Pipe, and Reaper from scratch meant they could be moulded into exactly what the FBI needed. Specifically for this operation. Don’t kid yourself though, these men walk to their own beat. Regardless of direct orders a time or fifty, they’ve been known to do what they want, when they want, and I don’t blame them either. They’ve been forced into what equates to a twenty-eight year assignment with at the time no end in sight. There’s got to be room for movement within the rules for people willing to sacrifice that much for their country.
Priest replies coldly,
“Think you made your point pretty fucking clear when you broke Damon’s nose last week for questioning your decision to get out Max.” Huh? What the fuck? This is the first I’ve heard about Damon the man that looks like he could wrestle a lion getting his ass beat by Reaper. I would’ve loved to have been front and centre to that show. It’s not that I don’t have a good rapport, some might even say a friendship with Damon Ford because I do. He’s not a bad guy and he’s been a decent handler over the last six years, but the guy’s a fucking asshole and deserved every bit of what I’m sure Reaper gave him.
Saviour: A Devil's Spawn MC Novel (Savior Book 3) Page 12
