Chapter Five
He saw the woman leave Cass’s place. Wearing a sweatshirt that was far too big. A sweatshirt that had to belong to Cass.
He’d lost them the previous night. But instead of admitting defeat, he’d just gone and had himself a stake-out at Cass’s place all night long. Because he’d had a hunch…
That sonofabitch took her home.
And she’d stayed there, all freaking night long.
When she left, he followed her. Staying against the edge of buildings. Lurking in the shadows. She slipped into a waiting car, and he hightailed it for the ride that he’d stashed nearby. He also made a point of getting the license plate of the car that picked her up, just in case he lost her again.
But he didn’t lose her. He did make sure that Cass didn’t catch sight of him. Not like he wanted to deal with that big bastard right then. Or, honestly, ever. At least not in any kind of fair hand-to-hand situation. The leader of the Night Strikers would totally kick his ass.
He stayed out of Cass’s sight, and he followed the woman to the high-end condo in downtown Atlanta. He got her address. He got her name.
And within the hour, he also knew…
FBI agent. Cass Striker had just fucked an FBI agent all night long.
He whipped out his phone. “You are not going to believe this shit.” Because he knew pay dirt when he hit it.
And, oh, but this dirt was good. It might just be the key he’d been searching for—the key to wrecking Cass’s entire world.
Chapter Six
He gripped the pool cue in his hand, surveyed the table, and then Cass called his shot, “Eight ball, corner pocket.”
The other men around the table leaned in.
He took the shot. Tipped the cue ball. Sent it rolling straight to the eight ball, worked the angle, and it sank perfectly into the corner pocket. Done.
A faint smile curved his lips There was some grumbling from the others. But a bet was a bet, and the beers were about to be given for free to every single member of his MC?—
“I hear that you’re fucking Feds these days, Cassius.”
The smile on his lips froze. Taking his time, Cass stretched to his full height, then he turned to face the sonofabitch who’d just spoken.
Bayne Hendrix stood about five feet away, flanked on each side by his two lieutenants. The Western Mavericks had no damn business being in that pool hall. At least, not unless they wanted trouble. Clearly, they wanted it.
The Western Mavericks weren’t even supposed to be in Atlanta. They belonged on the other side of the US.
“I was just driving through town, and a fun little rumor swept its way to me…” Bayne had taken control of the Mavericks a few months back. After the previous leader had been killed in a motorcycle accident.
A suspicious accident? Hell, yeah. Super suspicious. The brakes had failed. Then the bike had ignited. That shit didn’t happen every single day.
“Seems that you’ve taken to sleeping with Feds.” Bayne’s voice was overly loud. As always. His eyes glittered at Cass. Not quite as tall as Cass, a few inches shorter, and with a stomach that was going soft. Soft from too much booze. Too many drugs. Or maybe from too much time being a straight-up asshole who loafed around and let other people in the world do the hard, grueling work that had to be done. As always, he wore his beat-up, ancient leather jacket. A jacket that was a little too big and hung past his wrists. “What’s the game plan there, Cass? You selling out the MCs? Getting in that nice, FBI pussy so you can?—”
His words stopped, mostly because Bayne could not speak any longer. Cass had broken the pool cue in two. He dropped one piece to the floor, grabbed Bayne, and in a flash, Cass shoved the prick to his knees. Cass positioned the broken piece of pool cue he still held underneath Bayne’s chin, holding it horizontally across his neck. Cass yanked back hard on the pool cue, one hand on each side as he pulled it against Bayne’s throat.
Bayne’s head whipped back as far as it would go, and he grabbed at the cue stick.
Too bad the jerk wasn’t strong enough to actually take it from Cass.
Bayne’s two lieutenants immediately reached for their weapons.
“Yeah…no.” A slow drawl from Cass’s right-hand man, Javion Booker. He might enjoy a slow drawl, courtesy of his Mississippi roots, but Javion moved helluva fast. He already had his own weapon out and aimed. “I think these two got things covered without us interrupting them.”
Oh, Cass had things covered. He’d just sort of lost his sanity a minute there and seen red when he’d let Bayne’s words get to him.
