“Right fucking now.”
He cleared his throat. “You got it, Prez.” It looked like he had about five minutes to get in the headspace to fuck with some drug dealers. Not what he had planned for the day, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to argue with Copper.
“Good. Zach, Mav, and I will ride along but stay out of sight unless it goes tits up.”
“Okay.” Already, he’d begun the shift into enforcer mode, pushing everything out of his mind except his duty to his club family.
“Let’s roll.” Copper strode toward him, slapping his shoulder as he passed. His expression softened to the mildly murderousappearance he usually wore as opposed to the violent visage he’d had when Saint first walked in.
He followed his president outside to find Zach and Mav already on their bikes and primed to go.
“All right,” Zach said from astride his motorcycle. “We’ll be near if there’s trouble, Saint. Go in, get the number, and get out. Leave your cut off and fingers crossed that whoever is working doesn’t recognize you as one of us.”
He grunted. Fat chance of that happening. Almost everyone in their small town knew the Handlers. Half the town feared them as villains, while the others saw them as vigilante saviors. Reality lay somewhere in between. They wanted to live their lives their way, and sometimes that didn’t always follow the letter of the law.
“Easy enough,” Saint said as he grabbed his helmet.
Mav snorted. “Let’s fucking hope.” Then he fired up his bike and gestured for Saint to head out. “After you,” he shouted.
Their crew of four took off, flying through the mountains into town. The ten-minute trip gave Saint the time to get in the zone.
When he made the left into the parking lot of the small shopping center housing the laundromat, an antique store, and a dental office, the rest of his brothers kept riding. They’d circle back and park in the far end of the lot, but wanted anyone watching out the window to think they rode on.
Saint parked his bike in front of the antique store sandwiched between the laundromat and dental office, removed his cut, and stowed it in his saddlebags before striding toward his mark. A large sign on the door readNo Loitering, and beneath it, an ever-popularNo Shoes, No Shirt, No Servicesign hung crooked in the front window.
The bell over the laundromat door jangled too cheerfully as Saint stepped inside. Overfilled washers rattled with angry metal clangs like they were seconds from tearing themselves apart.Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, harsh and unforgiving. They blasted him with light brighter than the midday summer sun.
Two customers occupied the laundromat.
They clocked him instantly.
One, a twenty-something woman folded towels on top of a dryer, while an older gentleman sat on a bench near the front window, waiting for his cycle to finish. He went back to scrolling his phone after a quick, wary glance Saint’s way.
Saint crossed to the counter slowly and deliberately.
“Can I help you?” the attendant asked without looking up from a decade-old, crinkled muscle car magazine.
The guy had shaggy, light brown hair with a matching mustache and was thin enough to be blown over by a gentle breeze. His plain white T-shirt had orange dust speckled across it. An empty Cheetos bag rested next to his open magazine.
“I want to use machine thirteen.”
The guy froze mid-page turn. The room didn’t go quiet, but something shifted.
The attendant lifted his head in a slow pan up Saint’s body. His eyes widened as round as the porthole on his washers. Yeah, cut or no cut, this guy knew exactly who stood in front of him.
“Uh, sorry, man. No, thirteen,” he said too fast. “Boss is super, uh, super… whatever that word is. Don’t like the number thirteen.”
“Superstitious.”
“Yeah. That’s it. Twelve and fourteen are open.”
Saint placed his palms flat on the counter and leaned forward, looming over the attendant. “I want thirteen.”
The guy’s pointy Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Right. Uh…” He wiped orange fingers on his T-shirt as he reached beneath the counter.
Going for a gun?
Saint’s pulse jumped. He immediately reached for the piece on his belt, but before he had a chance to grab it, the guy’s hand returned, empty. “Okay, here you go.” He grabbed a pencil and a scrap of paper, scrawled a ten-digit number, then shoved the paper across the counter like it was hot to the touch.
