Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle by Jerry Langton

altogether and you’re dead. You got it?”
    â€œOkay, okay, okay,” Pat said. “It’s a deal . . . so will you call me an ambulance?”
    Ned laughed. “Fuck that,” he said. “We had a deal before and you fucked me over repeatedly. . . you reap what you sow, Pat.” Then he kicked him in the face. “Now, where’s my ten thousand?”
    Pat sputtered and said something nonsensical. Ned shook him. “It’s in, it’s in, the bar fridge,” he finally admitted, pointing to the correct door.
    Ned dropped Pat and went to the fridge. It was full of beer bottles. He threw them to the ground, smashing most of them. Nothing.
    Then he looked in the ice tray. There was a manila envelope inside. He opened it; it was full of cash.
    Satisfied, Ned looked up at Leo, who was still beating an unconscious Pete. “Yo, Leo, we really gotta get outta here,” he said.
    Leo looked at him like he was asking him to leave an amusement park. After a few seconds, Ned nodded toward the door and Leo complied. He didn’t stop laughing until they were past the Bay Bridge.

    Johansson didn’t know what to expect as he followed the bikers’ directions to the office. When he finally arrived at 317 Barridge Street, he was surprised that the only Harley he could see was the one he had ridden in on.
    What he did find was a medium-size rectangular building packed among the factories and auto wreckers that dominated the area. The building was painted black and red (the Sons of Satan colors) and had a sign above the door that read: “SOSMC Martinsville.”
    Johansson could not recall ever seeing a building that large entirely without windows. He did notice that there were video cameras on each corner and a number of satellite dishes and other antennas on the roof.
    As he passed by the stumpy concrete barriers that surrounded the building, he approached a thick, red metal door. He heard it buzz open before he rang the bell. He was surprised at how heavy the door was.
    Inside, he saw what looked like the reception area of an office designed by teenage boys. The old furniture was in rough shape, there were posters of nude women on every bit of wall not covered in graffiti, and the detritus of a party—beer cans, cigaret butts, pizza boxes,and snack food wrappers—littered the floor.
    Two men greeted Johansson. They looked pretty much like how he pictured bikers—long hair, beards, and leather jackets—but they were both very young (perhaps in their early twenties) and very slim. The bigger of the pair told him it was an extremely bad idea to keep the boss waiting, and he took Johansson through another metal door that buzzed when it opened. It led to a meeting hall with a full bar.
    He was led through another door and up a staircase. At the start of the corridor, he saw a door with a sign that read, “Keep Out.” The biker who came up with him knocked on the door.
    â€œSend him in,” said a voice from inside.
    The biker opened the door and Johansson walked in. He was surprised at what he saw. Mehelnechuk was sitting behind an expensive wooden desk in a tidy, professional-looking office. It was the only place he had seen inside the building where the walls were not covered in pornography or graffiti. Instead there was just one framed photograph of a group of men in leather jackets holding up the Sons of Satan logo. Mehelnechuk and Marvin Bouchard (whom Johansson recognized from a couple of stories he’d seen on TV ) were in the center.
    â€œThanks for coming,” Mehelnechuk said without raising from his seat or offering his hand. “Can I get you something?”
    â€œNo thanks, I’m fine.”
    â€œGood. How are things in Stormy Bay?”
    â€œAwesome, I’m selling everything you can supply . . .”
    â€œExcept for personal use, of course.”
    Johansson chuckled. “Yeah.”
    â€œJust weed, though, no coke or