Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle by Jerry Langton Page A

meth, right?”
    Johansson recalled that Mehelnechuk took a dim view of coke and meth. Of course, he dealt both, but he would not allow his men to use either. He said he had seen them fuck up too many people. The penalty for coke or meth use on Mehelnechuk’s watch was severe and, Johansson had heard, potentially fatal. So he lied: “No way, profit margin’s too rich.” Then he continued. “The bar is packed pretty well every night, I’ve got some big plans for . . .”
    Mehelnechuk interrupted again. “That’s chump change; if you want real money, you’ll make it here in a bigger city.”
    â€œWhat do I have to do?”
    â€œI’ll let you know.”
    â€œUh . . . okay.”
    â€œDon’t worry so much,” Mehelnechuk smiled for the first time in Johansson’s presence. “You’re going to Springfield to join a club called the Death Dealers—it’s all set up—but you have to come back to Martinsville whenever I need you.”
    â€œHere.” Mehelnechuk handed Johansson a leather briefcase, its elegant design ill-suited to the scruffy young man who received it. There was an awkward silence that only broke when a frustrated Mehelnechuk ordered Johansson to open it.
    Inside, he found a sawed-off handgun, a cellphone, and five thousand in cash. He grinned.
    â€œUse the money to get yourself a place to stay and some decent clothes—the guys out front can help you with that,” Mehelnechuk said. “Keep the other two things with you at all times—and keep the phone charged up. Don’t worry about the bill; I have a connection in the business.”
    â€œWhat will I be doing?”
    â€œMaking money.”
    Months later, in Mehelnechuk’s hot tub, Johansson realized that he was making a lot of money. Although he was making it by performing for his master, he was okay with that. He’d have liked to be his own boss again some day, but for the time being, he was content to follow orders and rake in the bucks.

    Jamie Roblin knew on an intellectual level he had to eat, but he just didn’t feel like it. He paced around his apartment, just as he had a million times before, trying to think of something he could eat that would have a tiny bit of appeal for him. He’d been pacing for about two-and-a-half hours when he finally decided upon a box of Froot Loops and a two-quart bottle of orange soda.
    He was just digging into his meal when he heard a knock at the door. It was the secret, coded knock he instructed all of his business associates to use, but it still made him nervous. He grabbed a handgun and approached the door slowly. He heard the knock again. He looked through the peephole and grinned.
    It was none other than Marvin “Big Mamma” Bouchard. The big man himself had come to pay Jamie a visit. He’d been dealing with the Sons of Satan for a couple of years now, but had never met any of the important ones. And everyone who was anyone knew who Bouchard was. He was in the paper and on TV all the time. For a small-time meth cook like Jamie, a visit from Bouchard was something of an honor. It must, he thought, be something big. So he put away his gun and opened the door.
    â€œMr. Bouchard . . . uh . . . nice of you to come.”
    Bouchard smiled warmly, shook Jamie’s hand, and walked in with three other big bikers. “Sit down, sit down, Jamie,” he said. “Relax.”
    Jamie did as he was told. Two of the big bikers sat beside him on the couch. It was a small couch and they were big guys, so it was a tight fit.
    â€œYou do a pretty good business with us, don’t you Jamie?”
    â€œOh, yeah . . .”
    â€œI mean, we pay you lots of money for lots of drugs and it works out pretty good, doesn’t it?”
    â€œYep.”
    So why do you sell to the fucking Lawbreakers?”
    â€œOh, that . . . them . . . I always sold to them, I have been selling to them for