Page 53 of Wicked Shadows
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CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Current Day
On the privatejet to LAX, Shadow planned his every move and how he’d infiltrate a well-known and dangerous motorcycle club past the probie level. Hell, even a probie was a step up from where he’d normally have to prove his worth. But he didn’t have enough time to go through the standard process.
Elle and Beth didn’t have enough time.
Over the past year, he’d kept his distance from her and let her live her life. He’d watched with a mixture of extreme pride and sorrowful regret how her career skyrocketed when she put all her energies into it. She was frequently sought out for leading roles, and the most popular strutting peacocks vied for her attention.
“Fuckers,” he mumbled to himself. “Why couldn’t it be those dickheads disappearing instead of Elle?”
The prior twelve months were the hardest Shadow could remember enduring since he was a kid. His trips to LA had not lessened. He still visited Elle, checked on her well-being, watched her work—though she never knew he was there. He wanted her to forget him and have the life he couldn’t give her.
Only he couldn’t let her go, and he didn’t want a life that didn’t include her.
“Maybe this is my ticket away from the CIA operations. If they knew how fucking crazy messed up I am, they wouldn’t send me out anymore.”
He glanced around the cabin of the luxurious Steele Security jet, thankful the flight attendant was out of earshot. While he wouldn’t mind the company directors thinking he was crazy, he didn’t want to share his instability with anyone else.
“That wouldn’t work anyway,” he realized. “They’d just send me to even worse places.”
For the time being, his focus had to be solely on Elle and Beth if he was to have any chance of saving them. From the intelligence Steadman had shared, there was little hope of rescuing one of them, much less both. If two were missing, there were bound to be more.
Fortifying his mind and steeling his resolve, he cracked open the dossier on the outlaw motorcycle club he’d soon pledge to as a new member.
The Devil’s Dominion Motorcycle Club.
He leaned back in his seat and began memorizing all the details and planning his offensive. Every word solidified his belief the chance of success was low and the risk of death was high. The Devil’s Dominion was not known to suffer fools—or traitors.
Based out of LA, the motorcycle gang had spread to multiple states through smaller gangs brought into the fold—either by their request or via a hostile takeover and violent orientation. With the additions to their ranks, their total member count was estimated to be close to two thousand men.
An enterprise that size would have considerable resources at their beck and call. It would also need a mixture of criminal activities to fund it. With more than 150 chapters, their reach was far and wide. He had no doubt the case would require all his skill to pull off. On paper, they were a formidable opponent. Reality would be much worse.
Little information was known about their initiation process. Those who had endured it were either still part of the club and didn’t talk about it, or had been killed trying to leave the gang. His inside man, Nick Tucker, gave a detailed report two years prior, but he stressed the leaders of the group created new scenarios frequently. Each new round of probies endured more humiliating and sinister acts than the last. The harsh induction helped ensure they maintained their cruel nature as full-fledged members.
The highest concentration of members was in the LA chapter. With nearly 300 members, it was by far the most dangerous and least predictable. Fortunately, it was also the chapter Nick had infiltrated and worked his way up the chain during his two years undercover. As the current club treasurer, he was trusted implicitly and had proven his commitment.
According to Nick’s handler, the two years with the gang had taken a significant toll on him. Shadow could only imagine what Nick had been forced to do to show his allegiance and gain their trust. For any criminal organization to accept an outsider, they would require the probationary member to commit a heinous crime—to prove his mettle and to have leverage to hold over his head.
The leader of all the chapters was an ex-convict by the name of Bobby Blalock, but his club nickname was Headbanger. He required every member to be a convicted felon, adding to the notoriety of the club overall. Every new member was assigned a nickname when they joined unless they already had one from an associated gang—but the club officers were the most notorious.
Using his secure phone, Shadow contacted Nick’s handler, Jack Collins, to get the information directly from those closest to the action. “Jack, I’m on my way to LA. Tell me everything is ready for me.”
“Steadman and I have been working on your background. It’s airtight. They’ll hire a private investigator to check you out. They’ve become very careful about any new members.”
“Recently?”
“Fairly. In the last several months. Headbanger, the club president, has been extremely paranoid lately. His vice president, Nutcrusher, personally oversees every new pledge, comparing their formal application to whatever the PI digs up.”
“Headbanger and Nutcrusher. I’m sure there’s a joke in there somewhere.”
Jack chuckled darkly. “Not one they’d find funny. Nick joined at the most opportune time, before they became so suspicious of everyone. We built his arrest record and background around what he’d already told them.”
“What is Nick’s club name?”
“Renegade. He’s the club treasurer, so they trust him with all the money. He and their sergeant at arms, Bonebreaker, convinced Headbanger to allow officers to nominate new members at the probie stage, so you’ll skip the pledge stage. They still won’t trust you until you’ve proven yourself, though.”
