The Broken and the Damned: An MC Club Alpha Male Romance Read Online Free

that’s not politically correct.”
     
    “You can be politically correct when you get out of this car,” Doug replied. “This is my personal car, so we’re talking just as friends. Colleagues, after work. Not government employees.”
     
    And then, as if to underline that point, he took his hands off the steering wheel to fumble around with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Once he had lit up, he rolled down his window and tapped some ash out onto the highway as it sped by.
     
    “They’re bat shit insane and they’re ambitious. We’ve kept an eye on them for the past five years but we’ve been so worried about the Cubans and the Haitians that we’ve let them expand unchecked. Now that Bolo’s out of the picture, they’re going to make a big play for territory and business. But we’ve got someone on the inside.”
     
    “A mole?”
     
    “Sure. He’s been giving us info for the last few months. A former addict who saw the light.”
     
    “Doesn’t sound reliable.”
     
    “You’d be surprised. He’s given us enough to lead to several arrests over the last few months. But we’ve been holding off.”
     
    “Holding off why?”
     
    My mind was fully engaged with this case now—it was enough to take my mind off Winston’s death—this was the perfect therapy. More work.
     
    “Because we think we can make a big arrest with your help.”
     
    “Fatman.”
     
    “That’s right.”
     
    I nodded gravely.
     
    “All right. What do I have to do?”
     
    “Go home. Relax. Take a shower. A counselor will call you in the morning but you don’t have to meet with her. Not if you don’t want to.”
     
    “Good. Because I don’t want to.”
     
    “I know,” Doug said with a grim smile. “I know.”
     
    He pulled into the parking garage attached to the Miami federal building, flashed his badge to the night attendant, and then pulled into his personal space.
     
    “Take a day or two to decompress and get some sleep. Then, I’ll give you a call and we’ll arrange a meeting.”
     
    “A meeting with the mole?”
     
    “That’s right.”
     
    “What’s his name?”
     
    “John MacKinnon. But he goes by Fang inside the club.”
     
    “Fang…” I repeated slowly. The name, his real name, John MacKinnon—that sounded familiar.
     
    “Just about all these biker types have pseudonyms,” Doug said with a shrug as we parked.
     
    “Makes sense.”
     
    He nodded.
     
    “Listen, kiddo. Get yourself cleaned up. Get some rest. I have to assign you a counselor, but I can’t make you go to the sessions. I’ll call you in a day or two and we’ll set up a meeting with Fang.”
     
    I knew he was being nice, giving me time to unwind and relax. To rest.
     
    But the fact was, I hadn’t rested in three years. Not since Fred died. My mourning was ongoing, and I had been deferring it by working, working constantly, days and nights, weekends, barely sleeping, and when I wasn’t working on cases, I was working on my body: constant exercise, running marathons, training mixed-martial arts, lifting weights.
     
    My parents were worried about me. Fred’s parents were worried about me. I couldn’t tell if Doug was worried about me, but probably, to him, I was just a good agent: a useful pawn in his game, a game he had been playing for nearly a decade, to annihilate the organized crime syndicates that control Southern Florida.
     
    But now, I was being forced away from work for a few days. I knew what would greet me back at my apartment: ghosts. Specifically, Winston’s ghostly, pallid, blood-gushing face, telling me to arrest Bolo, telling me over and over again that we had to get him, asking me if I was locked and loaded, asking me if it was time yet. Saying, still, that we have to get Bolo.
     
    We got him, buddy. We got him.
     

 
    FANG
     
    About a mile off the highway, only to be found via picking your way through semi-industrial wastelands, dockyards, warehouses, and factories fallen into disuse,