Page 73 of Sypher

“Finish it, Sypher,” Reaper growled. “Now.”

“When I saw Gadget, he showed me something I didn’t believe myself, but it’s true, Dylan. I verified it. She’s alive.”

Slowly getting to his feet, Dylan sneered, “Who’s alive?”

“Aunt Donna. She’s alive.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Sypher

September 19, 2024, New York City,

It had been a few weeks since the shit went down at the Soulless Sinners’ clubhouse, where Reaper played his part beautifully in front of a blissfully unaware Montana that the Golden Skulls and the Soulless Sinners were connected. Even better, it seemed Montana didn’t give a shit and concentrated on his ownghostfile problem.

While Reaper had his work cut out with Montana, I had my hands full with compiling membership data from the Trick Pony and locating them, while working in conjunction with my current client list that was already demanding enough.

“Alright, King, I finished running the diagnostic testing on the system and everything looks good. If anyone tries to breach the Sons of Hell compound, every brother will receive an emergency alert on their phones. Scribe did a good job installing all the new cameras in the nursery, and I had no problem adding them to the alert program. If anyone so much as sneezes funny in that room, you will get the alert.”

“And the other matter?”

“I’ve looked into the Rosewood High athletic football program and nothing is amiss. Everyone checked out. Gunner did his due diligence.”

“So, you found nothing?”

“No, I said the football program checked out. As for the school faculty, I found a few discrepancies that I’ve already sent over to Mike for further investigation.”

“Anything I need to worry about?”

“Not at the moment, but I’m sure Mike will keep you informed.”

“Thanks, kid. Send me the bill, and I’ll take care of it immediately.”

“Will send it by the end of the day. Later.”

Disconnecting the video conference, I made a quick note to the Sons of Hell account before dialing my next client—the Biker Federation.

Like the Table, which comprised all the top heads of every underground organization around the world, the Biker Federation consisted of specific biker clubs chosen to represent a particular region. Kind of like regional zones in a way. There were five of them in the United States, and while most clubs did whatever the fuck they wanted, twice a year, the five chosen clubs would get together and talk about everything. Mainly, they fucking partied, drank, and fucked anything with two legs, but hey, that was the biker life. And it was my job to set up security for this weeklong party.

Setting up a time where all five presidents were available to take five fucking minutes to discuss logistics was a veritable nightmare, even more so for the hosting region, which this year just happened to be the Southeast Corridor—Gator’s territory.

“Laissez les bon temps rouler,Sypher!”the drunk French-Cajun president of the Bourbon Kings slurred while he smiled into the camera.

I liked Gator, I really did, but the man had a few screws loose.

“Hey, Gator, I’m still waiting for the other calls to connect.”

“No problemo!” The man grinned as he leaned back in his chair, giving me a clear view of a bright red head bobbing up and down between his legs.

Rolling my eyes, I continued on with other matters when Lucifer Hawk, president of Disturbed and the head of the West Region, connected his call.

“Jesus fuck, Gator,” Luc growled, shaking his head. “Warn a fucker first!”

Gator smirked, threading his fingers through the woman’s bright red hair. “Say the word, you handsome devil, and I’ll send Jolly to visit you.”

“You want her back in pieces?” Luc deadpanned. “Because that’s exactly how she will be returned after my woman gets done with her.”

“Oh,mon Cher,” Gator groaned. “I do love a feisty woman. Gets me hard every time.”

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