Page 8 of Outlaws of Tulsa

Day trading is exhausting and will give you ulcers, but Bermuda lives for this shit. I trust him implicitly, so I know he won’t fuck us.

“Great, we’re rolling in the dough,” Payne says, slapping the table with his huge, tattooed hand. “Next order of business.” His eyes cut to me, imploring to move the meeting along.

It’s always the second thing we go over after finances.

Revenge.

Always revenge.

“Anything on Bastards in Blade Blood?” I ask, my voice tight as I rein in the violence thrumming through me.

Several guys shake their heads, but Dragon slaps Katana on his shoulder before leaning in. Katana—a small, quiet Asian guy who’s a fucking ninja with a blade, but can’t grow a single hair on his face to save his life—remains emotionless despite Dragon grinning in his face.

“We heard some things today,” Dragon reveals, his voice low and wicked like he’s a character on stage at the fucking performing arts center.

I don’t have patience for his theatrics when it comes to this. Never this. My blood boils and before I can punch him in his pretty fucking face, Filter smooths shit out like always.

“Dude, spit it out. Prez has been working on this shit for a decade. If you have something, fucking tell us already.”

Dragon has the sense to look ashamed. “Right. Sorry, Koyn. Katana and I rode to McHenry’s downtown. Some old biker was there we didn’t know named Bison. Bought him some drinks and he got to talking when we inquired about the BBBs.”

Katana nods, his nearly black eyes gleaming. “He’d heard of them. Started telling stories about what a bad gang of bikers they were, especially this one guy named Randall Putnam.”

I remain still, my blood freezing in my veins. Randall. The name—though I never knew it before—causes a ripple of malevolence to shudder through me.

“Bison said he was thinking of joining their club because they were out of El Paso where he lived, but then he got bad vibes. He’s one of those do-gooders,” Dragon says, rolling his green eyes. “It ended up he joined a gang out of Austin. When he asked about the BBBs again later on down the road, he learned they’d simply vanished. Every single member.” His eyes dart to mine in a knowing way.

I murdered my way through that entire gang hunting for that motherfucker. Never found him either. And my brother, the loyal bastard he is, made it all fucking disappear. Being related to a Fed has its perks after all. It was as if the BBBs never existed. No one who ever patched in was seen again.

“How do we know this is the guy Koyn’s looking for?” Filter asks. “Could have been some Joe Schmoe member.”

“That’s what I said,” Katana agrees.

“And I knew you assholes would question it, so I dug deeper.” Dragon flashes us a smug grin, the dragon tattoo seemingly pulsating with the twitch of his neck muscle. “I asked why Randall gave him bad vibes.”

Filter glances over at me to make sure I’m not about to lose it.

“He said the guy had a thing for young girls,” Dragon finally spits out. “Real young. Like land his ass in the slammer young. If you want, I can call Drake and let him handle—”

“He went to prison?” I grit out. “He there now?”

“Nah, Katana made some calls and discovered he got out eight years ago. Overcrowding. The system is fucked for letting that predator back out on the streets.” Dragon cracks his neck. “If you don’t want Drake having him, I’ll take great pleasure in hunting him down.”

And, as an Enforcer, that’s his duty to this club.

But this isn’t club business.

This is fucking personal.

“Do your social media bullshit and let me know what you find,” I order Dragon. “That, you can do.” The fucker pouts. “Halo, I’m going to need you on this one with Copper.”

Halo, our Chaplain, nods from the corner of the room. He’s the silent brooder. The shadow always watching over us. Man of God with a vengeful heart. He’s also fucking amazing at gathering intel being that he’s ex-military. Now that we have a name and with my brother’s connections as a Fed, maybe we’ll finally smoke out this rat.

“Dad isn’t a member,” my nephew complains under his breath.

I stand abruptly, kicking my chair out behind me. It rolls and slams against the wall. Nees’s brown eyes widen. “Care to say that shit a little louder, Prospect?”

“I just don’t understand,” Nees grumbles. “If he’s important, why isn’t he here at Church?”

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