Page 15 of Twister's Salvation
“I know what you’re thinking,” I said and glanced over my shoulder at Swift and Wheels.
Wheels scratched his beard.“We’re gonna have to gut every inch of this.”
“Yeah,” Swift muttered.“Everything’s too soft.We need concrete, containment, and some real structure.No drywall for people to put fists through.”
Hodge walked into one of the offices, tapped the wall, and raised an eyebrow.“This wouldn’t survive a toddler with a bad attitude.”
Podge walked past him and eyed the back wall with mild disapproval.“Reception area could be useful.But we’d have to reframe it all.You don’t want customers wandering into danger zones.”
Gramps, surprisingly quiet, was the one who said it aloud.“We’d be tearing this place down to the studs.”
I nodded.“Exactly.”
The real estate agent blinked.“Well, that’s… one way to look at it.”
I turned to her.“It’s theonlyway to look at it.”
She pasted on a realtor smile and clasped her hands.“Well, if you’ve got a vision for it, that’s what matters.And you’re getting this at a steal.The city’s been wanting someone to do something with this property for years.”
“Yeah, well,” I muttered, “we’re good at doing what others won’t.”
We spent the next hour walking the perimeter, opening every closet, storage door, and hatch.The place wasn’t falling apart, but it had seen better decades.The walls would need demo.The bathrooms would need to be rebuilt entirely.The floors had dips in a few places.But the bones were good, solid concrete slab foundation, exposed steel beams up top, and easy access to loading docks.
“I like the space,” Hodge said, and ran a hand along a concrete support column.“We can do something with this.”
“I just don’t know if weshoulddo it all ourselves,” Podge added.“It’s gonna take months.”
“We already started the clubhouse,” Wheels reminded him.“And we’re getting through that faster than expected.”
“Yeah, because half the guys are pulling double-duty,” Gramps said.“But we can’t stretch ‘em thin forever.”
That’s when I asked what had been on my mind for days.“Gramps,” I said, “we gonna hold out money-wise?”
He didn’t flinch.Just gave a sharp nod.“You’re good.”
I raised an eyebrow.“That’s not a number.”
“You want a number, I’ll get you one.But unless you start buying Lamborghinis and putting mansions on every continent, we’re good.”
A few of the guys chuckled.
Hodge smirked.“He ain’t wrong.”
I shoved my hands in my pockets and nodded.“Still feels like I’m bleeding money.”
“You are,” Gramps grunted.“But this whole setup was your idea.And you planned for this.Hell, Hank Bonds set you up todothis.”
My grandfather.Good ol’ Hank.He’d owned and operated the country’s largest landscaping empire.A billion-dollar green front for a laundering operation that made Wall Street look like child’s play.
When he died, the business died with him.But not before he scrubbed the money and handed me a trust so thick I’d need generations of reckless children to spend it all.
Or, apparently, a motorcycle club.
“I know what you guys want,” Gramps continued.“You want to say you built this with your own hands.You want to lay the bricks and paint the goddamn walls.”
“We’re proud bastards,” Podge admitted.
“I get that,” Gramps said.“But we gotta be smart.If you hire a crew to handle the big stuff—demo, framing, electrical—you free up the club to lock down our place downtown.You make sure the clubhouse gets finished.The city sees us as a fixture, and not some transient crew of nomads.”
