Page 11 of Property of Tacoma
I follow the GPS as it directs me to the other side of town, where the buildings give way to massive pines. After a few more minutes of driving down a winding road, the massive iron gates of the Kings compound come into view.
Pulling up to the guard shack, I roll down my window.
A young guy with a prospect patch on his cut swaggers out, plastering on a flirty grin when he sees me. “You lost, darlin’?” he asks, standing back so he can keep his eyes on me.
I shoot him a smile of my own, remembering to keep my attitude in check. “Nope. I’m looking for Tacoma.”
He loses the flirty grin and pops a bushy brow. “He expecting you,” he sweeps his gaze over my RV, “in this?”
I seriously doubt it, but I forge on because I’m tired, hungry, horny, and I just want to get this job done and go home. “Yep.”
To my complete surprise, he lifts his hand, puts two fingers in his mouth, and whistles loudly. A large Doberman comes trotting out of the guard shack and sits down obediently at his side.
“Zoeken,” he grunts, pointing at my RV.
It’s Dutch for search. I sorta want to tell him that he’s wasting his time, but I’m also way more curious to see what the dogmight find, considering my rig has about two dozen hidden compartments on the outside alone. No bombs, of course.
The dog lifts his nose and circles my vehicle with trained precision. He sniffs around the entire RV before returning to the prospect’s side.
He then looks at me and shrugs. “You can never be too careful.”
I nod, genuinely impressed by the Kings’ security protocol. Most MC’s consider a couple of green around the gills prospects packing heat to be adequate protection. My brother included. I’m thinking Mason really needs to get with the Kings programming, because color me fucking impressed.
“Pull through the gates and park right there.” He points to a spot that’s surprisingly big enough for my vehicle and also far away from the clubhouse. Did the dog signal, and I didn’t catch it? Surely not.
I ease my RV through the gates, careful not to scrape the sides on the massive brick entrance, and gawk at the compound before me. A large, three-story steel building that looks like it could withstand a direct hit from a hurricane dominates the center. Around it are various outbuildings, a shooting range off to one side, and an oversized garage with the bay doors open.
“Holy shit. This place is nice.”
I follow the prospect’s directions and park in the designated spot. Shoving down my excitement over the cool as shit fortress the Kings have built, I grab my favorite gun from the hidden compartment under my steering wheel and slide it in the holster strapped to my thigh. In my line of work, I’ve gotta be prepared for anything.
“Stay,” I tell Panda firmly, pointing a finger at him. “And don’t tear anything else up.”
He tilts his head, looking innocent, but I’m not buying it. The little shit can’t control himself when he’s left alone.
I step out of the RV, the heels of my black Louboutin’s sinking slightly into the gravel. Before I even have a chance to take a breath, a mountain of a man materializes beside me, grabbing for my arm with his meaty hand.
“Hold up there, sweetheart?—”
Acting on instinct, I duck under his reach, sweep his legs out from under him, and use his downward momentum to drive him face-first into the dirt. My Glock is out of its holster in under a second, aimed and readied at the back of his skull before he can even register what happened. “Didn’t your momma teach you any manners?” I ask sweetly. “Never put your hands on a lady without her permission.”
The compound around us goes deathly silent, and slowly I lift my head, suddenly hyperaware of the eyes trained on me.
Well, shit.
So much for making a good impression.
CHAPTER THREE
The past two hours have been a fucking nightmare. Two. Fucking. Hours. That’s how long I’ve been waiting for the fucking cleaner to show up. In the grand scheme of things that’s not a long time, but there’s a goddamn dead body in my fucking strip club.
I exhale a cloud of smoke and check my phone again.
“Anything?” Bane asks, his back pressed against the rusty metal siding of the clubhouse, a cigarette of his own smashed between his lips.
I shake my head. “Just a text saying the cleaner will meet me here.”
Grunting, I shove my phone back in my pocket. “Makes no sense. Why not just send him straight to Kitties? We’re wasting fucking time.”
