Dream Spinner (Dream Team Book 3) - Kristen Ashley (bearly read books .txt) 📗

Both Axl and Aug grew silent.

This was because Axl and Auggie were there to get an informant back online.

But neither of them were ever far off the trail they’d been sniffing now for-what-felt-like-ever.

And B disappeared maybe not exactly the time a variety of crews in town got interested in Cisco, which led them to death, dirty cops and a murder-suicide.

But the timing jibed.

Jesus, did she know something?

“That’s all I’m sayin’, and I’m tellin’ you, believe this, that warning is worth every penny of my last fee.” She lifted both hands and snapped twice. “Even.”

Axl broke his silence. “What do you know?”

“Okay, see, I like to,” she leaned forward, “breathe. So fuck off. You got what you got. Be happy. And keep breathing, or not, I don’t give a shit.”

“Is this about the Cisco sitch?” Auggie asked what was on both their minds.

“Fuck off,” she answered.

Okay, two “fuck offs”?

Axl was getting pissed.

He felt the same from Auggie.

But Axl got there first.

Crossing his arms on his chest, he educated, “See, you got a vagina or not, this is how we deal with wannabe G on our payroll who come up way short during performance evaluations. Hawk’s got a place you do not want to go. We take you there and keep you there until we think we’re even. And after, we decide how severance is gonna go down. Whether you gotta expend the effort to rebuild somewhere that is very much not here but we give you one last thing, a ride to that new location. Or we dismantle you in Denver in a way you’ll never fuckin’ rebuild, and you gotta make your own way to a new location. Now, we got shit to do so, you got ten seconds to make your decision. You feel like taking a ride today?”

She sat her throne with an expression that was half glare, half pout.

In that ten seconds, Axl considered the fact he knew she was thirty-nine, but she looked fifty-nine.

Thank fuck, after years of his father fucking with his head, when there was a decision to make about his future, he took the route to healthy living.

“Time’s up,” Auggie said.

They both started to move her way.

“Motherfuckers!” she snapped, shifting in her seat. “Right, fuck you and just to say, you and Nightingale and Chaos and fucking Sebring are all on radar. Do not think you’re not.”

Both men stilled.

They’d heard this.

From Kevin Bogart, dead dirty cop.

He’d made this same threat against certain players in town, including Knight Sebring, who ran a clean nightclub, but it was debatable, according to your personal philosophies, if his side business was the same.

“They are goddamn itching for you to fuck up, one of you, all of you, they don’t give a fuck,” she went on.

Both men remained silent.

“You think you own Denver,” she continued, warming to her theme something that was Brandi’s MO.

She pictured herself a gangster, but she was on Hawk’s payroll as an informant for a reason.

That reason was why she was in this shitty apartment with a strung-out cult following.

Small-time dealer, also, when she decided not to be lazy, small-time hustler, but she was shit at both. So it was highly likely Hawk, Lee Nightingale, or some cop who had her on his CI list paid for her Balenciaga sneaks.

That reason was also because she liked to know shit you did not and then make you pay for that shit, but when she stared singing, she got off on it, so she was hella useful.

“Nightingale especially,” she carried on. “That Rock Chick bullshit in those books that everyone thinks is cool?” She shook her head and dreads dragged her Gucci. “Not so much.”

“We really don’t give a fuck what people think of our operations,” Axl remarked.

“No?” she asked snidely. “Well, when Joint Taskforce Badass Motherfuckers of Denver, and that would include Chaos, if you’ll recall, got those shipments impounded some serious people got seriously deep in some serious fucking shit.”

Axl and Auggie didn’t even look at each other.

“Which shipments?” Aug demanded.

But he knew.

So did Axl.

“Worst thing that happened in Denver, when Chaos got out of transportation protection,” she muttered. “Second worst thing, when Bounty fucked everything up and then saw the error of their ways and rebranded to Resurrection.”

Axl, nor Aug, were interested in her opinions on the histories of local motorcycle clubs.

“Which fucking shipments, Brandi?” Auggie shared this by biting out.

She looked him dead in the eye. “You know which ones, Augustus.” Her gaze then darted between them. “Now, we even?”

“No,” Axl and Aug said together.

“All right then, you feel like starrin’ at your own funeral and givin’ up fuckin’ that pretty pussy you been taggin’,” she began, and a finger of ice trailed down Axl’s spine at her mention of their women, “those shipments were meant to assure some pretty hefty retirements. And the men dreamin’ of fishin’ boats or drinkin’ beer in oceanside bars, checkin’ out chicks in bikinis they could actually afford to impress enough with their bank to suck their dicks, have not given up on that dream.”

Neither man prompted her, because when she was on a roll, she didn’t need it.

And she was on a roll and gave it to them.

“And when the good cops get the drop, where do those shipments go, boys?”

They were in the police impound.

Evidence that just sat there.

For.

Fucking.

Ever.

“And what does this have to do with their problem with Nightingale?” Auggie asked.

“All of you,” she corrected.

“Whatever, B. Talk,” Auggie clipped.

“This is not a new project,” she told them. “You assholes running interference over the years, you been shaking things up for them for a while. They had long-term goals. You kept fuckin’ with them. Those Rock Chick books come out, suddenly Lee Nightingale and Luke Stark and Vance Crowe and Eddie Chavez and Hank Nightingale,” she stressed the two cops on that crew, “are famous? Untouchable.”

She paused.

They waited.

“So they decided to stop fucking around, get the job done, and go for a couple big scores. And you all fucked