“The WKB, being a one-percenter outlaw gang, had been forbidden to display their colors off private property. Personally, Max thought that was a stupid rule. How the hell were law-enforcement personnel supposed to know what they were dealing with if one-percenters blended in with the general population? And as a one-percenter, even temporarily, he didn’t care for having his right to express himself curtailed. Whatever. It all just fed the anger that was part of his undercover persona. The late... June afternoon had left a hundred degrees Fahrenheit in the dust at least ten degrees ago. Too fucking hot for the leathers he was wearing but a whole lot better than risking road rash. The highway air blew like a furnace on his arms—the only skin uncovered. It sucked his sweat dry, leaving a fine coating of salt everywhere it touched. Earlier in the day, he’d hitched a ride down to the rural outskirts of Denver with the truck that had delivered his bike. At his request, the driver had let him out on a remote dirt road, miles from the city, in the middle of cornfields.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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