GATOR: Wolves MC (Riding With Wolves Book 2) Read Online Free PDF Page A

sunlight that affronted me as soon as I opened the door. “This better be important. Someone better be dead or in dire need of something, otherwise you will be for getting my ass out bed like this.”
    I was wearing nothing but my boxers and a pair of socks, but Hammer didn’t seem to notice, or care. He pushed right past me and stormed into my house without an invitation. Not that he needed one, but still, it woulda been nice if he’d waited for it.
    “Not a good thing to say in our world,” Hammer said a moment later. “And not a good thing to say this morning.” Hammer sat down at my kitchen table and leaned down over his knees with a solemn look on his face. He tried to lean on my table before leaning on himself, but you gotta understand, I’m a bit of a packrat, and I always got a lot of shit scattered around my house, especially on my kitchen table. So there wasn’t much room for Hammer’s arms on it.
    “John Berry is dead,” Hammer went on.
    “Who the hell’s John Berry?” I asked. “Wasn’t he one of The Beatles or something?”
    “No, Gator,” Sam replied. “He was one of the Seraphs… and he was a junkie.”
    I guess you could say the Street Seraphs, or Seraphs for short, were our biggest rival gang here in L.A. As much as we tried to keep the streets clean, they tried to make ‘em dirty—and they were your typical, run-of-the-mill thugs. They were pushers, runners, and dealers, not vigilantes, and they had no concept of real justice. They broke laws with an ill spirit and were bound by that ill spirit, rather than by the spirit of loyalty and brotherhood that bound the Wolves. By all measures, the Seraphs were a gang, and for that reason alone, yeah, I guess you could say the Seraphs were our rivals.
    And given what I just said, I guess it’s no surprise that, sure enough, every so often, a Seraph was also a junkie. They were pushing, running, and dealing the stuff, so obviously, it was a big part of their culture, and some of ‘em probably made it a big part of their lifestyle. I’d met many Seraphs who were more addicted to dope than their clients were.
    “Big deal,” I said, opening the door to my refrigerator. “I ain’t never heard of no John Berry, so it don’t matter to me. I ain’t gonna mourn his loss. World’s probably a better place without him anyway.”
    “Don’t talk like that, Gator,” Hammer said, straightening his back and sitting up.
    “Why not?” I asked. “I don’t like hearin’ ‘bout anybody turnin’ up dead. But you can’t tell me you’re sad to see a dirty Seraph junkie gone, now can ya?”
    “I’m not sad,” Hammer said, taking on a softer tone. “But I am worried.”
    I looked at my brother curiously.
    “This dead Seraph junkie wasn’t just any Seraph junkie,” Hammer added. “It was Pigpen.”
    “Pigpen?” I asked, nearly dropping the container of almost-spoiled orange juice I’d pulled out of the refrigerator.
    True there, Pigpen wasn’t just any Seraph junkie. He was the Seraph junkie Hammer had had a run-in with just a short while back, and he was the Seraph junkie we thought was probably responsible for what happened to Hammer thereafter.
    You see, not even two months ago, my boy Hammer was lying in a bed in a hospital in San Marino. He was in one of them comas. He’d been viciously attacked on the streets on his way home from doing business at a party house, and whoever attacked him nearly killed him.
    Hammer ended up being in that coma for ‘bout three months before he woke from it. And when he woke, he had nothin’ to tell us about what happened. He said he never even saw the guy or guys coming; he said he was hit from the back, then went out cold, only to wake up in a hospital months later.
    Now, given how our world works, there are a lot of folks who coulda had it in for Hammer. But first of all, you gotta understand—coming at someone from behind is a low-ball move, and it’s something the Seraphs are known for. Fact