Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle Read Online Free PDF Page A

sweat, urine, and food gone bad. Vladimir was sitting on the couch with a video-game controller in his lap. He was wearing faded purple sweatpants, work socks, and no shirt. A huge, but not quite obese man, Vladimir’s body was covered in thick gray hair, which stopped where his collar would be. His head was shaved, revealing a fading black tattoo of a two-headed eagle. Although Vladimir was flabby and clearly out of shape, Ned could tell he was immensely strong. Vladimir’s one eye stared intently at the TV screen, while the other appeared to be fixated on a spot near the base of a lamp on the opposite side of the room. He nodded at Gagliano, but did not acknowledge Ned.
    â€œYou better get ready for work; you have to be there in twenty minutes,” Gagliano said.
    â€œTwo seconds to throw on a fuckin’ T-shirt, two more for a hat,” Ivan growled, not moving his attention from the video game.
    After a long pause, in which the only sounds came from the video game, Gagliano said: “We got a job for ya.”
    â€œI know, I know, your boss . . . ah, fuck, you got me killed! Son of a bitch!” Vladimir glared at Ned. “Gimme the package.”
    â€œHere ya go,” Ned said politely and handed him the knapsack, which was still a little cold from its time in the freezer.
    â€œWhat did you say?” Vladimir stood up and rushed towards Ned. He was hovering over him, no more than six inches from his face. “What did you say to me?” he shouted.
    Before Ned could speak, Vladimir smiled. “I’m just fuckin’ with ya . . . Steve said you were a total geek. I just wanted to have a little fun with ya.”
    Gagliano laughed before the other two did. Vladimir picked up the bag. He didn’t open it, just held it up at about head level, as though he was weighing it. “Eleven hundred,” he said.
    Gagliano laughed. “Vladimir, my friend, you are magic,” he said, patting the big man on his naked shoulder. “Pay the man, lover boy.”
    Ned peeled off $1,100 from the wad of cash he had with him. Vladimir took it and said: “Okay, you guys get out of here now—you’ll never see this again . . . wait, you want the bag back?”

    Once he got home, Ned realized he wasn’t good for much. Kelli hadn’t come back, and there were no messages on the phone. He sat on the couch and turned on the TV. He lit up a joint. Ned flicked through all the channels and decided there was nothing on. He left the news on, but was scared he’d hear about a head and hands being found, so he changed the channel. He switched over to a game show, but found it too annoying, too intrusive for him to sleep through. Finally, he settled on a nature program—something about lions and hyenas fighting it out for supremacy on the Serengeti, while the zebras and wildebeest take it on the chin, as usual. He stubbed out what was left of the joint. After about five minutes, he nodded gently off to sleep.
    He slept for five hours—weed always made him sleepy—finally waking when the phone rang. He struggled to get it.
    â€œGet down to the Strip by seven.” It was a voice he recognized, but couldn’t quite identify. “And bring money, lots of money.”
    Cash was never a big problem for Ned. He’d been selling drugs for years now and had developed a nice little network. He always had at least $20,000 in the house at any given time. But he knew when one of these guys said “a lot” of money, he didn’t have to bring more than $10,000.

    When he got to the Strip, Ned was greeted in the parking lot by Lessard and Johansson. “Boss wants to see you,” Johansson said. “Wants to see you now.”
    Ned wasn’t great at judging people’s motives, but he could tell Johansson and Lessard were deadly serious. He nodded, took the knapsack with the money in it, and followed them. He was so caught up with what was going on,