Fine Line (Crossing Lines Book 1)

by A. D. Justice

  FINE LINE

  A. D. Justice

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Books By A.D. Justice

  Acknowledgments

  FINE LINE.

  A CROSSING LINES NOVEL.

  Copyright © 2019 A.D. Justice.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, resold, or transmitted in any form without written permission from the copyright holder, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. If the location is an actual place, all details of said place are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to businesses, landmarks, living or dead people, and events is purely coincidental.

  The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  All copyrights are held by A.D. Justice and have not been transferred to any other individual. Sharing or posting of this material in any group is considered copyright infringement and will be reported to the authorities. Criminal and civil charges will be pursued for damages.

  Cover photo by Wander Aguiar.

  Cover model is Jonny James.

  Cover design by Sommer Stein, Perfect Pear Creative Covers

  Prologue

  A Terrible Idea

  Nick

  “For the record, this is a terrible idea.”

  My director, Calvin Montgomery, locks his angry eyes on me while speaking to the handler who will be assigned to me—if Calvin approves the operation, that is.

  “Sir, Special Agent Nick Tucker has repeatedly proved what a valuable asset he is in the field. He’s one of our best. He has outscored most of his peers in both field and psychological profile tests—even those who have previous undercover experience. We can’t deny the man has the skills we need on this assignment. He deserves this chance.”

  “Yes, I can read the reports as well as you can, Jack. But Nick doesn’t have any true undercover experience—not even on short-term cases, and the others do. Maybe they didn’t score as well on the psych tests because they’re already accustomed to living among the criminal element and acting as one of them. Did that ever occur to you? We both know how hard this life is even for a few months, but the case you’re asking me to put Nick on is potentially a multiyear mission.”

  Calvin turns his penetrating gaze to me, constantly assessing my every reaction, looking for a weakness and a reason to deny my involvement. I’ve been in hectic firefights before and kept my cool, though. My time in the military, working for Steele Security, and providing private security for billionaire Dominic Powers before joining the DEA prepared me for most every perilous situation they can throw at me. Drawing on my inner strength, I keep my expression passive, my breathing regular, and my instinct to remind him he’s driven a desk for too many years to remember what working in the field is actually like under wraps.

  “You’ll be cut off from everyone you know, Nick. You’ll essentially divorce your entire life—for years. Your friends, your family, wife, girlfriend, boyfriend. Everyone. You hear me? And that’s the easy part of the job. Even contact with Jack will be sparse, especially due to the group you’ll infiltrate, so you’ll be making decisions on the fly. Any outside affiliation will be scrutinized—and these guys won’t ask questions first. They’ll shoot you in the head and replace you with the next guy in line. I’m not convinced you truly understand what you’ll have to do to be one of them.”

  “I can assure you, I do understand.”

  “Is that right? This UC op has been issued special permission to break the very laws you’ve sworn to uphold. Your psych profile shows a strong sense of duty and a penchant for following the rules to the letter. So, you’d be fine if they order you to force some young kid to sell drugs on the street corner and bring you every penny of the money he made? Then rough him up if he doesn’t bring you enough?”

  The visual that pops into my brain before I can stop it makes my heart rate increase instantly, the artery in my neck jerking and giving away my reaction.

  “Or maybe it’s not a him. Maybe it’s a her. You’d willingly force a young woman into prostitution, selling her to any Joe Blow off the street, who’ll do whatever the fuck he wants to do to her? You can make them believe you don’t care about her at all, just how much money she brings in for getting her John’s rocks off? What if that means her customer gets to beat the shit out of her just because he has mommy issues? I mean, as long as he doesn’t kill her and she can perform for her next trick, what the fuck does it matter, right?”

  My stomach churns with disgust, and the room around me turns red with my rage. But I tamp down those feelings inside my chest until they form a mangled ball full of drive and determination to see this through to the end.

  “I’ll do whatever the fuck I have to do to stop these bastards. The longer we sit here repeatedly arguing the same points and imagining hypothetical situations, the more time they have to commit those very crimes. Sir.”

  “I’m sure I don’t have to remind you we’re after the major charges to shut them down for good. Small-time hoods are a dime a dozen. We want the source—their suppliers. Local reports say this group is using a prescription drug that hasn’t even cleared the FDA yet. It’s highly effective and lethal in the wrong hands. That’s in addition to the influx of opioids and other controlled substances from their Mexican drug cartel affiliation. We can’t blow the entire operation because you feel the need to feed your savior complex over every sob story you hear. Most of those women asked for it anyway—they probably even enjoy it.”

  “I’m well aware of what we’re after and how to do my job.” Inside, I’m seething; outside, I display a calm demeanor.

  He’s testing me, that much I know. His last comment was to gauge my knee-jerk reaction because that’s exactly how this gang thinks. If Calvin approves my request for undercover work, the group I’ll join will say and do a lot worse to me than my director has ever even thought about. If I can’t handle my boss yanking my chain inside the comfort of his office in our secure, air-conditioned building, I have no business being an undercover agent where anything and everything can go wrong.

  Will go wrong.

  Something always does.

  To stay alive, I have to think fast on my feet, improvise, and give an award-winning performance.

  No time like the present to start earning a few of those golden statuettes.

  “Sir, I can handle anything they throw at me. I’ve been in intense situations in my career, starting in the Army, through private details, and in my time with the DEA. I’m ready to take my career to the next level, and I need undercover experience to do that. This wasn’t Jack’s idea—I requested to be assigned to this case.”

  The muscles around Calvin’s eyes contract, crinkling the skin until
only small slits remain. He draws a slow circle around his mouth with his thumb and forefinger before resting his chin on his hand. With my gaze locked on to his, I wait for him to make his decision. The first one to blink will be Calvin, because I am all in.

  “All right, Special Agent Tucker, you’ve convinced me to give you a chance. On one condition.”

  “What condition is that?”

  “If at any time you suspect your cover is blown, or your gut warns you that something is off and they’ve turned on you, get out of there. To hell with the case and the charges. Call Jack, get to the safe house, do whatever it takes to extract yourself from the situation.”

  “I appreciate your concern, sir, but it won’t come to that. I’ll see this through till the end.”

  “All right. We’ll get your name, background, and criminal history established. Congratulations, Nick. You have the distinct honor of pledging to one of the most notorious motorcycle gangs in the world. The Devil’s Dominion rules their LA territory with an iron fist. I only hope they don’t turn that fist on you.”

  “Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.”

  Six Months Later

  “Are you sure you’re ready to approach them, Nick? No need to rush things.” Jack paces in his kitchen while I sit at the table and finish my coffee.

  Jack Collins fits the bill for a retired biker. He is a handler, but he’s curated his entire life around the motorcycle club lifestyle to avoid arousing any suspicions. He hasn’t pledged to any outfit, but he is known by enough bikers that no one questions his presence, and no one crosses him. He has the don’t-fuck-with-me air down pat.

  His long black and gray hair is pulled back in a low ponytail. His sun-weathered skin bears the ravages of years on the open road—the deep-set wrinkles, the sunspots, the year-round dark tan. His brown eyes are keen, assessing a man and his intentions with a quick glance. The skin on his hands matches his face, but his grip is as strong as a man half his age. The long span of his career gives him advantages others could only hope to attain one day.

  “It’s time, Jack. You’re my handler, you know I’m ready, and you know that shit is escalating out there. My hair has grown out, along with my beard. All my ink is finished—nothing overly distinguishable but still believable. My criminal background is airtight, and my stints in San Quentin and Pelican Bay legitimize my badass felon status.”

  “You can’t use words like legitimize around these guys, Nick.” Jack scrubs his hand down his face.

  “I can talk real dumb too, Jack. Like I ain’t got no schooling or nothing.”

  “Make fun of this all you want, Nick. But I’m telling you, these guys have a grittiness about them, a certain way they talk, a language all their own. It’s a combination of the motorcycle gang lingo and prison slang.”

  “Trust me, I got this. I’ve mastered how they speak, the motorcycle gang terms, and the prison slang. I’ve memorized my background and rehearsed how I became a badass ex-convict, looking to join the baddest MC club around. One point that is pure genius on your part is showing I was part of a Tijuana-based gang before I was sent to prison. Thanks for that.”

  “Anything I can do to keep you from having to murder someone as part of your initiation. Because that’s what they usually require—and could still order you to do it. But we’ll cross that bridge when we have to. If you can patch in, you won’t have to do the lowly probie bullshit. That’ll at least give you a leg up in earning their trust and working your way up the chain faster than most.

  “If you have to improvise and add anything to your history, don’t forget to tell me immediately. We can build your experience around whatever you need, but it could take a little time to get it on paper. And don’t say gang. You know how one-percenters feel about that word.”

  “Striking the word gang from my vocabulary now. And I’ll try to keep the improvisation to a minimum, but I’m sure it’ll come up. My documented history is solid, but that doesn’t account for the things I never got caught doing. If you happen to have any former gang members in your back pocket, that would be useful too.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. You never know, this old dog may still have a few tricks you don’t know about.”

  One thing about Jack Collins, he always has another trick up his sleeve no one else knows about. How he stayed one step ahead of the agents under his charge when he went weeks without hearing from them is a mystery in our world. He takes his job home with him every night, and the safety of his agents is his first priority. I know I am in good hands.

  “Thanks for the coffee. I’m heading back to my dinky little apartment to get into character. They’re having a party at their clubhouse tomorrow night, so I’ll use that opportunity to make my presence known.”

  “Good luck, kid. Don’t die.”

  “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, Jack.” I smile over my shoulder as I leave his bachelor pad and climb onto my bike.

  My new life waits for me, in the gritty, dirty underbelly of the criminal world. Getting the approval for this level of undercover work is a boost to my ego and a rush to my senses. The heightened danger, constantly surveilling my surroundings, and testing my ability to decipher friend from foe within a matter of seconds will take my career to the next level.

  I feel as if I’ve found my purpose in life. Finally.

  Major Mistakes

  Savannah

  The woman staring at me looks familiar, but I don’t know her. Not anymore anyway. Her red hair is longer than when she was younger. Her deep green eyes hold so many secrets, ones she’ll never tell. She’s also much thinner than she used to be—a telltale sign of stress and depression settling in over the long haul. The sad fact is, I used to know her very well. But now she’s only the outer shell of the vibrant, bubbly personality I remember from just a couple of years ago. The light in her eyes is dim now, barely perceptible even when I’m searching for it.

  “When did this happen, exactly? How did I become this woman?” I stare into the hollow green eyes reflected in the mirror, talking to myself. Again.

  A loud bang on my apartment door abruptly ends my one-sided conversation. My heart drops, and a groan escapes from my throat. Dread covers me like a lead blanket. There’s only one person that can be…the one person I really don’t want to see, much less spend the evening around. But I don’t have a choice. I’m trapped, like a frightened, timid animal in a cage.

  After removing the door chain and unlocking the multiple bolts I had installed, the door swings open before I can even grab the knob.

  “Why the fuck do you have the door locked like that? Who are you hiding in here?” Butch pushes past me, moving from one room to the next through my apartment as he searches for the invisible man.

  “There’s no one here except me. Just like last time. And the time before that. You know I always keep all the door locks in place when I’m here alone.”

  It’s a phobia I have—an intense fear that drives me to check the locks several times before going to bed every night. He knows this about me, because he’s complained about it every time he’s stayed at my apartment. Thankfully, that hasn’t happened in a very long time.

  He stomps toward me in his heavy leather boots, the ones he wears every day because they best protect his feet and ankles while he’s riding his motorcycle. It’s strange how what I initially thought was intriguing, dangerous, and sexy about him when we met are the very traits that make me want to run away and start a new life somewhere else today.

  I just haven’t figured out how to get away from him yet.

  “Pack all your shit. We’re leaving.”

  “What?” I whirl around on my heel and stare at him, completely dumbfounded.

  “We’re moving. Prez is sending me and a couple of other guys to DC to induct a smaller club into ours. We have to try them out, see if they’re worthy enough to wear the Devil’s Dominion colors. This is my chance to show him I’m officer material and get on the voting ballot t
o move up in the club. I’ve been waiting years for this day.”

  The only thought in my mind is that my opportunity to get away from him is finally here. The day I’ve been waiting to come for far too long. There’s no way I can move from LA to DC—they’re at completely opposite ends of the country. Literally from one coast to the other. My entire life is here in LA, including my job and the few friends I had before I started seeing Butch.

  Maybe my friends will take me back when I get rid of him.

  “That’s great news for you, Butch. I’m glad the president finally sees your potential in the club, and I hope they make you an officer soon. But I can’t just up and move across country with you. My job is here—my entire career I’ve worked years to establish. I also have a lease on this apartment I can’t just break.”

  I’m listing every logical reason I can think of, no matter how lame it will inevitably sound to him. He doesn’t care about excuses—he only cares about results. More specifically, he only cares about the results he wants to see.

  “Wouldn’t that just fucking thrill you? Wouldn’t you just love for me to go across the fucking country for the next six months and leave you here alone so you can fuck every swinging dick that crosses your path? Of course you’re going with me, you stupid bitch. Who the fuck do you think is gonna drive the truck behind us and haul our shit across the country? All our stuff won’t fit on our fucking bikes, you moron. Now, pack your shit like I said.”