“Let me out of here, you bitch!” the woman from the back yells, her flippers stomping into the floorboard. I exhale a large breath and buckle my seat belt. Finding random people who are high and disturbing the peace happens several times a night. Between the city police and us, we still can’t keep up.
“Do you know how you could have handled that better?”
I turn my head toward Lieutenant Oaks and scowl. I’m not sure if he’s just an ass, or knows I’m capable of better.
“You bitch. You’re a bitch, of a bitch, who was a bitch!” the woman screams from the back, not making any sense, jumping her boney body around.
I raise my eyebrows. “I shouldn’t have been a bitch, born from a bitch?”
He scowls, not seeing my humor. I turn my head quickly to hide my smile and put the car in drive.
“5Paul69?”
Coming into the city was a bad idea; they always send us to calls within the city limits. Sheriffs deal with the county, and police handle the city. We can take calls within the city, we can work both if we want, but the police are strictly city.
“5Paul69, copy.”
“Witness called, said a group of bikers were becoming physical at The Gold Bana Casino. We believe it’s the Sin City Outlaws, be advised.” My spine runs cold hearing the name of the most infamous outlaw motorcycle club in the area. They are one-percenters, meaning they don’t obey the law.
They think they are the law.
There was an entire course on them alone when I was in the academy. They kill our kind without remorse and pave the road of anarchy. Each member of the club has a record that needs its own filing cabinet. Rape, murder, theft, possession. I knew I would come face-to-face with them one day when I took this job, I just didn’t realize how soon.
“5Paul69, en route.”
“Damn it,” Lieutenant Oaks hisses.
“What?”
He turns his head, his face tight. “They’re bad news is all.”
I turn the wheel heading down the main strip. The Gold Bana is a newer casino that just had a grand opening two weeks ago. Knowing the Sin City Outlaws, they’re probably letting them know who runs this city, and what casino runs the strip. The Outlaws are a tight knit community, with family members holding top positions. Zevin Deluca is the president of the motorcycle club, but his uncle, Frank Deluca, runs the casino at the end of the strip. You can’t miss it; it’s bigger than any of the other casinos or hotels. The building is made of a mirror-like material and it has red lights that beam off the glass, illuminating the menacing color of sex and sin from its structure.
I look back at the female we picked up, noticing she has been quiet, and find her passed out snoring, drool dripping off her chin.
“Classy,” I mutter, turning back in my seat.
“I don’t need to warn you about the Sin City Outlaws, do I?”
I huff. “No, I learned everything I need to know about them. They are what they say they are—outlaws.”
“Exactly, but just stay clear of them, Jillian. Let the city police deal with them. I know the president of the club, and he’s dangerous.” He flicks his gaze to me, and little wrinkles form between his brows.
“Understood,” I reply, but really I don’t understand. What am I supposed to do when I get a call similar to this and I’m by myself, ignore it? I have been on plenty of shifts the last few weeks, and every time someone called in an incident of the Sin City Outlaws, it went overlooked. Seems everyone around here fears the Outlaws, and it pisses me off. We are the law, we reign over Vegas, yet my fellow officers yield the path of mayhem the Outlaws have paved. It makes me wonder what the hell they’ve done to earn such fear and respect.
We pull up beside the curb, and motorcycles of all shapes, sizes, and colors are lined up on the sidewalk. Illegal.
We quickly get out of the car, following protocol and removing the keys from the ignition before locking the doors. I don’t make it very far before I hear shouting. I’m nearly knocked over by random pedestrians running from the casino, panic etched on their faces. I place my hand on my weapon, ready to draw. We were trained to respond calmly, yet accordingly. But I’d be lying if I said my heart wasn’t beating with a touch of panic.
“Las Vegas Sheriff’s Department!” Lieutenant Oaks announces. The crowd quiets and people start moving, the oval ring of pedestrians splitting down the middle. A biker from the gang with curly red hair steps out, his skin tan and covered with tattoos climbing up both his arms and collarbone. He has on a leather cut, the sleeveless leather vest the Sin City Outlaws wear proudly, announcing their position in the motorcycle club. This member is Machete, the road captain. He leads them on runs and trips. I know because I studied all of their mugshots, committing all of their faces to memory. His lips are in a tight smile, his head lowered as he glares at Lieutenant Oaks and me.