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interrupting my reverie.
     
    He stood. He was six feet tall, give or take, with broad shoulders and a kind of angry swagger in his step, a swagger that made him look like a bomb ready to go off or a wild animal that had only just barely been caged and controlled. The kind of animal it was a sin to try and tame.
     
    “I’m Viper,” he said, his voice lacking any emotion whatsoever. “James MacKinnon. But everyone in the White Wolves calls me Viper and you should too.”
     
    “Right,” I said, offering him my hand. His grip was firm, but not intentionally—some men try to crush your hand when they shake it, but Viper clearly just didn’t know any other way. “Special Agent Powell. Good to meet you. I look forward to working with you.”
     
    “Ditto,” Viper grunted, his eyes narrowing. That probably meant he was lying. I would have to remember that for the future. Eyes narrowed means he’s not being truthful.
     
    I noticed that he had even more tattoos on his hands—a tiger, roaring, on his right one, and a shark on the left. His knuckles were even tattooed—“HATE” on the right hand and “LOVE” on the left.
     
    We all sat at the table and Doug handed us binders containing our assignments, along with summaries of all the relevant intelligence that Viper had collected over the past few months.
     
    “We’re calling this Operation Snakebait,” Doug began, lighting a new cigarette. A halo of smoke surrounded his head, making him look like a saint in an old masters painting. If only he were.
     
    “The objective,” Doug continued, after a few puffs. “Is to force a collapse of the White Wolves Motorcycle Club. We plan on doing this by eliminating the White Wolves’ leader, Emmet Byrne, goes by ‘Fatman,’ while simultaneously seizing enough of the club’s illegal assets that continued operation will be impossible.”
     
    “What about other high ranking members? Is there any chance that there might just be a power struggle?” I asked immediately, looking up from the dossier.
     
    “The White Wolves don’t maintain a rigorous hierarchy. Viper is perhaps the best positioned to take over if Fatman is out of the picture, and he’s on our side,” Doug answered. Viper nodded.
     
    “He’s a dangerous guy, but he’s not a strategist. He rules with an iron fist—no subtlety. Micromanages everything. No one else knows how the club’s finances and shit works. Holds it all real close to the chest.”
     
    “You don’t even know?” I asked, frowning.
     
    Viper gave me a deadly, disgusted look.
     
    “I don’t like books and numbers. I like riding and cracking skulls.”
     
    “Sounds like the White Wolves have too many guys like that. Sounds like you need someone who can actually run an organization.”
     
    “Well, Jesus fucking Christ, why don’t you fucking offer your services as a gangland consultant?” Viper spat back. “How much do you bill per hour?”
     
    “Listen, you Hell’s Angels-reject,” I started but Viper stood and cut me off.
     
    “The Hells Angels are a fucking corporate joke,” he snarled. “We’re the real deal—real scary ass one percenters.”
     
    “Viper, calm down,” Doug said, not raising his voice one bit. That was Doug—he always spoke like he was ordering at a restaurant, and he usually got what he wanted.
     
    And, yet again, he did. Viper sat down, smoldering like a camp fire that refused to go out.
     
    “Doug, I ain’t working with this mouthy bitch,” he growled.
     
    “What the fuck did you call me?” I all but screamed, standing up and ready to leap over the table and scalp him.
     
    “You heard me,” he snarled once more. “Bitch.”
     
    “Calm. Your. Selves,” Doug whispered, he voice barely audible. Somehow, that got our attention. This middle-aged, mild-mannered guy who looked more like an overworked accountant than anything else could always command a room if he wanted to.
     
    “Viper, speak to Special Agent Powell