Gizmo pulled Crash"s battered pickup to a stop in front of the gate in front of the warehouse the Devils used as a clubhouse. He"d gotten the address from Jailbait who had texted it to him while he"d been on the way out to pick up Asshole.
"We"re closed," the big man at the gate stood with his arms folded across his chest, a permanent scowl marring his forehead.
"I need to see your president. I have a delivery for him," Gizmo said.
"Like I said. We"re closed."
Gizmo sighed. Why did things have to be more difficult than they had to be? "Call your president. Tell him the Demented Souls Tech Sergeant has a delivery for him and let him decide." He didn"t get out of the truck. He didn"t want the guard to think he was aggressive or threatening.
The wall of a man"s scowl deepened but he p
