This particular foray into the thrilling world of motorcycle gangs reads less like a gripping narrative and more like a fever dream cobbled together from every B-movie cliché ever conceived, then left to fester in a puddle of lukewarm beer.
The characters are so flat they could be used as kickstands, with Judge described as "short in stature but as mean as a pit bull and as intimidating as a grizzly bear" a description so generic it could apply to any tough guy action figure from a bargain bin. The dialogue is as wooden as a poorly constructed clubhouse, with gems like Ash shouting, "Take it easy! I told ya I’d be a minute!" after being rushed, or the profound revelation that a weapons shipment "Should make for a good haul to the Jackets!" truly, a masterclass in exposition that would make a fortune cookie blush.
The plot, well, it's about as unpredictable as a toddler's tantrum you know exactly where it's going, and you're just praying for it to end.
The sudden death of Riggs, the vice president, is meant to be a pivotal moment, yet it lands with the emotional impact of a dropped feather, largely because the character was barely a sketch before his untimely demise. And let's not forget Ash's miraculous discovery of the "weapon shipment schedule and route for the next month" just conveniently lying in the truck cab, a plot device so flimsy it makes a wet paper bag look structurally sound. The only thing more shocking than the sheer lack of originality is the audacity to present this as a coherent story, a literary equivalent of a rusty, sputtering hog that should have been left in the junkyard.
This should be a cautionary tale for aspiring writers on how not to write a book, unless your goal is to inspire involuntary eye-rolls and existential dread.