* * *
Ace
The clubhouse smelled like cigarettes and old leather, smoke hanging in layers above the scarred wooden table where a dozen Savage Raptors sat in various states of attention.I headed to Church after getting some sleep.Even after I’d dropped her off, staying long enough to watch her unlock the door and step inside, my mind had stayed halfway on her -- the way she had shaken behind the bar, the fragments of story she handed over piece by piece -- even now I struggled to focus, but Atilla was talking, and when the President spoke, you listened.
The old man sat at the head of the table, his long gray braid hanging over one shoulder, weathered hands folded in front of him.Seventy-something, yet he still commanded the room through presence alone.Overhead lights threw shadows across his face, deepening the lines mapping decades of decisions most men would never carry.
“Third time this month,” Atilla was saying, his voice measured and deliberate.“Knuckles got pulled over Tuesday night on Highway 71.No cause.Cop claimed a taillight was out.”
“Taillight was fine.”Knuckles’ usual humor was nowhere to be found.“I’d checked it myself that morning.Bastard just wanted to run my license, ask questions about where I was going, where I’d been.”
“Same thing happened to Ravager last week,” someone else added.“Different cop, same questions.”
I reached for my beer, the bottle cold and slick from condensation.Around the table, men shifted in their seats -- some leaning back, arms crossed, others hunched forward, elbows planted on scarred wood.The walls carried decades of club history: photographs of members long gone, patches from chapters across the state, a Raptor flag flown over the clubhouse.
“They’re fishing,” Atilla said.“Looking for cause to dig deeper.We give them nothing.No outstanding warrants, no violations, no excuses to haul anyone in.”
“Fucking harassment is what it is.”Wildcard’s large frame made the chair beneath him look like children’s furniture.“Can’t even ride without some badge deciding to flex.”
Maui, sitting to my left, tapped his fingers against his beer bottle.“They say what they’re looking for?”
“Questions about club activities.Where we go, who we associate with, whether we’ve seen any ‘suspicious behavior’ from other members.”Atilla’s expression hardened.“They’re building something.Or trying to.Which means we keep our heads down and our noses clean until they get bored and move on to easier targets.”
“How long’s that supposed to take?”someone asked.
“However long the wait requires.”The President’s tone allowed no argument.“I don’t care if the order feels inconvenient.I don’t care if you consider the rule unfair.You ride careful, follow every traffic law like gospel, and avoid giving anyone a single reason to look our way harder than they already do.”
Murmurs of agreement rippled around the table, though I could see the frustration in the set of shoulders, the tightness of jaws.Nobody liked being watched.Nobody liked knowing every ride, every stop, every interaction could be an excuse for some cop to make your life difficult.
My phone vibrated in my pocket.I ignored the buzz.Club meetings required phones to stay silent, and whoever called could wait fifteen minutes until we wrapped up.If there was an emergency, they’d either keep calling, or they’d come knock on the doors.Another vibration followed, more insistent, and Atilla’s gaze shifted toward me.
I pulled out the phone.Kane’s name glowed on the screen.
“Take the call,” Atilla said before any apology left my mouth.
I stood, the chair scraping against concrete, and moved toward the door as I answered.“Yeah?”
“Kinda messy situation brewing.”Kane’s voice carried a terse edge.“Nothing urgent, though I figured you’d want a heads-up.”
I stepped outside into cooler air and let the door fall shut behind me.The parking lot stretched empty except for rows of motorcycles, chrome reflecting the weak glow from a single bulb above the entrance.“Talk to me.”
“Stopped byLucky’s Dineraround six in the morning.Some guy walked in asking questions.Plainclothes, though every detail screamed cop.Clean-cut, cheap cologne, and that look they get when every object becomes part of their mental catalog.”
My grip tightened on the phone.“What kind of questions?”
“Sounded like they were talking about your new girl atThe Spoke.They didn’t come right out and say her name, but the description fits.Asked if anyone knew her, where she was from, if she’d mentioned having family in the area.”Kane paused, and I wasn’t sure if he had more to say or was waiting for my response.
Everything went cold.“He say why he was asking?”
“Claimed he was an old friend trying to get in touch.But Angela was working the counter, and she said something felt off about him.Said he was too intense, too focused.Left her his card and told her to call if she saw the woman around.”
“He still there?”
“No.Left about twenty minutes ago.Headed east toward town in a silver sedan, Texas plates.I got the number if you want it.”
I did.I memorized the digits as Kane rattled them off, my mind already racing through possibilities, none of them good.Marci’s words from earlier echoed in my head.The way she described her ex, I had no doubt he was going to cause trouble.
“Thanks for the heads-up.You tell anyone else about this?”
