Chapter 1
Ice Pick
The clubhouse reeks of stale beer, leather, and the lingering smoke from last night's party. I lean against the bar, watching my watching my brothers move through the space with swagger and ease. The women move through it too; club whores perched on barstools or leaning against my brothers trying to get their attention, laughing, watching, choosing who they sit beside. None of them look afraid. That matters. Tess’s rules echo even when she’s not in the room. Tess is Vulture’s ol’ lady, she runs the club whores to make sure they don’t overstep and that there’s no bullying or getting out of hand. Since Tess took over looking after the club whores it's been a lot more peaceful in here. Every inch of this compound, every road we ride, every deal we make, it's ours, and that includes the club whores too. The Saints Outlaws MC didn't build an empire by playing nice.
"Ice Pick." Vulture's voice cuts through the noise. It's sharp and commanding. Our President doesn't raise his voice often. He doesn't need to. We respect him. We fear him a little too. Vulture didn’t earn his name by accident. He survived long enough to learn that power wasn’t about noise; it was about what you protected, and what you were willing to burn for it.
I push off the bar and cross the room, my boots heavy on the scarred wooden floor. Vulture stands near the pool table where Zip and Rook are pretending they're not listening. Sterling's nursing a beer in the corner, his eyes tracking everything as always. Our Chaplain doesn't miss shit. Knox, our club doc, leans in a doorway nearby, bandaging up one of the prospects with his usual deadpan calm. Digger sits on the stool like he’s trying not to breathe wrong, his eyes flicking to me every few seconds like approval might be handed out with the gauze.
"What's up?" I ask, folding my arms across my chest.
Vulture jerks his head toward the back office. "We need to talk. Now."
I follow him through the maze of brothers and club whores until we're in the relative quiet of his office. The door clicks shut, and he moves behind his desk, dropping into his chair with the kind of weight that tells me this conversation's going to be a pain in my ass.
Falcon, our VP, is already leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, silent and unreadable. There’s a faint echo of laughter from the main room; female, sharp, familiar. Falcon’s jaw tightens for half a second before his face goes blank again.
"There's a journalist sniffing around the warehouse bust," Vulture says without preamble.
My jaw tightens. "How close?"
"Close enough that she's asking questions about the Reapers' involvement. Close enough that she's connecting dots we don't want connected." Falcon pulls out a file and tosses it across the desk. "Ava Langley. Investigative reporter. She's written exposés on corrupt politicians, organized crime, and human trafficking rings. She's good at what she does. Too good." The trafficking part sticks. That’s a line we don’t blur. Ever. Kids. Women. Anyone who preys on them earns what’s coming.
I flip open the file. A photo stares back at me; dark hair, sharp eyes, the kind of face that probably gets her into places she shouldn't be. Pretty in a way that makes men underestimate her, and that's dangerous.
"She knows about the ledger?" I ask, my voice dropping low.
"Not yet. But she's digging into the Reapers hard. Asking about their connections, their supply chains, and their territory." Falcon leans forward. "If she keeps going, she could stumble onto something that leads back to us."
"So we shut her down."
"Can't." Vulture's mouth twists into something that's not quite a smile. "She's already got enough attention on her work that if something happens to her, it'll blow back on us hard. We need to be smart about this."
I close the file and toss it back on his desk. "What do you want me to do?"
"Keep an eye on her," Falcon says. "Make sure she doesn't get too close. And if she does..."
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to. We all know whathandle itmeans.
Being the Sergeant-at-Arms doesn’t just mean I keep order in the club. It means I get my hands dirty when things need to stay quiet. I've done worse than intimidate some reporter with a hero complex.
"Consider it done," I say, turning toward the door.
"Ice Pick."
I pause, glance back.
Vulture's gaze is steady. "Don't underestimate her. Women like that, they're not afraid of men like us. They think they're invincible. Until they're not."
I nod once and head back into the main room. Zip intercepts me before I can make it to the door, his scarred face twisted into a grin that shows too many teeth.
"Trouble?" he asks, falling into step beside me.
"Always." I grab my keys from the bar. "There’s a journalist's poking around the Reapers. Falcon wants me to make sure she doesn't become our problem."
Rook whistles low nearby. "Better you than me."
Sterling raises his beer in a lazy salute. "Try not to make a mess."
