Ice Pick
The ride to the compound takes twenty minutes through morning traffic. Ava is pressed against my back like she belongs there. She doesn't complain about the speed or the way I weave between cars, she just holds on tight and keeps her head down. Smart. The Reapers have eyes everywhere, and the last thing we need is someone spotting her before we get behind our walls.
Vulture’s going to hear about this before my kickstand hits concrete. Prez gets told everything that crosses that gate, especially a civilian with a bounty and a mouth full of truth.
The Saints Outlaws compound sits on ten acres outside the city limits, surrounded by chain-link fence topped with razor wire and security cameras that Zip installed last year after the Diablos tried to make a move on our territory. The gate rolls open as we approach. Sterling is manning the guardhouse with a shotgun across his lap and a cigarette dangling from his mouth. One of the other prospects is inside with him, Digger, I think, trying to look calm while Sterling casually radiates “I’ve buried worse.”
He nods as we pass, his eyes tracking Ava with the kind of interest that makes my jaw tighten. She's going to draw attentionat the clubhouse, and not all of it's going to be welcome. Club whores are one thing, civilians are another, but a journalist investigating the same shit we're trying to keep quiet? That's a powder keg waiting for a match. Club whores know the rules. Ol’ ladiessethalf of them. And Tess? Tess would flay a man alive for making a woman feel unsafe in her orbit; club property patch or not.
I park near the main building, killing the engine and waiting for Ava to climb off before I do. She's stiff, probably sore as hell from the beating and the ride, but she doesn't show it beyond a slight wince when her feet hit the ground.
"This is it?" she asks, looking around the compound with those sharp eyes that miss nothing.
"This is it. The main clubhouse is there.“ I point to the largest building, a converted warehouse we'd bought cheap and fortified until it could withstand a siege. "Dorms are in the back for members who don't have their own places. Garage and workshop on the east side. Chapel's in the basement."
"Chapel?"
"Where we have church. Club meetings." I swing off the bike and grab her bag from where it's strapped behind the seat. "Only patched members allowed, everyone else stays out."
"Got it. Secret biker stuff. Very mysterious."
There's that sass again, sharp and fearless despite everything she's been through. Most people would be cowed by now, grateful and compliant, but not Ava. She's studying the compound like she's already writing the exposé in her head, cataloging details, and looking for weaknesses. She’s going to be a headache. But the women, Cara especially, will read her in two seconds. Cara’s built her whole life around helping trafficking survivors rebuild. She’ll know if Ava’s here to help… or to burn us down.
I should be worried about that. Instead, I'm impressed.
"Come on," I say, heading toward the clubhouse. "Let's get you settled before the boys wake up and start asking questions."
"What kind of questions?"
"The kind that usually end with someone getting punched."
She hurries to catch up, falling into step beside me. The main door's unlocked, same as always during daylight hours. It’s quiet inside the clubhouse except for the sound of someone moving around in the kitchen. It’s probably Rook making his disgustingly strong coffee that could strip paint off a car. But it isn’t just Rook. There’s soft movement; someone wiping counters, someone humming under their breath. A prospect doing morning chores. A woman’s laugh, low and familiar. The clubhouse isn’t just brothers and beer. It’s a whole damn ecosystem.
The common room takes up most of the first floor, leather couches and pool tables and a bar that's seen more action than most strip clubs. Photos line the walls, pictures of the club through the years, brothers who've earned their patches and a few who didn't live long enough to keep them. It's history written in chrome and blood, and it's not pretty.
Ava stops in front of one photo, her finger tracing the frame. It's from ten years ago, back when the club was smaller. Vulture’s in the center, younger but just as intense, surrounded by brothers who've since moved on or moved under. My face is in the back row; I’m harder to spot but there.
"That's you," she says, not a question.
"Yeah."
"You look angry."
"I was."
She glances at me, curiosity bright in those dark eyes. "What changed?"
"Nothing. I just got better at hiding it."
Her finger pauses on another frame; Vulture with Tess at his side, both of them looking too sharp to be real. Tess is smiling like she knows exactly where the bodies are buried, and Vulture’s got thattouch her and dieexpression he wears like a crown.
There are kid photos mixed in too; someone’s idea of normal shoved between old war stories. Family, Saint’s Outlaws style.
Before she can dig deeper, Rook appears from the kitchen, coffee mug in hand and eyebrows climbing toward his hairline when he spots Ava. He's our Road Captain, handles runs and logistics, and he's got a mouth that's gotten him into trouble more times than I can count.
"Well, well," he drawls, leaning against the doorframe. "Ice Pick brought home a stray. She house-broken?"
"Watch it," I warn, my voice dropping into that dangerous register that makes smart men think twice.
