"No promises," I mutter.
"Need backup?" Zip asks.
"Nah. This one I handle solo."
He claps me on the shoulder hard enough to rattle my teeth. "Don't have too much fun without us."
I head out into the late afternoon sun, the heat hitting me like a wall after the dim interior of the clubhouse. My bike sits where I left it, chrome gleaming and the engine ready to roar. I swing my leg over and kick it to life, the familiar rumble settling into my bones.
Ava Langley. Let's see what kind of trouble you're really getting into.
It takes me less than an hour to track her down. The address in her file leads to a shitty apartment complex on the south side, the kind of place where people mind their own business because asking questions gets you hurt. Her car, a beat-up sedan that's seen better days, sits in the lot.
I park across the street, my engine idling, and settle in to wait. Surveillance isn't glamorous, but it's necessary. You learn more about people by watching them when they think no one's looking.
Twenty minutes pass before she emerges from the building, and the first thing I notice is that the photo in her file doesn't do her justice. Her dark hair is pulled back into a ponytail; she’s dressed in jeans and a leather jacket that's probably supposed to make her look tough. She's got a messenger bag slung across her body, walking with purpose toward her car.
I watch her unlock the door, toss her bag inside. She pauses, hand on the frame, and her head turns. For a second, I think she's made me, but she's looking past my position toward something else. A black SUV parked three spots down, with tinted windows and its engine running.
Her body language shifts. It’s subtle, but I catch it. The way her shoulders tense, how her hand lingers on the car door like she's debating her next move. She knows she's being watched.
Smart girl.
She slides into her car quickly and starts the engine. The SUV doesn't move. She pulls out of the lot, and I give her a five-second head start before following. The SUV falls in behind her, too, keeping two cars between them.
This just got interesting.
She drives like she knows someone's tailing her, taking random turns, doubling back, testing whoever's behind her. The SUV stays with her. I stay with both of them, hanging back far enough that I'm just another vehicle in traffic.
We end up in an industrial area near the docks. She pulls into a parking garage, and the SUV follows. I kill my engine half a block away and jog toward the structure, keeping to the shadows. The sound of car doors slamming echoes through the concrete levels.
I take the stairs two at a time, quiet despite my size. Voices drift down from the third level.
"You need to stop asking questions." A deep and threatening male voice.
"I'm a journalist. Asking questions is my job." Her voice is steady, but there's an edge to it. Fear is trying to masquerade as confidence.
I reach the landing and peer around the corner. Three men have her backed against her car. They're not Reapers; they’re wearing the wrong cuts, wrong colors. But they've got that mercenary look about them. Hired muscle, I’m guessing. Which means someone paid for this. Someone with money, reach, and no problem hurting women to protect their interests.
"Your job's gonna get you killed," one of them says, stepping closer. "Walk away from the Reapers' story. Forget what you know about the missing women."
"Can't do that."
"Then we've got a problem."
The lead guy reaches for her, and that's when she moves. Pepper spray in his face, a sharp kick to another one's knee. She's fast, I'll give her that. But three against one doesn't work in her favor, no matter how much self-defense training she's had.
The third guy grabs her arm, yanks her off balance. Her bag hits the ground, contents spilling across the concrete. The first guy, still wiping at his eyes, pulls back his fist.
I step out of the shadows. "That's enough."
All three heads whip toward me. Ava's eyes go wide, but I don't spare her a glance. I'm focused on the muscle.
"Who the fuck are you?" the lead guy demands.
"Someone who doesn't like unfair odds." I close the distance between us, my presence alone making them reconsider their life choices. I'm bigger than all of them, and the cut I'm wearing tells them exactly what kind of unfair I'm willing to get.
"This ain't your business, biker."
