Before Donnie can say anything else, Alder takes off. The sudden speed forces me to grab at him, pressing tight against his back as a jolt sparks low in my stomach. Whether it’s from the sudden takeoff or from his words… I can’t tell.
Both, maybe.
But that interaction has left me with some questions. Or maybe it’s exactly what it seems. With how much the Basin Kings allegedly get away with, it makes sense they have some RCMP and local police in their pocket.
Alder eventually slows and turns onto a dirt road hidden between thick rows of pines. The canopy here is even denser, swallowing the last of the moonlight and casting everything in near-total black. As he drives us deeper into the forest, I catch glimpses of lakes through breaks in the trees, their surfaces sostill they look like oil slicks stretched across the land. Almosttoostill.
Eventually, the trees thin and we roll into a wide clearing. A large, weathered warehouse-like building sits at the centre of it, like it’s been forgotten about out here for decades.
But it’s not abandoned tonight.
A long row of motorcycles lines one edge of the clearing, and cars are lined up beside them.Expensivecars. A Ferrari, a Porsche, an Aston Martin, and a few others I don’t recognize, but scream money. The licence plates on them are from New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Quebec, Maine, and other states.
Alder parks alongside the row of bikes and cuts the engine, and the sudden silence fills with the low hum of generators and the snarl of engines echoing from inside the warehouse. Subtle light bleeds through gaps in the steel walls and open doorway, casting soft flickers across the clearing and illuminating the line of people at the entrance, where a tall man in a Basin Kings cut is patting them down and collecting their phones.
I swing a leg off the seat and remove my helmet as I take it all in. Something about this scene feels almost impossible. Bikers, high-end cars, a crumbling warehouse in the middle of nowhere… it doesn’t add up.
“So,” I say, handing Alder my helmet, “this is work?”
He hangs it on the handlebars with a nod. “The best kind.” Then he turns and heads for the entrance.
And automatically, my feet are following. This all looks like something I should be cautious of and question. But instead, intrigue is bubbling under the surface. And with each step closer, the need to know, see, and experience whatever this is grows.
As we reach the door, Alder holds a hand out to the man standing guard, and they clasp hands in a bro hug.
“How’s it going, man?” the guy asks.
Alder nods, then glances inside. “Looks good.”
“Your hard work paid off. They all showed.” The guy’s eyes shift to me and darken as he steps forward. “Empty your pockets. Arms up.”
Before I can say or do anything, Alder quickly moves, pinning him against the wall with his forearm braced across his throat. “You don’t fuckingtouchhim.”
The guy’s eyes cut to me, looking me over again. Then he huffs a low laugh and shoves Alder off him. “Hope you know what you’re doing.”
Alder steps closer again, the air between them crackling with something ready to ignite. “You questioning me, Boot?”
I glance at the name patch on his cut.R. Boutilier. Enforcer.
Boot glares at Alder, then backs down with a curt shake of his head. “Nope.”
I’m not sure what to make of this exchange as I watch them stare at each other for another moment. It’s tense and confusing, with layers of familiarity, challenge, and power. Just a moment ago, it was two members of the same club hugging, and now it looks like some kind of stand-off that could end badly for one of them.
But then Alder looks at me and jerks his head towards the door. “Let’s go.”
As I move past him to head inside, Boot pats Alder on the shoulder, and everything seems to be forgotten. What the fuck?
I step inside, and immediately I’m hit with the smell of smoke, gasoline, and a sight I wasn’t expecting. Floodlights are rigged across the ceiling, casting beams of bright white onto a row of gleaming cars. And these cars are even flashier than the ones outside. Some of the hoods are popped, headlights on, and chrome glitters like treasure among the shadows. People move in pockets around the large space, some laughing and talking in groups, others standing in the shadows on their own, and someinspecting engines with fingers tracing along steel like they’re touching forbidden skin.
This is an underground car auction.
“This way,” Alder says, brushing past me with a nod.
And I follow without hesitation.
We weave through the crowd, which is an odd collision of two worlds. Men in ripped jeans and faded cuts with scabbed knuckles move shoulder to shoulder with others in tailored suits and polished shoes, flashing Rolexes and murmuring into Bluetooth headsets. It’s grit and luxury smashed together under the harsh glare of floodlights.
Alder stops when we reach two older men in Basin Kings cuts, who look like typical members of a biker gang. They both have ink winding up their arms, and one is bald with tattoos on either side of his head. The other has the same dark glare and sharp jaw as Alder, and when I glance at the patch over his chest, I see the name:K. Roy, President.
