Sawyer (Great Wolves Motorcycle Club, #5) (5 page)

“You’re hilarious,” I said.

“So here’s the numbers, here’s the specs, here’s the plan.”

“We can do this?” I looked at several spreadsheets Ryder presented.

“I think so. We’ve got no less than four certified mechanics, one’s ex-military, and, at least, three old ladies willing to sign up for the front office shit.”

Ryder wanted to open a Great Wolves M.C. Auto Body Shop and Car Lot. It seemed ambitious, but he was not lying. We had the skill sets in the ranks of the Grand City Great Wolves M.C. to make a go of it.

“Here’s the thing most of newer businesses have to be scalable,” I explained to him.

“Like Shark Tank?”

“Yeah, I’m Mr. Wonderful. We gotta make money and we gotta look at whether your idea can be used at other charters.”

“I kind of think chicks are our market.”

“What?”

“We fix your ride! I want that to be the slogan. OR the Best Ride in Town.” Ryder’s face split wide open into a smile. The kid looked like Brad Pitt when he turned it on. He was for sure selling his idea with gusto.

“Oh, I see. And the dudes? They’re going to want us to fix their wives?”

“Well, most husbands make their wives do the mundane maintenance shit. And most wives like assless chaps.”

“I see. Let’s refine that slogan, 'kay? Here’s what I need. Find out how many charters have similar numbers when it comes to mechanics, logistics of their space, and the shit we have here. See if it’s even possible somewhere else. Then maybe.”

“Maybe we’ll try it?”

“Yeah, send whoever’s next in.”

“Gotcha. Thanks, Sawyer!” Ryder’s enthusiasm was contagious. Maybe it could be another legitimate money earner.

“So you’re willing to go with an auto body shop but not my legal pot?” Larry and I went back twenty-two odd years. We met as probies in the Green Bluff chapter. He was good with numbers and over the years gotten and actual CPA. Larry, the Biker Accountant, is what Cassidy Parker had called him. She was right, except for the part where he had done his fair share of punishing enemies of the club back in his day. Larry the Accountant would break a neck if I asked him to.

Or torch a dirty business.

He was the only one in the place that looked older than I did and the one I could guarantee would be on my side at the table on just about any issue.

We were still the new members of this charter, even though we had been sent here to run it.

Larry could not help running the numbers on legal marijuana growing and distribution.

“The government isn’t up your ass when you change the oil on mini-vans. They are most certainly up your ass when you grow legal pot.”

“I’m telling you it’s a gold mine we’re missing.”

“Seems like a step back, let’s make sure Ryder has the cash to start up the mechanic thing.”

“Fine.” Larry looked at the door and Otto Terry walked in. Otto owned one of the businesses we protected, a jewelry shop.

“Hey, Otto. What can we do for you?”

“A brick through my front window, my display case cleaned out, all of it happened last night.”

“Shit man. We were downtown as usual last night,” I asked Larry.

“Yeah, Great Wolves Security did three passes, eleven, two, and uh, five a.m.”

“Happened at 5:30 a.m.,” Otto said.

“Someone knew when to do it,” I said. That was disturbing.

“Yes,” said Otto.

“You’re insured right,” Larry asked.

“Yes, but you needed to know, and the brick, I thought you’d like to see it.”

He pulled a standard cement brick out from behind his back and placed it firmly on the table.

The words Bratva were spray painted on it.

Bratva, dammit, they were sending a message.

“What’s it mean,” Larry asked.

“No idea,” I said, lying. I did not need Otto to start worrying.

“What are you going to do?”

“We’re going to have someone there all night for the next few nights.”

“Good, thank you.”

“Thank you.” No one was going to mess with Otto again. He walked out and Larry looked at me.

“You know what it means don’t you.”

“Bratva means The Brotherhood.”

“The Russian Mob.”

“Yes, it’s a little retaliation for our bonfire I think.”

“Well if that’s all they got...pfft.”

“I suspect that is not all they got. Let’s get more Wolves out there on the street. We need to be more visible.”

“Got it Prez.”

We were lucky no one was hurt. This was going to get worse before it got better

Worse came fast. Fast as the next man through the door.

Stone came in, his dark brows were furrowed, and his feet were moving fast.

“Warehouse just called. Trouble. Happening right now.”

Stone was quiet and scary as hell; he was a man of few words. He was tight with Ryder and the two could not be more different. Dark and light. Extrovert and introvert.

If Stone talked, it was for a reason.

“What?”

“Just got a call from Shorty...an SOS.”

“Okay, let’s roll, fast, Larry, finish the meetings.”

“Take a decent crew with you,” Larry called after us.

“Yep.” I joined Stone and headed out to
The Wolf Den
to see who could move quickly with me.

“Ryder, you’re coming with Stone and me.” Ryder left his seat at the bar quickly.

“Dusty who’s around?” She was always working on something to make
The Wolf Den
happen.

“Hagen, Steel, and Ridge all pulling up now. Supposed to help me unload a truck but the truck is late.”

“From the warehouse? Yeah, we’re going to check it out. Thanks.”

I met the guys at the door. Six. That would work. Right before we started to roll Victor pulled up in the pickup truck I had him drive for the M.C.

“Follow us, Victor.”

Best-case scenario, we load up whatever was supposed to be delivered to
The Wolf Den
. Worst case scenario? I didn’t know what that would be. I did know that a pickup truck was a good idea for almost any scenario so Victor was coming along.

Our warehouse was full of stuff for the bar, for the gym, and for the bikes. We roared toward it in double file.

We were not subtle in our approach. Six Harleys and an F-150 do not sneak up on a damn thing.

Black smoke was starting to rise and so was my level of dread. We had one guy, Marty Shaw, who lived on site. Marty had shit figured out, he didn’t like people, and keeping to himself at the warehouse was just his speed. If he called, it was bad. Black smoke bad.

“Victor, Ridge...grab the hose that’s around back and start that water on it.” Hagen issued the orders. He cut his engine and moved fast. His orders were exactly right. He knew the layout way better than I did.

“If that liquor catches it’s going to blow,” Ryder said.

“Hagen, go with them,” I said. I didn’t want to chance it that they would miss the target. The three peeled around back to try to douse whatever they could.

“The rest of you are with me.” Stone stepped in front of me. I gave him a look, whatever this was, I didn’t want any one of my guys to take a bullet, but Stone was going to go first no matter if I wanted him to or not.

“Fuck off, you’re behind me,” he said. Steel and Ridge flanked him and I was, much to my disgust, the last one in.

The air was toxic. The smoke had filled the room before it had spilled out the back. Steel lost his footing a bit and I almost did too.

The crates of liquor that we had been storing were knocked over, spilled out, with glass and whiskey everywhere. This place could explode. I didn’t see flames, and that was what would do it.

The next step I made landed on a Marty Shaw.

Fuck, he was not moving. He was either dead or close to it.

He coughed, thank Christ.

I knelt down and helped him sit up. He was bleeding from a cut on his head. His eye was starting to swell.

“Your engines scared them off.” His voice was quiet and raspy but he was alive.

“Just the one fire?”

“Yes, I think.” Steel came over. I saw water hit the smoke and started to feel marginally like we were not inside a firebomb.

“I’ll get him outside.” Steel was nearly as big as Victor was, and he carried Marty as if he was a child.

We fanned out. The place has been literally trashed. Our guy was nearly dead.

“Prez,” Stone called from the small office.

I went in and followed Stone’s gaze.

Spray-painted on the office walls were the words “Fire for fire.”

I knew exactly what it meant. It was no mystery. We had poked The Russians when we torched their storage units and now they had done the same.

“Orders,” Stone asked.

“Let’s just make sure the fire’s out.”

The guys secured the building. I called for a crew to come out, clean what needed cleaning, and salvage anything else.

“Ridge, call Dusty, tell her today’s stock is shot.”

“On it. She is going to need to check in with Cali. Maybe they have some backup supply chain,” Ridge said.

“Good.”

I looked at the office. Marty did a lot off the books. There was not much to steal if information was what they were after.

This looked like tit-for-tat. Just like the wall said, fire for fire.

The smoke was getting to me so I walked outside. Ridge had called more members over to help.

The billowing black smoke had dwindled to a few white plumes wafting up from the back of the building.

I walked the perimeter something in motion caught my eye.

There was something hiding behind some pallets on the loading dock. Someone was a better word.

Jesus.

“I see you,” I called out.

There was a rustling.

“Look, the fire’s over. You’re safe. Come on out.”

From behind the stacked pallets was the pair of dirty pink tennis shoes that first caught my eye.

They were attached to skinny jeans, a too tight t-shirt, and a young girl with stringy hair and haunted eyes.

If I had to guess, she was 12 or 13 years old. Maybe.

“It’s okay.”

“You’re not with them?” She asked me. I had to guess who them was.

“Do I sound like a Russian?”

“Is that what they are?”

“The men that set this place on fire, thick accents?”

“Yes. Not from here for sure.”

“I’m not with them.”

“I am not a hooker.” It was an odd thing to say. When she swallowed hard, the reality of the Russians and their cots and chains came into sharper focus for me.

This was not drugs or guns; it was people, young, vulnerable people that the Bratva was moving through Grand City.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“I need to get away before they figure out I’m not there.”

“I’ll help you with that.”

I put out my hand. This kid had been hurt, reaching out to anyone was a risk for her, but it was either the Russians or me, or run into the woods.

She was smart enough to see her options or trusting enough to have a horrible life. Either way, I knew my next call.

B
ess

I was not expecting a text from Sawyer. I had been very cold, very deliberate, and very direct. We weren’t happening. We couldn’t if I did not want to risk Chris trying to change my custody arrangement with Henry.

He had shown up at the worst possible time and did exactly what I feared he would. Chris took out any chance I had of having another relationship. He didn’t want me and I didn’t want him but he sure as hell didn’t want me happy. He was not mature enough for that.

The text from Sawyer was not a plea for a second date, had last night been a date? Dinner, conversation, a ride on the back of his bike, and then a second round of me wanting to get naked in his arms, seemed like date was an okay way to characterize it.

Call me. This is not a come on.

I almost did not call but something about Sawyer McCall made people listen up and do what he instructed. It was not bossy but it was commanding. So, I dialed his number.

“Bess thank God.”

“What is it?”

“I have a kid here that needs your help. Immediately.”

“What?”

“Can you meet me at the club?”

“I, uh, let me arrange Henry and then yes.”

“I appreciate it. You remember where we are?”

“Yep.”

I checked in with Cassidy. She was a good backup when I needed it. Henry adored Cassidy’s future brother-in-law, Dylan. He was 30 years old but was special needs. His interest and Henry’s were always right in line.

After I dropped off Henry, I headed to
The Wolf Den
. It had turned into one of the coolest tough bars in town thanks to Sawyer.

I had not been here during the day before. The parking lot was fairly empty, and around back, I spied a row of motorcycles. I had no doubt a few of them were worth more than my house.

I walked in and a biker clad in leather but who looked like he could be just as comfortable on a beach, with his blond floppy hair, greeted me.

“Hi? You Miss Geary?”

“Call me Bess.”

“Sawyer said to bring you on back. I’m Ryder.”

“Nice to meet you.” I looked around the room. The owners of the bikes were sitting at various positions in the bar; it was not technically open yet. They all looked like they had just been through something. I could only guess as to what. There was a smell of smoke, more pungent than cigarette smoke, but maybe their cigs were more powerful. Who knew?

They also all looked dangerously sexy I could not help but notice. Was it a club requirement? None of them had exactly what Sawyer had but I could see the appeal in a way that surprised me. These bikers were all men, nothing soft about them, no weak chins, no comb-overs, and no latte drinkers.  They were throwbacks to another time it seemed.

I supposed it was probably good not to lump them all into my preconceived notions. Macho was macho and this place oozed it.

Sawyer had turned out to be a man with business acumen just as much as raw sexual power. Who knew what hidden personalities were here behind each leather jacket?

I felt many eyes on me but somehow I also felt safe. Sawyer would be sure of it and oddly, I felt like Ryder would too.