Mine: Black Sparks MC (2 page)

Martin, however, the shifty-eyed treasurer who had recently patched over from the Cleveland charter for reasons only Tryg was privy to, was a different story. Nick often caught him looking at him askance, as if he felt the young vice president didn't deserve to be there. But even he knew better than to challenge Tryg. He shuffled his feet now, knowing he was outnumbered.

"That's what I thought,” said Nick.

Nick knew better than to ask specifically what this business was in Dayton that Tryg had to take care of. When ex-Prudence mayor and banker Noel Richardson had still been alive, his power and influence had provided protection to the club.  Noel’s marriage to Larissa, Trace Ryan’s widow, had cemented that alliance. But since Noel had died a few years ago, and Larissa had moved to Florida, Tryg had been scrambling to keep the rug from being swept out from under the Black Sparks, as other M.C.s smelled blood in the water in Southern Ohio.

Despite the increasing trouble that had caused for the Black Sparks, nobody in their ranks much mourned Noel personally--especially Nick, in the year he’d spent as his foster son, as he had had a front row seat to the man's cruelty and narcissism. Tryg alone had gotten him out from under it. It was a lot of complicated history, but all of it added up to Nick knowing just how important it was to prove to Tryg that he could be trusted to escort the shipment safely to Cincinnati. Chillicothe was their biggest client--and a legitimate one. Its CEO sat on boards. If he screwed up, people would know.

Tryg clapped Nick on the back again before turning away, his eyes briefly meeting the younger man’s with a message meant only for him. He’d talked the talk. They all knew what came next.

As he exited the bar, Nick looked down at the crystal in his hand and bit his lip, trying to hide a smile. He thought about chucking it, but he gripped it a little tighter.

CHAPTER THREE

"What's that up ahead?" shouted Tomahawk to Nick as the driver of the semi signaled into the turn lane. They'd been riding for an hour and were only ten miles out of Cincinnati, alongside a storage facility labeled A-1 Mini Storage, with a deserted parking lot that was evidently unstaffed since there didn't appear to be an office. In fact, Nick wasn’t even sure the place was still open. "Why is he stopping here? This isn't where we’re supposed to unload."

Nick didn't say anything; he was too busy examining the driver, a skinny, swarthy guy with a mustache who had put Nick on edge right away. He wasn’t the regular driver, but whether it was this fact, something about the man himself, or that he was still uneasy from what Kirrily had told him, he couldn't say.

"Pull in," said Nick, gesturing to Tomahawk and Martin, and Huck “Tight Lips” Lee, the other rider, a tall, silent young man with arms like tree trunks, who had been patched just a few months ago but had already proven himself a valuable asset to the club. Tomahawk did so immediately, but Martin barely slowed, as if he thought Nick’s order was beneath his notice. "Let’s see what's going on."

Nick pulled to a stop in the parking lot, flanked by Tomahawk and, close behind, Martin. Nick stood up in the saddle, unconsciously reaching for the gun in his waistband. The driver hopped out of the cab and took out a cellphone. He disappeared behind the side of the storage units as if he hadn’t noticed the three bikers lined up a few feet away, watching him with hawks’ eyes.

"What's he doing?" asked Tomahawk.

"Follow him," Nick told Tomahawk. He nodded. "The rest of us will stay here with the truck. If anything goes down, we'll be right behind you."

"I don't trust this guy," spat Martin.

"I don't either, but Tryg evidently does," said Nick, trying to appeal to Martin’s loyalty to the club. He didn't mention that Tryg's desperation to get ahead of the Vipers might have compromised his judgment, but bringing that up wouldn't help anything at this point. It would only serve to raise tensions higher. Nick took out his gun and walked around the cab of the semi, one hand on his pistol.

The hazy sun was almost directly above them, unnoticeable on the road, but now it warmed his shoulders through the fabric of his shirt. Nobody else seemed to be around; the early spring thaw had awakened the chickadees and crows, and the noises they made from the grove of oak trees surrounding the grain silo a quarter-mile off, were the only noises from the afternoon. Gripping the metal bar, Nick vaulted easily up into the cab and picked up a fluttering piece of paper: a receipt from a hardware store in New Jersey with an address near Prudence scribbled on the back. As he tried to puzzle it out, his thoughts were interrupted by a gunshot and a scream.

"Tomahawk!" Nick yelled, sprinting around the side of the building, adrenaline screaming through his body like an ambulance siren. There was no sign of Martin or Tomahawk anywhere as Nick rounded the corner.

The driver lay on the ground a few yards away, motionless, his limbs splayed, moaning in pain. Nick started toward him, hand curled around the barrel of his gun. The man's eyes were closed. Nick knelt down to examine him.

“Tom?” Nick called. “Where are you?”

"Nick, don't," Tomahawk yelled from behind the storage building. "I think he's--"

But it was too late. In a split second, the driver's eyes flew open, his hand darting to Nick's gun. Nick was almost too fast for him, grabbing him by the arm and flipping him backwards, but the driver was undeterred; he pushed back against Nick, grabbing for the gun, trying to wrench it out of his hands, fumbling for the trigger. Tomahawk yelled as Nick felt something collide with the edge of his shoulder like a brick, splitting apart skin and tissue, too fast to dodge, or even see what had hit him. He crumpled to the ground, long enough for the driver to disappear around the corner of the building, Tomahawk in hot pursuit. The semi’s engine was already in gear; no doubt the driver had had an accomplice hiding somewhere; somewhere he should have sent someone to check. How could he have let this happen?

He now heard Martin and Huck shouting, kicking their bikes into gear, preparing to give chase. He had to avoid looking at his shoulder; there was no time for that. Gritting his teeth to stave off the first wave of nausea and pain, he grabbed his gun and fired two useless shots into the distance, then dropped it, hearing the gun clatter to the pavement beneath them, a hollow sound of defeat. He knew all he would do by firing more at this point would attract needless attention from the cops – or worse.

Slowly, Nick raised his hand to his shoulder, where an unpleasant, warm wetness went along with the pain. His head wasn’t working right; it spun as he held up his hand, glistening with streaked blood. He steadied himself with one hand, trying to hoist himself to stand.

He shakily called back to Tomahawk. "We've got to--" he stammered, a little disoriented, brushing his hair off his face, trailing blood across his forehead and ear.

"Shit, Nick, you got peppered," said Huck as Nick slowly sat up. Huck wrapped a hand around Nick’s shoulder, helping him down to the ground again. The asphalt beneath seemed to shimmer like diamonds. "You'd better sit down."

"Forget about me. What about the truck?" he pushed Huck away, staggered to his feet, then reeled back. Tomahawk was there to catch him. This wasn't over yet. "There were two other guys hiding off behind those trees," said Tomahawk, pointing. "It was a setup. To separate us so they could get the cab."

Nick buried his head in his hands, trying to shut out the light. Even then, dizziness overcame him. The world was spinning out of control, literally. "Shit."

"Do you want me to call somebody? Tryg?" asked Tomahawk.

"No," said Nick quickly. "Not yet. Maybe we can still catch them." But even as he spoke the words, doubt seemed to spread over him like a raincloud, blanketing him with the hopelessness of knowing he’d failed, that the trust that had been placed in him had been unearned, that he was no better than Martin like so many others suspected he was.

"They left with the driver. It looked like he was running the whole operation."

"I knew something was wrong with that guy the minute I saw him,” growled Nick, though he was reserving his anger for himself. He swung his head up to look at his friend, who crouched down, taking off his hoodie to stanch the bleeding in Nick’s shoulder. Nick pushed him away. He didn’t deserve another Black Spark to tend his wound. He’d take care of it himself. “He set us up, Tom. He knew Tryg wouldn't be here, and he used it. I bet Tryg's thing in Dayton was a setup to get him out of the picture."

"The Vipers?"

Nick stared down at the blood-streaked pavement, head swimming, trying to grasp onto some piece of logic he could use. “Did you get a good look at the guy? Did you see where they went? We'll go after them."

Nick stumbled to his feet again. "Whoa, kid, you've got to sit down,” said Tomahawk. “You're in no shape to go after anyone."

"I'm fine," said Nick, taking a slow breath, in and out.

Martin stepped forward.
"I’ll
go on ahead. See if I can track them down,” he said flatly. His words were helpful, but his tone dripped with contempt. He was looking Nick up and down as if the wounded young man were a stray tire thrown in the road in front of his bike – worse than useless: actively harmful. Nick heard him start his engine and peel out of the parking lot, but it offered him little comfort. All he could think about was what he was going to tell Tryg.

“Think you can ride?” asked Tomahawk after a second.

“Fuck yeah,” said Nick. “We'll get these guys."

"Nick, it's too late,” protested Tomahawk. “They're gone. They got everything."

"I know," replied Nick. "But we'll get them."

CHAPTER FOUR

"Welcome home," said Kirrily Ryan, Tryg’s Australian wife, enveloping her in a hug. For Liana, as she stood outside the Prudence bus station, watching the driver hoist her beat-up suitcase out of the compartment under the seats, it all seemed kind of unreal. It was especially strange to think that this tanned, bleach-blonde woman in black leather, with her exotic accent that seemed to sing of koala bears and coral reefs, could signify "home" to Liana. But ever since her mother, Larissa, had moved to Fort Myers with her new husband, this was the closest to home Liana had left. And even though it meant sharing the house with her formidable uncle Tryg, the president of the Black Sparks M.C., she was glad to bother.

On the bus, she’d torn her eyes away from the brownish-green sameness of the Midwestern landscape that flew by outside. She stared down at her phone, her fingers drifting to her photo album, her old house in Ohio, the one her mother had sold after she'd finally divorced her stepfather. She'd left for a reason: because there was nothing left, nobody whose toes she hadn't stepped on, nobody to whom she didn't owe an apology, nobody she hadn't insulted in her misguided notions that everybody in Prudence, Ohio was beneath her--notions that her stepfather, Noel Richardson, had cultivated and encouraged. But Noel’s concept of his stepdaughter’s superiority only lasted so long as she remained afraid to step outside of his giant shadow.

“You'll come crawling back,” her stepfather had laughed when she left. “Do you know how many small-town girls try to make it New York every year? It'll chew you up and spit you out.” Thankfully, it was her stepfather who was gone now, but his sardonic laughter remained in the back of her mind, even after every audition, stepping up to give a monologue or sing a note, his face staring out at her from the darkened audience, judging her, kicking her dreams until they were as bruised as rotten fruit. “Your place isn’t here,” his voice always seemed to say. “Your place is in Prudence.”

Under Noel Richardson’s thumb
, she’d always thought bitterly--or, if not his, somebody else’s. And given the situation she was fleeing, she knew she’d done nothing but prove her stepfather right. Again.

Look at the princess now.

She thought back to “The Goose Girl” play she'd never get to perform in now. It was just as well. She had called Rob the next day and told him she was leaving town and to tell her understudy the role was hers.
At least somebody will get some good news today,
she’d thought.

Rob had begged her to stay, of course, even offering to advance her fifty dollars out of his own pocket to cover groceries for a week. But it would only be a bandage over a wound that had long ago begun to fester, and she'd already made her decision. If she waited any longer, she’d be offering up her limbs for amputation. She’d be losing part of herself. And as much as going home to Prudence would hurt, she knew all she had left was herself.

"I promised I wouldn't bombard you with questions, and I'll stick to that," said Kirrily, strapping her niece’s suitcase on the back expertly, then handing her the spare helmet on the back of her Harley, which gleamed like a snorting beast in front of her. Strange that a woman whose father and grandfather had been the former presidents of the fiercest M.C. in southwestern Ohio would be so hesitant to climb aboard. But that was another thing her stepfather had expressly forbidden. He’d cut her off from her birthright, her roots.

Her Aunt Kirrily seemed to share no such taboo, thankfully. That didn’t mean it would be easy to adjust. "But Tryg might be another story.” Liana wasn’t sure she wanted to think about her Uncle Tryg yet. He was only around ten years older than Liana, more like a cousin than an uncle, and he was the quintessential Papa Bear, and never hesitated to get dangerous when he felt someone threatened him or his family--which included the M.C. he led.

During most of the time she was growing up, he'd been across the world in Australia, setting up the Black Sparks charter in Brisbane. When he'd come back with a pregnant Kirrily in tow, Liana had felt like she could finally let out a breath she'd been holding for three years. If he'd been around to defend Liana and her mother against Noel when she was seventeen, she suspected things would have never have happened the way they did. Of course, naturally, he considered all of Prudence his domain, and he was bound to ask Liana questions about what had happened to bring her inside it, the exact questions she hoped desperately not to be asked.

“Well?” Kirrily held out her hand, and Liana grabbed hold, swinging one leg around the back and scooting forward, hoping her aunt couldn’t sense how stiff she was as she wrapped her arms tightly around her waist. Kirrily grinned at her. “I left Kizzy playing at the neighbor’s,” she said. “I told her I was bringing back a surprise.”

“How disappointing for her,” Liana joked, though she was only half-kidding. “She’s probably expecting a pony. Or a Pokémon.”

“Probably,” said Kirrily, and Liana startled at the roar the bike sent up as it jerked forward, roaring like a wild animal, catapulting them into the heart of the town of Prudence, Ohio, population eight thousand.

On Main Street, budding cedar trees shaded the post office, which shared space with the armory, the community church, and the Black Sparks biker bar, all of which whizzed by so quickly Liana didn’t have much time to take them in. She was just thankful their route didn’t take them past her old house. She preferred to think that it had blown down in a tornado, though she knew it was wishful thinking.

“Think she’ll remember me?”

“How could she forget?”