by K. A. Tucker
If only the general public knew how easy it was to collect information on them. There are pages and pages of personal details in this folder: bank records showing a steady income and decent savings, which tells me she works hard and spends smartly; cell phone bills with mostly text messages, which tells me she doesn’t like idle chitchat; a credit card statement with a zero balance and nothing but concert tickets, clothes, and ink supplies tells me her interests are simple. Flight receipts that tell me she’s almost as mobile as I am, never in one place for too long. There isn’t much Bentley can’t get in the way of research, but I like to do my own recon anyway.
“I’ll pay double the normal rate, because this is more involved than normal. The first half has already been wired.” Bentley smiles. “If anyone can get information out of a young woman, I’m guessing it’s you.”
I ignore him. After what happened with the Grecian hooker, I’m not eager to jump into bed with anyone again, anytime soon. Especially someone whose life I may be ending soon. Not even my psyche can handle that. “I need a car.”
“Steve will get you one.”
“No GPS, no traceable plates, nondescript.”
“You know that I run one of the biggest private security companies in the world, right?”
I can’t help the smirk. “And yet you need me.” Committing Ivy Lee’s important details to memory and my phone camera screen—I definitely won’t need a picture to identify her on the street—I make my way over to the fireplace. Opening the grille, I take a moment to light my Bolivar, and then I hold the flame to the corner of the folder, until it ignites.
I watch evidence turn to ash as I savor the cigar’s mild blend of spicy fruitcake and chocolate, wondering if she’s an innocent associate or a guilty accomplice.
“Why did you bring me to your home for this?”
“I figured you missed me.” Bentley laughs when I shoot him a questioning look. “Honestly . . . What you do is invaluable to this country and its millions of people, and I know that you give it a hundred and fifty percent. You could have just as easily slipped away into oblivion after discharge.”
I smirk. “Haven’t I, though?” There are no medals or commendations for a successful assignment. No words of encouragement or pats on the shoulder. What I’m doing, no one will ever know about it. No one will ever talk about it. In many ways, I am a ghost.
“My point is that this life can’t be easy. I wanted to see how you were doing, Sebastian.”
He wants to see if my head is still screwed on straight. If my self-imposed isolation has taken its toll yet. The funny thing is, I don’t mind it. Because the alternative—a life without meaningful purpose, living day to day with disgrace still hanging over me—is not one I ever want to live. I can’t tell Bentley that my life is a dream because that would be a lie, but I can say that I’m still grateful that he’s given it to me. “Thank you for continuing to trust me.”
“It’s not hard. You’ve proven yourself over and over again.” He pauses. “Do you plan on seeing your parents while you’re here?”
My parents. I still think about them on occasion, and I get the odd update from Bentley, because I asked him to keep an eye on them for me. They still live in the same small bungalow that I grew up in. I’m sure my father still flies the same American flag over the porch, a symbol of the country and his own illustrious career in the navy, although his had such a different outcome from his son’s. “No. Not likely.”
Bentley frowns. I guess that’s not the answer he wanted. “Every time I reach out to you, you’re in a different place.” He puffs on his cigar. “Have you thought of settling in one location, finding yourself a woman to give you some stability?”
“So I can lie to her every day?”
“She doesn’t need to know every detail. There is plenty that Tuuli is happy not to know about.”
I flick the last of the papers into the hearth. “I find women when I need them.”
“I’m not talking about whores. I’m talking about making a real life for yourself, with a wife. Maybe even some kids.”
“You itching for grandkids?” It was a running joke while we served together, that Bentley spoke and treated me more like a son than my own father did. In a way, he’s filled that role after my father all but abandoned it.
“I’m serious, Sebastian.” And his voice says as much.
A wife and kids. I stopped picturing myself with a wife seven years ago, when my fiancée, Sharon, stood me up at the altar. Turns out it was a smart move on her part, because we never would have lasted. I’m not husband material, not anymore, anyway. And kids?
I’ve never felt the urge to procreate, and after all the violence that I’ve seen and committed, I’m even less inclined to bring an innocent child into this world and its problems.
“If the right woman turns up, maybe I will.” I don’t even try to sound convincing.
Bentley sighs and I sense that he’s given up on that conversation. “Just move fast on this assignment. That tape is out there somewhere, and it needs to be found now. Today. Yesterday, in fact. If it comes to it, keep it quiet and clean. But make it fast.” His deep frown tells me this video is worrying him. Royce must have accused these other guys of using some highly unpleasant interrogation methods. Things that are divulged by a Medal of Honor recipient will hold sway in the court of public opinion, even if they’re not true. The media will release it and the American people will grab pitchforks and light flames.
And burn everything Bentley has worked so hard to accomplish.
I nod, hearing the directive loud and clear, checking the safety on the gun before tucking it into my boot. “I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”
FIVE
IVY
I glare at the last rusted bolt, my face damp with sweat, the socket wrench dangling from my aching hand. Black Rabbit has been open for thirty years and this leather chair has seen every last sinful day of it, stationed in the center of the worn wood floor like some sort of monument. I bugged Ned endlessly to replace it with a more modern design, but he refused.
Now I know why.
Because it is stuck to the fucking floor and is never going to move.
Ian left this morning, on a plane for Dublin via New York City, leaving me with some cash for a painter and the freedom to do whatever I want with this place. He’s already lost almost a week’s worth of business with the Fine Needle being closed and, while he’s not driven by money, he needs to pay his bills. Plus he has also missed a week of the political science doctoral program he just started.
I understand why he left and I made sure to offer him a wave when the cab pulled out of the driveway, even though inside my head I was screaming at him to stay.
Not to leave me here to deal with this alone.
We called a real estate agent yesterday afternoon, for both the shop and the house. The woman’s name is Becca. She sounds like she knows what she’s doing. We also contacted a lawyer, to get the ball rolling on the estate settlement. I think Ian’s secretly hoping that I’ll change my mind and decide to stay in San Francisco to run Black Rabbit. That emptying the shop of Ned and giving it a fresh look will suddenly inspire me to make it my own. I don’t see that happening. I’ve already got a place to stay in New York lined up with friends, if I want. Or maybe I’ll head to Seattle.
But what is going to happen before I leave is this chair is going into a goddamn Dumpster so no one ever sits in it again. Whoever buys this shop will just have to get a new one.
I look down at myself, at my tight, torn—on purpose—jeans and my Ruckus Apparel T-shirt, smeared with dust and God knows what else, and chastise myself for not dressing more appropriately. Not that my clothing choice is going to give me the rusted-bolt-twisting superpowers that I need right now anyway.
I drop to my knees, the wood grain rough against my exposed skin, and I grit my teeth as I throw my full weight—which isn’t nearly enough—against the wrench’s handle. It doesn’t move, n
ot a fraction of an inch.
It hasn’t my last five tries either. This time, though, I actually lose my balance and tumble over flat on my back. “Fuck!” I yell, whipping the wrench across the floor to clatter noisily in a corner. I pull myself up and lean back against the chair and close my eyes, tears of frustration threatening to spill.
Of course someone chooses that moment to knock on the glass pane in the door.
The sudden sound makes me jump. Most sudden sounds have been making me jump lately.
“Closed!” I holler. I’m in no mood to deal with anyone and kick myself for not shutting the steel grate. I can’t bring myself to pull the shades, though. It makes Black Rabbit too dark, too isolated.
Too much like that night.
“Ned was halfway done with my sleeve,” a guy’s muffled voice answers from outside.
“Well, then I guess you’re only going to have half a sleeve.”
“Come on, Ivy . . .” he pleads in a whiny voice.
With an irritated sigh, I open one eye and take in the burly man pressed against the glass, watching me. “I don’t know you.” Ned worked a lot of strange hours, though, especially in the mornings. It’s quite possible this guy sat in this chair for five hours before I ever stepped in here.
Or maybe he isn’t a client of Ned’s and he’s here to hurt me because I gave the police information about “Mario.” It’s a worry that lodged in the back of my mind a few days after the initial shock wore off. What if I saw something I wasn’t supposed to see? What if someone thinks I know something that I don’t? I certainly don’t have any valuable intel. The police thanked me for my help with the information I provided—a first name and shiny black combat boots, and a mediocre description of the cash register man’s profile that hasn’t resulted in any leads through the media so far. There’s a good chance that Ned’s murder will go unsolved. Detective Fields was considerate enough to spell that out to Ian and me when we asked.
The bushy blond beard covering the man’s face doesn’t hide his broad smile. “You mean to tell me you don’t remember the scrawny kid who’d come in here with toy race cars, wanting to play?”
That does sound familiar. I frown. “Bobby?” Son of Moe, one of Ned’s biker customers? This guy looks nothing like that scrawny kid. He could easily pass for thirty, even though I remember him being younger than me.
“In the flesh.”
Holy shit. I completely forgot about him. “You heard what happened, right?” I can’t see how he didn’t. It was all over the local news, and his dad was at the funeral, along with a dozen other bikers. Maybe he was there, too. I didn’t pay much attention to faces.
A solemn look touches his eyes when he nods. “Come on. Open up.”
Reluctantly, I climb to my feet and make my way over to unlock the door. Bobby has to duck to step through the doorway, his heavy boots making the floorboards creak. He’s more than double my size, and I don’t doubt there’s also muscle under all that leather and thick layer of fat. If I hadn’t spent so much time with guys like this, I’d be nervous standing in here alone with him now.
But I see the Harley parked outside and the official death’s hand insignia on his leather vest that marks him as a member of Devil’s Iron, and I’m just plain mad. “The cops said that what happened to Ned may have had something to do with you and your guys. Is that true?” I stare him right in the eye, willing myself to see the truth—or lie—for what it is. Ned was no saint, I know that. I know of a couple instances where some booze and cartons of cigarettes “fell off the back of a truck” and into the hands of guys like Bobby. Ned helped sell some of the inventory through here, to his regulars. People he trusted.
And that’s just what I know about. I have no idea what I don’t know about.
“Me?” Bobby’s hands press against his chest. He looks taken aback.
I nod toward his vest. “You.”
He’s shaking his head even before the words come out. “No, ma’am. We had nothing to do with what happened in here.” His soft blue eyes roam the shop. “Though trust me, the pigs have been poking around the clubhouse, trying to provoke the guys plenty.”
“What have you heard on the street?” It’s a ballsy question, assuming that a biker gang that despises law enforcement would offer information that might help in an official investigation, but it’s worth a shot.
Bobby shakes his head. “All quiet on our front, so far. What do you know?”
I’m not supposed to say anything . . . “Two guys, one named Mario. One with dark hair, muscular, midthirties. That’s all I know.”
He dips his head. “All right. I’ll ask around, and I promise you, if I catch wind of something I’ll pass it along.”
He’s buttering me up, I can just feel it. “And in return you want . . .”
With a sheepish grin, he holds out a thick arm—the same circumference as my thigh—to show me the detailed outline of a zombie bride with playful eyes and long lashes covering his biceps. Crisp, clean lines. Sordid humor. Definitely Ned’s work. “Ned always said you were a close second to him. I’d love it if you could finish this for me.” He peers at me with puppy-dog eyes you wouldn’t expect from a guy with his affiliations.
Ned would hate knowing that a subpar artist—basically anyone else—added ink to his work, and even though he’s six feet under, I owe it to him to finish it. Still . . . “I’ll think about it,” I finally mutter, blowing a strand of long hair that fell across my face off. “But not today. I’m busy.”
“I can see that.” He nods at the chair. “You gettin’ rid of it?”
“Yup.”
“Why? Ned loved that chair.”
And he died in that chair. I restrain myself from being that blunt. “It just needs to go.”
Bobby’s heavy boots clomp across the floor to rescue the wrench from the corner where I threw it. Dropping his massive frame to one knee, he attempts to unfasten the bolt but quits soon after. “It’s seized. You’re going to need a torch for that.”
“Fabulous. Because I have one just lying around.”
“I could bring one by and help you out. Say . . . tomorrow, around three?” His eyes flicker to his arm and then to me, and I see the trade-off for his help. He’s good, I’ll give him that much. I want to say no, but I also don’t know anyone else who owns a torch.
I really do need his help.
“Fine.” I can’t believe I’m actually agreeing to finish that tattoo here. I don’t even know that I have it in me to do that. I should tell him to meet me anywhere but here: in a garage or bar or back alley or his biker gang clubhouse.
“I’ll be here at three.” His grin falls quickly. “Ned was a good friend to all of us. We had some great laughs down at the clubhouse on game night.”
Game night is a fancy way of saying poker Wednesdays, where Ned would more times than not lose his shirt to a biker. He hadn’t been down there in a few weeks, though. Said it was costing him too much lately.
Things are starting to make sense to me. “Was he into it for money with someone over there?”
“Eh.” Bobby shrugs noncommittally, and I’m not entirely sure what that answer means.
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“Nothin’ major from what I know.” He rests a hand on the back of the leather chair. “You know, I always hoped Ned would be here to do my son’s one day, too. When I have a son, of course. I don’t have one yet.” His gaze drifts down my front, stalling over my chest. “I need to find a good woman first.”
Look elsewhere for that good woman, buddy. The loyalty to my uncle is charming, though, in a weird way. “Well, maybe your nonexistent son will still get his done in Black Rabbit. We’ll see who buys this place.”
“It won’t be the same, though.” He shrugs. “Unless you’ll still be here?”
“Nope. Not a chance.” I heave a sigh and, hoping Bobby takes the hint, begin carefully picking away at a photo montage on the wall—dozens of pictures of Ned at different stage
s of his life, from clean-shaven to handlebar mustache, stuck to the drywall with tape so old it’s peeling paint away with it.
“See ya tomorrow, Ivy.” The bell above the door jangles as Bobby leaves.
And the silence that returns now is somehow more unnerving than before.
I quietly sort and toss and pack, shifting around the chair, my irritation with that single bolt growing with each moment until I find myself standing there, glaring at it once again. Tomorrow just isn’t soon enough.
I get down on my knees again and, holding my breath, throw my full weight into the bolt, just as the door creaks open. “We’re closed!” I yell, whipping my head around, my anger at myself for not locking it launched.
A man I’ve never seen before stands motionless in front of me, amusement in his eyes as he stares. Nothing else about him betrays his thoughts, though. His stance is still and relaxed, his angular face perfectly composed.
My heart begins to race with unease.
“I’d like some work done.” His voice is deep, almost gravelly, his tone even and calm.
I climb to my feet, because I don’t like anyone towering over me. And because his piercing eyes unsettle me. Unlike the two-hundred-and-fifty-pound biker who just left, this guy makes me nervous. The wrench is still in my fist, and I grip it tightly now. “I’m not working today.”
“Tomorrow.”
“I’m not working tomorrow either.”
The corner of his mouth twitches as we face off against each other. “When will you be working again, then?”