Throat tightening, Jace nodded as he remembered the two agents killed in the line of duty. Good men, both of them, leaving behind wives and kids. Rafe had taken it personally.
“I won’t let you down. I’m no Rambo. We’re a team.”
“Better than they are.” Rafe nodded to the outfield, where a man missed a ball and someone yelled at him.
Jace flashed a brief grin. “Better believe it.”
He headed to the field, his blood running hot as Rafe remained by the fence, watching the action.
By the time Jace retrieved a bat and a ball, Rafe had vanished.
The Devil’s Patrol clubhouse, nicknamed the Devil’s Den, was a somewhat dilapidated two-story wood building that once housed a family. They got evicted and the club bought the property under a corporate name.
Jace trudged up the outside steps to the second floor and used his key to open the outside door leading to the rooms used by bikers to either crash after a long night of partying, or indulge in other activities, such as bringing their old ladies up here for a quick bout of sex. Lance had given him one of the bedrooms for his own use, as a reward for all the business Jace was bringing into the garage with his repair skills.
He unlocked the bedroom door, and then closed it, leaning against it to survey his “reward.” The room was as small as a walk-in closet, but clean, with a window overlooking the wooded backyard, where rusty car parts grew more rapidly than weeds. There was a table, chair and gooseneck lamp, and a rickety wood dresser with drawers that creaked. Ignoring the sounds of loud music and laughter drifting from downstairs, he sat at the chair and dug out his cell phone.
On his cell, Jace scrolled through emails and read one from his contact at the FBI who was working the cyber side of this case, a skilled agent whose code name for this case was Maria Angelo. Her nickname at the Bureau was Darkling. Darkling was a tech expert, and she played the part of an average mom living in an average suburb.
Not just an average suburb. He grinned as he thought of exactly where Maria lived. Neighborhood filled with cops.
Darkling didn’t have much, but she warned him the social-media chatter had picked up a bit, warning about the DP having a personal vendetta. It could be anything.
Jace stuffed the phone into his jeans pocket and fell onto the bed, utterly exhausted.
The big mattress sported clean sheets—his—and a soft pillow, and a few minutes later, he fell asleep. The edges of a dream teased his subconscious. Kara, her long blond hair spilling past her shoulders, a shy smile teasing her carnation-pink mouth, her big blue eyes soft with emotion. An azure blue ball gown clung to her slim curves, billowing in the wind. Damn, he adored her in that color, as if she was Venus rising from the depths of a clear blue ocean with a cerulean sky overhead. Her arms were outstretched, beckoning to him. But as he took a step forward, her shy smile turned into a terrified scream, her eyes wide with shock as something pulled her backward, something smelling of hot metal and death...
Jace awoke with a strangled sound and sat up. Only a dream. But the light outside the grimy window had vanished, showing a silver nickel of moonlight beaming in the sky, peppered by dozens of stars.
Something he’d forgotten—damn, he’d been working so hard lately living this double life as a biker and trying to keep up with tracking information on the gang...
Kara. His brain cells kicked into gear and he rubbed the back of his head. She’d better not show up at her store tonight. The cell phone he’d swiped was a message to her that he meant business.
With a muffled curse, he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and accessed the staircase leading downstairs. Stay sharp. Don’t let your guard drop for a nanosecond.
As he entered the clubhouse living room, finger-combing his long hair, he surveyed the scene. About one dozen bikers draped in chairs or at the pool table, indulging in a game. Three young people, barely out of their teens, sat near Lance on the sofa, Dylan included. They were doing their best job of looking tough.
But Dylan’s mask slipped a minute. Too obvious. The kid was scared and showing it. Lance, who could smell fear like a bloodhound on the trail of a fleeing fox, narrowed his eyes at Dylan.
“What’s wrong with you?” Lance demanded.
Dylan’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “Nothing.”
Jace crossed the room to hose down the tension. “Hey, Dylan, how’s the bike running now? I know you’re worried she won’t be fast, but I put a lot of work into her, so relax, kid. I got you covered.”
Was that the faintest shade of relief on the kid’s face? Even if not, Lance’s muscled shoulders relaxed. Jace felt a surge of his own relief. He liked the kid, who had looked up to him as a mentor. Dylan had even asked Jace to show him the basics of bike repair.
He hoped like hell that the kid would gain common sense and get away from this crowd, but suspected he owed Lance. A lot.
“Good job, Gator. Dylan’s gonna need speed tonight.” He glanced at Jace. “Appreciate you staying late to work on all the bikes.”
Bile rose in his throat. He swallowed past it, thinking of the letters flashing in the air. Aiding and abetting in a felony.
If he had his preferences, he would have dismantled every single crotch rocket Lance brought to the shop for him to work on today.
But the big fish still remained out there, waiting to be hooked. Bringing in Lance and the other bikers wasn’t the goal. Lance reported to someone heading this ring of jewel thieves. The same someone orchestrating the as-yet unknown domestic-terrorist event that would light up the night with horrific violence.
Jace grabbed a beer from the fridge. Lance thumbed at a teenager named Cody to leave and gestured for Jace to take his place on the sofa. Jace sat, yawning, and stretched out his arms, nodding his thanks. He took a long swig, relishing the beer sliding down his throat.
Remaining quiet, pretending to be absorbed in his beer, he listened to Lance dole out instructions to the kids, including Dylan. They were doing the job at 1:00 a.m. Definitely knocking over Kara’s store. He hoped the hell she would stay home with a pizza and watch Antiques Roadshow or one of those rom-coms she’d always tried to get him to watch.
“About tonight. Sweet job. Dylan’s employer has about half a mil in jewelry stashed in her store, and a puny alarm system.”
Lance stood, paced over to the wooden bar near the pool table and gestured for Jace to follow. Clutching his beer, he joined the gang leader. Lance was tense, more wired than usual, and not even the three beers he’d consumed had taken the edge off.
“Gator, remember I’m leaving tonight for New York. Sales trip.” Lance popped open another beer and swigged it.
Jace knew the New York trip was urgent because Lance’s European contact to sell the stolen jewels had been arrested by Interpol. The Bureau had worked with Interpol to cut off Lance’s source at the knees, nudging him closer to home.
“I’ll be gone about a week. While I’m gone, Big Mike is in charge. I’m appointing you in charge of watching over Dylan.”
Jace nearly choked on the beer he’d intended to swallow. “Why me?”
As a newer member, he was not trusted as much as others. Big Mike had been with Lance since Lance became club president five years ago.
“The kid is skittish and I don’t want him messing up tonight. Too important. I want you watching him pull off tonight’s job. Let me or Mike know if they’re running scared.” Lance’s beady brown gaze narrowed as he studied Dylan in the corner, playing a video game on his phone. “Dylan’s trying to prove himself, and I don’t fully trust him, and if he screws up tonight, he’s out.”
A cold chill raced down Jace’s spine. Out, as in not booted from the club, but out as in lying cold in a ditch by US 27, where only the gators would find him.
