1
SAVAGE
I fucking hate surprises.And when I roll up to the abandoned warehouse with Shadow and Phantom, the last thing I want to be is surprised. But here we fucking go.
We idle our bikes a safe distance down a sun-faded and cracked asphalt drive.
“Hold up.” I raise a hand and look over the rims of my sunglasses. The Florida sun is blasting my eyes, but I can still make out the shape of a man a thousand feet away who isnotthe contact we’re here to do business with. Even at this distance, I can see long, scraggly gray hair peeking out of a filthy, salt-stained cowboy hat. I lift my chin to Phantom, President of Hurricane Heat, whose bike idles a few feet away from mine. “I know Anthony,” I say. “And that ain’t him.”
Just like my legal given name ain’t Savage, I’m sure the guy who’s been on the other end of the secure chats I’ve had over the last three months isn’t really “Anthony” either. I don’t give a shit if he calls himself Santa Fucking Claus. As long as he shows up and does the deal like we’ve been planning, we’re good. But my contact isn’t here, and that means we are far from good right now.
Phantom can’t see my eyes behind my shades, but I’m glaring and reaching a hand to tap the reassuring shape of the gun I have secured at my waist. We’re here to buy more weapons, but I suddenly wish I’d packed much more firepower.
Phantom pinches the bridge of his nose with two fingers, curses, pulls his phone out of his back pocket, and taps out a furious text.
Then, we wait.
The heat of the summer afternoon is oppressive, and I’m already way past irritable. The sun beats hard on the back of my neck, and I grab a red paisley bandana from my back pocket to mop up the thick, salty droplets before they soak their way down my back. The three of us are dressed in our leathers, the vests identifying us as the executive branch of the Heat. Phantom is the president, Shadow is the VP, and I’m the sergeant-at-arms. Having the three of us here is a show of force, but also a sign of good faith.
If all three of us go down in a bad deal, the stability of the entire club would topple. Not that my brothers wouldn’t pick up the pieces fast. I know they would. We’ve lost members and had to regroup from more shit than I care to remember in the twelve years I’ve been part of this club.
What pisses me off and sets my blood boiling hotter than my neck under this damned sun is the fact that these assholes aren’t showing us the respect we’re showing them.
I squint and make out a pickup truck parked alongside three bikes near the entrance to the warehouse. The truck’s a real piece of shit. Rusted, faded orange that once was red back when anybody gave a shit about the thing. Anyone or anything could be planted in that truck. Even though I’m more than a decade out of the service, my training and instincts kick in. This has ambush written all over it, and I’m not putting my brothers in the line of fire, no matter how big this deal is. “Fuck this,” I say, revving my engine. “I say we roll.”
Phantom holds up a finger. “Let me deal with this.”
He gets off his bike, and both Shadow and I hover our hands over our weapons. We’ve got Viper in a truck idling half a mile away, but if anything goes down, it’ll be just the three of us to who knows how many there are of them.
“Let me go talk to them,” I say. “I’ll find out where the prick is.”
Phantom doesn’t have to say a word. He just shakes his head, and I stand down. Mad Dog is the president of the Hellfires.If he’s out front, then Phantom’s got to meet him with equal respect. I’m tense as a dog about to enter a fight as I watch Phantom walk the long, weathered driveway, stick out his hand, and talk with the Hellfires crew. I don’t let my eyes leave Phantom,my fingers itching to pull out my gun, but every once in a while, I track movement in the pickup truck that sets my palms itching. I don’t like this one bit, and my blood pressure is rising faster than the temperature of the asphalt.
When Phantom turns his back to the Hellfires crew and makes a leisurely walk back toward us, I squint through my sunglasses and watch for the slightest movement from the direction of the warehouse. I need one wrong move—one ass-scratch that makes me feel off—and I’ll start shooting. Anything to protect my brothers.
But Phantom seems unbothered as he walks up to Shadow and me.
“What the fuck?” I demand. “Where’s my guy?”
“Anthony’s got bigger problems than this.” Phantom sighs. “He’s dead.”
My jaw nearly drops open. “Dead? What the fuck? I just talked to him last week.”
Phantom shrugs. “Happened three days ago, if Mad Dog ain’t lyin’.”
“And if he is?” Shadow’s gray T-shirt is soaked with sweat. He shifts uncomfortably on his bike and shakes his head. “You trust this guy?”
“No. I don’t.” Phantom holds up his phone. He shoots off a text. “I told Mad Dog, under the circumstances, we’re gonna take a minute to discuss the change in personnel.”
Shadow chuckles at Phantom’s use of the wordpersonnel, but I can’t crack a grin. This was my deal. My contact. And like I said, I don’t like surprises.
We sweat like pigs and wipe our faces while we wait for Phantom to get the text back he’s waiting for. It comes within about two minutes, which seem to stretch on like two hours. He finally gets an answer, reads the text, and raises a brow.
“My contact in the sheriff’s office confirmed it. Accident up on Route 90. It’s still under investigation, so nothing’s been released to the public. But the guy you know as Anthony is dead.”
I drop more f-bombs than sweat droplets. “Why the fuck didn’t somebody contact me?”
But I know the answer to that. It’s a stupid question that I spit out because I’m fucking pissed off. Most of us use secure apps on our phones, apps that don’t back up messages or photos to any kind of cloud storage. If Anthony had his device on him when he went down, the device is probably gone. And with it, all the messages we’d sent. The only way the Hellfires would know how to contact me is by showing up to do the deal.