Piston by Andi Rhodes

Chapter Two

_{If he’ll go to those lengths to bury the information, then it’s exactly the kind of story that can make my career soar.}

Holland

Iscroll through the pictures in the camera roll on my phone. I’ve got numerous photos of the underground boxing tournament and even more of the commotion that took place in the parking lot afterward. What I don’t have, or am not coming across, are any of the guy climbing off his Harley across the street.

Perfect.

I watch as he stands there for several seconds, looking up and down the street, almost as if he senses he’s being watched. I duck down in the driver’s seat of my father’s town car. I chose to use his vehicle this morning because I didn’t want to be recognized. I’ve been following several bikers over the last week, trying to figure out who I’d have the most luck getting to let me interview them.

An image of the man pointing a gun at me flashes through my mind and I shake it away. I did my best not to show my fear when he pulled the trigger, but it took everything in me to do so. No doubt the only thing that helped me was the several years I spent overseas. The men and women in the US military were always good to me, but our enemies were not. A lot of bullets were dodged in order to get the story. But it was different. I expected that in the Middle East. Not so much here, in my own country, in a parking lot.

I see the guy I’m following step up onto the curb as an SUV pulls up behind his Harley. He smiles and it transforms his entire appearance. Suddenly, he doesn’t look so imposing. He doesn’t look like the kind of person I need to sneak around. But what do I know?

A man steps out of the SUV. He holds his hand up and the lights flash indicating that he locked the doors. He walks to the biker, and they exchange a few words before heading down the street to the diner on the corner. I’m able to keep an eye on them until they disappear through the door, and once they’re out of sight, I sit up straight.

I reach across the center console and pull a business card out of my purse. I scribble a quick note before opening the car door. I rush across the street, darting my eyes toward the corner with every step I take. This guy has been my best option so far, but I’m not stupid. The words ‘Satan’s Legacy MC’ that were emblazoned on his leather vest aren’t exactly inviting, hence the business card. He’ll either call or he won’t. And if he doesn’t, I’ll move to plan B.

I set the card on the Harley seat and cross my fingers that it stays there so he can find it. I return to the town car and hit the button on the door, finally relaxing when the locks engage with a click. I check the time on my phone and realize that I’m going to be late for work if I don’t get going.

When I left this morning to do this little recon mission, I hadn’t intended on going so far out of Portland. My lips tip into a grin. Unfortunately for the gun toting asshole, my drive to do whatever it takes to get the story hasn’t diminished in the year I’ve been back.

In fact, his threats, no matter how scary he wanted them to be, only fueled my interest. Because if he’ll go to those lengths to bury the information, then it’s exactly the kind of story that can make my career soar.

* * *

_{This reporter either has a bigger set of brass balls than I thought or a death wish.}

Piston

“You don’t have to do this.”

I glare at Danny as he tries to crawl away from me. I hear Joker and Greaser chuckle and that only fuels the rage within.

“Can you believe this chump?” I ask my brothers. “He seriously thinks he can get away from this, from me.”

“I guess he doesn’t see the steel door in his way.” Joker steps around me and crouches next to Danny. “C’mon, man, this is embarrassing. You should be embarrassed. Shit, I’m embarrassed for you.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Danny snivels. “The money was stolen.”

Danny has been touting the same excuse since we picked him up. We should have received over ten grand from him and instead, all we got was an empty bag. He’s moved product for the Soulless Kings for a year now and this is the third time he’s been short on payments. And it’s always the same bullshit story.

I crouch next to Joker and lift Danny’s chin with my pistol. “Sounds like a you problem, not a Soulless Kings problem.”

Blood trickles from a gash on Danny’s temple and drips onto the concrete floor of the Nightmare Room. I don’t even care that it’ll be a bitch to clean up. Any time I get to spend in the Nightmare Room, doling out punishment, is worth it.

A cell phone dings, and I know it isn’t mine because I left mine right outside the door. No point in it getting broken.

“P, Fender needs to see you,” Greaser says from behind me.

I look over my shoulder at him. “Now?” Greaser nods and I stand. “I’m kinda in the middle of something.”

Greaser flips his screen around so I can see it. “He says it’s urgent.”

I tuck my pistol back into my waistband and heave a sigh. “Fine.” I point at Danny and dart my gaze between Greaser and Joker. “He’s mine. Don’t kill him.”

Joker grins. “Can we at least have a little fun with him?”

“Of course,” I agree. “As long as the fucker has a pulse when I get back, I don’t care what condition he’s in.”

With that, I exit the Nightmare Room and lock the three of them in. Danny is already terrified and there’s no telling how much worse he’ll be when I get back. But I know my brothers won’t disobey me, so he’ll be alive… barely.

I rush up the steps to the main level of the clubhouse and as soon as I step through the door, my eyes land on Fender. He’s sitting at the bar with Grizzly, the president of Satan’s Legacy MC: Portland chapter. Margo is behind the bar doing what she does best: serving up alcohol. She points at me, and Fender looks in my direction.

He and Grizzly gulp down the remainder of their beers and come toward me.

“We’ve got a problem,” Fender says as he brushes past me.

I follow him and Grizzly to his office, if it can even be called that. There are several file cabinets, full of Soulless Kings records. Some are legit while others are doctored to cover our asses should law enforcement ever cause problems. Fender doesn’t even have a desk. Just a few folding chairs where he can meet with others outside of the meeting room where Church is held. That room is sacred.

“Close the door,” Fender barks once Grizzly clears the threshold.

Grizzly raises a brow at him but does as instructed, which is surprising because from what I know of the man, he doesn’t take kindly to being told what to do, especially from someone outside of his own club.

“What’s going on?” I ask once we’re closed in the room.

“What’s going on,” Grizzly begins. “Is you motherfuckers brought the news to my fight. And now they won’t back off.”

Images from last week’s underground boxing tournament flash through my mind. The woman with the cell phone and attitude is the one that sticks.

“Piston, I thought you said you’d handled that?” Anger bleeds through Fender’s words.

“I guess not.” I shrug.

Frustration rolls through me at having been pulled from an actual problem to deal with something that Grizzly and his club could handle fairly easily. Sure, it’d be bloody, but it’s nothing Satan’s Legacy isn’t used to.

“You guess not?” Grizzly snaps as he steps up to me and wraps his hand around my throat. He shoves me and as soon as my back hits the wall, a click sounds in the room.

“Get your fucking hands off him,” Fender demands with his gun against Grizzly’s skull. “Now!”

Grizzly raises both arms up and steps to the side. I brush off my cut, as if dispelling with his filth. Not that he has any. Grizzly isn’t a bad guy, but he is protective of his club, as well as his underground fights. Mess with those and things can get ugly.

“If you ever put your hands on me again,” I snarl, leaning in close. “Your club will never find your body. Got it?”

His eyes narrow. “Is that a thr—”

“Enough!” Fender shouts and we both turn to face him. “Grizzly, I invited you into our clubhouse because I wanted to work with you to solve this issue, but you’re making it fucking difficult. And Piston,” he focuses on me. “Get a grip. This is my office, not the Nightmare Room.”

Grizzly squares his shoulders. He pulls something out of his pocket and thrusts it toward Fender. “One of them left their card on my bike this morning. Even more infuriating is that I was several towns away. They followed me. They’re lucky I wasn’t conducting club business because that would have brought a whole different kind of trouble to their doorstep.”

When Fender doesn’t take the business card, Grizzly twists and slams it against my chest. “Fix this,” he growls.

Before I can even grab a hold of the card, Grizzly lets go of it and steps around me to leave the office. When the door slams behind him, I glance at the paper that fell to the floor at my feet.

I bend to pick it up and sneer when I see the logo of the biggest newspaper in Portland. Under that, there’s a name: H. Tibideaux, Reporter.

“Find whoever that card belongs to and take care of it,” Fender instructs. “I don’t like being at odds with Grizzly, or his club. That’s a fight we don’t want on our hands.”

“I’m on it,” I assure him. “As soon as I finish up with Danny, I’ll track this guy down.”

“Just kill Danny and be done with it. We’re not gonna get our money.” Fender steps around me to open the door. “And do a better job screening the next runner.”

With that, he disappears. My hands ball into fists and tension stiffens my shoulders. I screened Danny, put him through his paces, and he passed with flying colors. Sure, asshole likes to toke it up, but so do we. What I failed to catch was that his drug habit went way deeper than weed. Dangerously deeper.

I lift the card and stare at it as if doing so will tell me where to find H. Tibideaux. An image of the woman I spoke to enters my mind, but I quickly dismiss it. No chick is gonna see a man like Grizzly and follow him around. I try to recall the others who were in the parking lot with her and that’s when I remember the man who ran, leaving her to face my wrath alone.

Apparently, I misjudged him when he took off. He’s still a fucking pussy but sometimes, even pussies can pose a threat. I could go to the newspaper’s office and handle him but that would limit what actions I can take to make the prick see things my way. No, I need another option.

I flip the card over and my lips tip into a grin. Right there, in messy writing, is exactly what I need.

Call me to set up an interview

555-5454

This reporter either has a bigger set of brass balls than I thought or a death wish. You don’t issue a request like this to the president of a one-percenter club and certainly not by leaving your business card on his bike. Dumbass has no idea what’s coming to him.

I tuck the card into my back pocket and head downstairs to the Nightmare Room. I pause to look at the screen to see what’s going on inside, and my grin widens when I see Danny sprawled on the floor, his fingers twitching, blood pooled under him. My brothers are casually leaning against the wall as if they don’t have a care in the world.

I punch in the code to open the door and when it slides open, Joker and Greaser both push off the wall and stride toward me.

“He’s alive,” Joker says with disappointment in his tone.

“Thanks.”

I step over to Danny’s body and draw my pistol. I cock it and point it at his head.

“See you in Hell, motherfucker.”

I pull the trigger and the shot echoes in the room.

“That’s it?” Greaser grumbles. “I thought we’d at least get to enjoy a show.”

I lower my gun and glance at him. “Get Trainwreck to clean up this mess. Tell him to take the body to the northernmost dumping ground.”

“What are you gonna do?” Joker asks.

I picture the card in my back pocket and heave a sigh.

“I’ve gotta finish something I started last week.”