The building next door to the strip club was dark, although a truck and a couple motorcycles sat in the parking lot. I hadn’t determined what exactly went on in that building. Other than loud parties, lots of motorcycles, and half-naked chicks every weekend, the place seemed vacant. The garage behind it was usually full of bikers coming and going.
Tonight, the garage was dark and locked tight.
First, I circled the building. El Creep-o said I might be able to get in through one of the windows. Since they were high up and only about six inches wide, the odds of that seemed slim.
The front doors had a simple lock, which shoulda been my first clue that breaking in was fucking stupid. But I pried it loose with the screwdriver. Even then the door wouldn’t open all the way. Good thing I’d come instead of Blake. He might’ve been two years younger than me, but he was twice as wide and never woulda fit through the narrow opening.
Once inside, I cursed that I’d forgotten a flashlight. I was the worst burglar ever. I stepped carefully, holding my arms out in front of me. First thing I collided with hurt like hell. From the cool metal and solid feel, it must’ve been a motorcycle that bruised the shit out of my shin.
Thankfully, I didn’t knock it over.
I located the metal cabinet and said a prayer that the stupid box was inside. Risking a petit larceny charge at Price Chopper was looking better and better.
The doors creaked, as if calling out for help. I slid my hand over the dust and grime on each shelf. Something sharp sliced into my index finger.
“Fuck.” I jammed my finger in my mouth, the tang of copper hitting my tongue. My other hand brushed up against something smooth, cool, and box-like. I grabbed it. I could barely see the damn thing, but it felt like what I was looking for. I didn’t try to open it. Probably needed a key. But since El Creep-o hadn’t asked me to retrieve one, I didn’t bother looking.
Tucking the box under my arm, I turned.
And stopped dead in my tracks.
Two of the scariest bikers I’d ever seen stood just outside the open doors. One was at least seven feet tall and as wide as a mountain. The other, not much shorter and almost as broad. Both wore scowls that were too terrifying to look at directly. Mountain man had long, fuck-you hair down to his shoulders and tattoos on arms that were bigger than my entire body. They both wore heavy shit-kicker boots that were probably about to kick the shit out of me.
How long had they been watching me fumble around in the dark?
The answer didn’t matter.
I was worm food.
One of them reached inside and flicked on the overhead light, blinding me.
My hand flew up, shielding my vision. I squinted, afraid if I closed my eyes for even a second, they’d chop me into pieces.
Rock
“What the fuck is that?” Wrath gestured toward the garage, drawing my attention away from the back door of Crystal Ball.
You’d think we’d have the area lit up better. But there wasn’t a person in Empire who didn’t know this property belonged to the Lost Kings MC. You’d have to be suicidal to break into our garage.
I squinted into the darkness and barely made out the shape of a bicycle propped up against the side of the garage. A tall, skinny shadow fiddled with the lock on the double doors. It was a pretty flimsy lock, but like I said, no one should be breaking into the building.
Wrath chuckled, the sound more frightening than light-hearted coming from him. “It’s a kid. Let’s go scare the shit out of him.”
“Wait,” I said, throwing my arm out to stop him. “Let’s see what he does first.”
After the kid slid inside the doors, we crossed the parking lot. Wrath, stealthy as usual, slipped the lock off the doors and opened them wider. He smirked at me as we watched the kid bumble around in the near darkness.
The kid grabbed something out of the metal tool closet where we kept all sorts of parts and tools, including a lockbox that held no more than a couple hundred dollars. He didn’t bother with any of the tools—just the box. How the hell had this scrawny boy even known about it?
I guessed we’d find out.
He turned and froze. Wrath reached out and casually flicked the overhead light on, startling the kid. The lockbox clattered to the ground as he threw his arm up to shield his eyes.
“What’cha doin’, lil’ buddy?” Wrath asked. He crossed his arms over his massive chest and aimed his stony glare at the kid. I elbowed him in the ribs, but he seemed to be taking his role of “bad” biker seriously and didn’t relax the threatening pose. It’d be up to me to play “nice” biker—a role I wasn’t all that familiar with.
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to touch another man’s tool chest?” I asked.
The kid blinked and glanced at the metal cabinet. “Actually, it’s more of a tool closet.”
“Funny guy,” Wrath said, sounding less than amused.
“What’s your name, kid?” I asked.
He opened his mouth and closed it.
“Don’t lie to me either,” I warned.
“Spit it out or we’ll beat it outta ya,” Wrath added.
The color drained from the kid’s face, but he squared his shoulders and faced us head-on.
Brave little shit.
“Marcel,” he finally said.
I swept my gaze over him. Jeans short enough to show off bony ankles, worn sneakers, ill-fitting threadbare jacket. Chin lifted in defiance. “How old are you, Marcel?”
“Twelve.”
I raised a brow. Tall for his age. More than that, he was awfully young to be headed down the sort of path that would get him killed.
Without a doubt, if our president had been the one to catch him, Marcel would have been in the middle of a beating by now. Ruger wouldn’t care about the kid’s motivation for stealing, his age, or finding out who sent the kid to rob us. There were no gray areas for Ruger. No thought behind his decisions. Our president was a disappointing mix of reactionary violence, cruelty, and stupidity.
“Shouldn’t you be home watching cartoons?” Wrath sneered.
Marcel didn’t answer, but his jaw tightened and he dropped his gaze to the ground.
“Where you from, Marcel?” I asked.
“Couple blocks away.”
“Who told you to break in here?” Obviously, the kid didn’t come up with this half-assed plan on his own.
He hesitated, scraped one scuffed toe of his sneaker over the concrete floor, then shook his head. “I’m not a snitch.”
Normally, that was a quality I admired. Silence was a requirement to be a Lost King. In our world, snitches ended up in ditches.
I took a step closer. “You don’t have a choice this time, kid.”
Was it an older brother who’d put him up to it? His father? A member of one of the two rival MCs in the area?
“All right,” Wrath said, stepping forward and sizing the kid up. “Been looking for a new speed bag for the basement. You’re about the right size.”
I smothered a laugh.
Marcel lifted his head. His gaze darted to Wrath, perhaps assessing how serious the threat was. I adopted a similar pose to Wrath’s. Arms crossed over my chest and an unforgiving, relentless stare down, assuring him the threat was indeed very real.
He ran a hand over his short blond hair before he seemed to make a decision. “This guy who lives across the street.”