Prologue
Four and a Half Years Ago
“You have the parts?”
“Yeah, I do. When can I pick them up?”
“You got ‘till noon tomorrow. They’ll be available at the usual meeting spot. Bring the truck around back, and make sure you’re alone. You have half an hour to load up.”
I responded with a slow head nod. I understood the steps. I’d been following them for months without a hiccup. “Done. See you then.”
The Merced sun was showing no mercy, beating down on the back of my neck. At the ripe old age of thirty-five, my bones ached as if they were attached to a fifty-year-old. I should have been used to the burning heat. After all, I grew up as a California farm boy, and I still lived on the farm.
I would sit by the brook some days as a teenager and watch the rocks skim over the water. That was when I wasn’t getting on and falling off of horses.
A man I’d looked up to all my life—Clive Winters, my father—would tell me every time I fell off, “You are not going to let that horse get the best of you, now are you? I didn’t raise a softie. Come now, son. Get back on the horse.”
I smiled wryly. I used to think he was surely out to get me, to see me fail. Now I knew something entirely different.
I wouldn’t give up my country lifestyle for anyone. I remembered how the red, tawny dirt swirled in the air while I straddled the paddock fences, rebuilding them from years of wear and tear. All that work on the farm gave me the strength of a lion. That strength was distributed on my six-foot-one frame nicely. My hair was pretty shaggy and bleached blond from the Cali sun. I remembered the distant calls of wild coyotes in the cool of the night.
On my farm, we ran with ten chickens, and all of them laid. One old rooster, affectionately known as Croak, was the alarm for first light and dusk. The horses on the farm were my pride and joy. I spent the most time with them. I had three purebred caramel Palominos and one sleek black mare.
We grew all sorts of products on the farm, too—carrots, onions, strawberries, and green beans. I’d taken over the farm from my tired and weary parents in my late twenties. My parents were in their sixties, and they both wanted a break.
“We want you to run the farm, son. Carry on the Winters name. Think you can do that for us?” my father asked me one day.
“Yep. I got you, Pop,” I’d said. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
I knew the farm and the lay of the land like the back of my hand, and I had since I was a kid. That became that. We got the papers signed so that the farm was in my name, and I kept successfully running it. I managed to run the place with a firm but fair hand and a tight-knit crew who were loyal to the Winters. When the end of the crop season finished, they all received nice bonuses to take home to their families.
My other love, motorcycles, gave me the same freedom my horses did, which is why I had a custom chopper with a stallion drawn on the chrome. The moonlight sat behind the horse, which was rearing, its front legs in the air. When my bike developed some problems, I took her into the Merced motorcycle repair shop. That’s how I first linked up with the Outlaw crew. They were a really cool crew. So I joined and didn’t think too much about it. I got my vest a while later, thinking it was just a crew I would ride with every now and then. As time wore on, the business was revealed to me.
“Hey, we got a job for you if you’re interested.” Vlad, the Outlaw Souls enforcer, stood solid, tall, and deadly in the warehouse quarters I worked at. It was a chop shop with really good prices for customers. Again, I didn’t think anything of it, and I didn’t ask any questions. I probably should have.
“Sweet. What’s the job?” The farm was kind of slow at that time of year since we were between crop seasons.
“I need you to collect some auto parts and ship them down to La Playa. Ortega Autos are going to utilize them.” When Vlad spoke, you listened. He represented death. His eyes penetrated your soul, and his dark aura let you know what time it was. He wasn’t the guy you wanted to fuck with.
“Say no more. Where are the pickups running from?”
“They’re running out of an old warehouse in Merced. I’ll give you the address. All you have to do is the stock inventory and organize the shipments. I’ve already set up the deal with my Russian counterparts.”
“Okay. Sounds like a sure bet.”
He pressed his large hand on my shoulder.
“It is a sure bet. Just don’t fuck it up. These guys are executioners by trade, and they don’t give two fucks about shooting you in the head. You’ll get a monthly kickback. Should help you with the farm expenses.” Vlad winked.
“Sure would be nice. I could use the help right now. Things are a little tight between seasons. Plus, I have Bella’s kindergarten fees coming up. Anna is working a little, but not much.”
Vlad winked again and readjusted his leather jacket. “Thought as much, which is why I offered you the job.”
Anna was my Bella’s mother and a real fiery brunette rebel from the streets. Despite her flaws and for all her bravado, I could always see through to the heart of her, and that thing was golden, just like the California hills. I’d taken her off the streets. She was a meth cook, and since Bella had been born, she seemed to have settled into her purpose in life. On that day, like any other in Merced, I kissed her goodbye in the morning.
“Bye, baby. Have a great day,” she said, and I bent my head to her lips. “Bella, say bye to Daddy. He has to go to work now.”
The innocence of my baby girl softened every part of my heart as I held her in my arms. Her sandy brown hair was in pigtails. Her big brown eyes were the same color as her mother’s, but she had my tight cheekbones. Her tiny lips reached the side of my cheek for a peck.
“Okay. Daddy has to go earn the bacon. See you and Mommy tonight.” I grinned at her.
“Okay, Daddy. I love you. You can put me down now.”
She wriggled free of my arms, and I laughed. There was never a dull day with four-year-old Bella.
The dirt scuffed my tan leather cowboy boots as I kissed my horses goodbye in the stables, a morning ritual I’d carried with me since my days on the farm with my father.
Today was the standard pick-up day. Nothing shaking. A normal day like any other. I straddled and mounted my bike, heading into the Merced warehouse. When I pulled up, the radio was blaring, and the warehouse door was open.
Diego greeted me with a smile. “Hey, brother. How you doing?”
“Doing great. About to head out to this pick-up. We are moving these parts hard. Must be a lot of repairs coming out of La Playa.”
Diego, with his dirty blond hair, blew out a breath. Diego was the maestro of bikes. He could bring any bike back to life. He’d built the chapter from the ground up, and now it was forty members deep. He stood another inch taller than me, and if you didn’t know us well, you would say we were brothers. Diego’s Argentinian heritage made him a shade darker than me, though.
“You’re telling me. There is a ludicrous amount of parts being used. They need more people in the chop shop. It’s so busy. They ain’t got the room. I run my motorcycle repair shop, though, so I don’t want to be involved with the parts.”