Page 6 of Contracted to the Bikers

In that moment, I realize something important, and I make my decision for good. If the system that’s supposed to protect me can’t do it, then I’ll find someone who can. Luckily, I already know exactly where to start.

I manage a small smile. “Yeah, all good, kiddo. We’re gonna go visit some of Grandpa’s old friends.”

Chapter 3

Rook

The call comes just after noon. I’m in the garage with Boone, leaning over the open engine of a stripped-down Road King when my phone vibrates in my pocket. Boone doesn’t look up when I answer.

“Yeah.”

The woman on the other end doesn’t hesitate. “My name is Sloane Mercer.”

The name tugs at a familiar thread, drifting away before I can grasp it. I straighten slowly. “Go on.”

“My father was Daniel Mercer.”

For a second, the garage noise fades into the background. Daniel Mercer, the name lands in my head like a dropped wrench. I haven’t heard that name in a long time.

“He rode with you years ago,” she says. “Before he got out.”

I remember him clearly. He was a quiet guy, smart too. Not a biker by nature, but loyal as hell. He rode with Iron Vale for about three years before life pulled him somewhere else. He left clean with no bad blood. He saved Boone’s ass once during a mess with a rival club down near the river. You don’t forget things like that. Mercer is also someone we owe a favor to. Is it finally being called in?

“What do you want?” I ask.

A pause. “I need a meeting.” Her voice is steady and confident, but I know she wouldn’t be calling for a meeting if she didn’t want something.

“What kind of meeting?”

“The kind where I explain why someone just tried to blow me up in an elementary school parking lot.”

Boone looks up at me, curious as to who’s calling for a meeting. I step away from the bike, running my hands through my hair as I realize why her name sounded so familiar, not just because of her father. “You’re the prosecutor who put Escar away?”

“Yes.”

Now Boone is watching me closely. Everyone in this city has heard of the Escar case, a cartel-laundering operation hidden inside luxury car dealerships. The prosecutor who cracked it made the news for weeks. Now she’s calling me and asking for a meeting.

“What makes you think you want to talk to us?” I ask, scratching the stubble on my chin.

“Because the US Marshals assigned to protect me were ambushed yesterday. One dead, one critical.” The words sit between us. I wait for her to explain more, why that’s my problem. “And because my father once told me Iron Vale pays its debts.”

I lean against the tool bench, considering. “We do, but the debt was owed to your father, not you.”

Her tone is calm, precise, a lawyer’s voice. “I’m not asking for charity,” she says. “I’m offering a deal.”

I’m intrigued enough to hear her out. Besides, she’s right, a debt is a debt, and blood is blood. “Be here at three.” The line clicks dead, and I slip my phone back into my pocket.

Boone wipes his hands on a rag. “You gonna tell me what that was about?”

“Daniel Mercer’s daughter, Sloane.”

His eyebrows lift slightly. “The cartel prosecutor, that Mercer?”

“Yeah.”

He nods once. Then he says the obvious. “Trouble.”

“Definitely.”