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There’s always a risk of getting caught. Yes, I could dump the offshore account, make it look like it got lost in the shuffle. But it’s too late for me. I’ve seen the number of zeros at the end of that number, and I want all of it.
No, I can’t gamble on walking away when the heat is focused on everyone in this firm. If I leave before the start of the investigation, the trail could lead to me. A lot of money’s on the line, money I’m not willing to give up unless I have no choice. After everything I’ve endured, I deserve every dollar.
Good thing I’m one step ahead of the investigative auditors.
As is, no one suspects me. Nobody would ever consider I could pull off this kind of heist. Cooperating and playing dumb are in my best interest. I only need to pretend for the short duration of the audit, till someone else takes the fall, then I’m in the clear. Free to live my life the way I want, where I want, with the person who holds my heart.
CHAPTERONE
CHASE
Past—One Year Ago at the MC President’s Wedding
A man’s identity is an intimate detail he keeps to himself, revealing it only to those he trusts. His individuality is defined by his character, secrets, aspirations, and heart, no matter how twisted or neglected it may be.
Club names are used to protect our identities, buffering us from outsiders who have no right to interfere in our business. A mercenary biker never can take too many precautions.
“Shawn Brighton” is the name on my birth certificate, the only thing my mother gave me before placing me in an orphanage, where I lived until I aged out and joined the navy. However, “Chase” is the name I wear proudly on my leather cut. It was a name given to me by my platoon when I was a SEAL, and it followed me when I retired from the navy to join my MC brothers who left before me.
Atlas, my old captain, is president of the Mercy Ravens Motorcycle Club in Fort Collins, Colorado. I’m his third-in-command and the club’s intelligence specialist, living the dream, and living up to my name.
My brothers call me “Chase” for two reasons.
The first is, I hunt criminals through the dark web, chasing leads to track down the douchebags who do evil things to innocent people or have wronged our club in some way. I love the chase, and I’m fucking phenomenal at my job. Some might even call me the best in the cyber industry. It’s not my ego talking when it’s a damn fact.
One of my recent hacking accomplishments was identifying another hacker creating chaos in our MC’s surveillance system at the direct orders of the lecherous mafia don Lorenzo Bianchi. She was a good cyberpunk, just not good enough to escape my attention. Our crew apprehended the hacker, leading to the downfall of Lorenzo Bianchi’s sinister criminal empire, something not even the FBI could accomplish.
Punk, my best friend and our MC’s security specialist, says I’m good at hunting criminals because we share like minds. He’s not wrong. Had I not joined the navy and became a SEAL, I most likely would’ve joined the dark underworld of cyberspace. After all, an aged-out orphan with a knack for computers needs to make a living, and what better way than using your talent for profit?
Growing up in an orphanage wasn’t ideal for a defiant bastard like me. The caretakers were strict, bordering on abusive. One child care worker was exceptionally cruel, beating anyone who stepped out of line. I crossed the line one too many times for her taste.
After one particularly nasty beating when I was a young teen, I had enough. I waited until after lights-out to sneak down to the main level, where the staff offices were located. A screwdriver to the crone’s office door sprung the lock, giving me access to her world.
I may not have known a thing about computers, but it wasn’t hard to guess her password when it was the bible verse she’d chant as she beat you with a broomstick.“For rulers are not terror to good conduct, but to bad.”(Romans 13:3)
Well, rule this, bitch.
A few porn downloads from the Internet emailed to all the staff members were enough to get her canned. She may not have succeeded in beating terror into me, but she did give birth to the hacker I am today.
There’s not a system I can’t crack, and I always leave behind zero traces. I would’ve been a damn good cyber criminal, but instead I chose to use my skills to hack into the minds of the people we hunt, making sure they pay for their crimes.
The second reason for my club name is more crude, but fitting.
I like to chase tail.
I’m your textbook ladies’ man. A Casanova in a biker’s cut. A fuckboy extraordinaire.
I’m your rugged bad boy version of a hipster—tatted, pierced, trendy glasses, man bun, and all.
Women love me, and I love to fuck those women into tomorrow.
I’ve warmed the beds of every woman who’s willing, from the east coast to the west, and all the states in-between, too. One-on-ones, threesomes, and orgies are all on my bedroom resume, with gold star reviews. You’ll never hear me apologize for my conquests or quell my hankering for a sexual release.
If you’re looking for boyfriend material, I’m not the man for you. But if you want to have your toes curling, blood humming, and body sated, then I’m the man you hook up with for the night.
Life is simple, easy. I have my brothers, the club, and a high-paying job as a cyber hacker for a mercenary security company owned by Atlas. The work is demanding but rewarding. Biker life can be hard, but I play harder.
My life is fucking perfect for a content bachelor. There’s nothing I’d trade it for.
