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“I’ll accept the assignment.” He held up his hand. “On a temporary basis.” Dean leaned his elbows on the conference table and said, “My father was once the leader of The Black Hearts. I have an in as his son.”
“I’m well aware of that. You are the perfect choice.”
He remembered how O had looked before Granny Steele called him over here. Recalling the fear, pain, and dismay in her eyes made his heart contract. That look was enough to rip the heart right out of him. If he had a chance to get the bastards who had hurt her, tried to kill her, he was going to find them and take them down. The fucking Black Hearts. Somehow this felt right, felt like he could get justice for Riley’s death, for the way Neo had been treated, and finally expunge the taint that seemed to linger on him. A way to redeem the past.
But mainly, he would do this for O, first and foremost, because she had dedicated her life and her career to protecting LA and its citizens. He couldn’t turn his back on this. It would be like turning his back on O.
“Fair enough. You have whatever resources you need. I’ll have my contacts take care of the renovations to your shop. Let me know if you need anything else.”
Dean nodded.
The general turned to Dr. Scott. “Keep me posted on the progress, and be careful.”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“She’s staying?” Dean asked.
“Yes. She’ll be working with you. As soon as you get a bead on those missiles, she’ll dismantle them, so they won’t ever be a threat again. Good luck to both of you.” He opened the door and exited the conference room.
“Where do we start?” Dr. Scott asked.
“Remember that mechanic I mentioned the other day?” Granny piped up.
Dean turned to look at her. “Yes. Gage something.”
“Moore. He’s got his ear to the street working out of a motorcycle shop. He might have information on The Black Hearts.”
“It’s a good start,” Dean said. He looked over at Dr. Scott. “I’m assuming you brought something other than a power suit and jungle cat heels?”
She smirked. “Are you kidding? I’m a Marine. I always pack my ass-kicking boots.”
“You’re active duty?”
“Nope, but I’m still a Marine.”
She went to change in his loft from a bag she wheeled inside, and Granny took those few minutes to fill Dean in on Gage Moore. He worked for Ave Automotive located just south of them in the Belvedere neighborhood. After Dr. Scott rejoined them, now wearing more sensible jeans, a purple, lace embellished T-shirt, and the aforementioned ass-kicking boots, she followed him out to his jeep, parked near his bike. He looked over at her once inside. “Marine, huh?”
“You know how it is. Great-great-granddad, great-granddad, granddad, dad. It’s in the blood.”
He nodded.
“How about you. History of Navy vets in your family?”
“Active-duty brother—SEALs. My dad was a bastard. Don’t remember my grandfather.”
“Is the get-to-know-you portion of the program finished, Master Chief?”
He chuckled. “You can call me Dean. That work?”
“It’s Jessica, then. I think we have an agreement.” She tucked her hair behind her ear and pulled out a tablet from her tote bag. “So…The Black Hearts. Worldwide one-percenter motorcycle club.”
“What a non-descript name for a bunch of outlaws.” Dean’s history with his old man included the definition of the term. One-percenter came from the American Motorcycle Association to describe a motorcycle rally in 1947 in Hollister, California that had turned violent. Outlaw bikers referred to their organizations as “one-percenter” motorcycle clubs or MC instead of gangs.
Jessica shot him a glance. He was sure his disgust came through in his voice. “I hear you,” she said, then continued with her report. “Members typically ride Harley, Triumph, and Vincent motorcycles. Nicknames for the club: Hearts, BH, Black and White. Established in 1975 by Vietnam vet Kevin Mills who chose the black heart for its symbol of cohesion. Your dad is listed here as one of the leaders.”
“I’m so proud,” Dean said.
“Wow. His deeds are extensive.”
