Page 45 of Devil's Queen

“Have you gone inside?”

“Not yet. I wanted to wait for you to get here. The others should be here soon enough.”

Cheyenne finds the rustic door and wedges it open before we both step inside. The dim light filters through small cracks in the wooden slats and reveals a small, cluttered space. Boxes line most of the walls, with a large tarp covering the center stack. My hands grasp the heavy fabric and rip it off.

“You’ve got to be fucking shitting me,” Cheyenne remarks.

My heart drops into the pit of my stomach. There, in the center of the shed, lies our bike. Well, the remnants of it. Most of it is missing. The engine, tank, fenders, seat, and wheels are all gone. The frame is scratched and bent all to hell. The only reason I recognize it as Diaz’s bike is because our logo is stamped into the frame.

I can feel the anger bubbling inside me as I take in the sight before me. Someone had clearly gone to great lengths to strip the bike of its valuable parts. It was nothing more than a shell, a mere reminder of what it used to be.

“Who would do something like this?” I mutter, my voice filled with frustration.

Cheyenne steps forward, her eyes scanning the scene. “I don’t know, but it’s obvious they knew what they were doing. This wasn’t some random act of vandalism.”

We both stand there, staring at the remnants of the bike in disbelief. The weight of our failure hangs heavy in the air—all the time and effort we had put into tracking it down, only to find it destroyed.

As if on cue, approaching footsteps echo outside the shed. The rest of our crew must have arrived. Maya, Harlow, and Marissa appear at the entrance, their expressions mirroring our disappointment.

“What happened?” Maya asks, her eyes widening as she takes in the scene.

“We found it like this,” I reply bitterly.

Harlow walks closer to inspect the damaged bike, her brow furrowing in concern. “Damn, Remy. This is bad.”

Understatement of the year. There’s no telling how long it has been here like this. They could have stripped it the same day and sent the parts off to their new owners. Tracking them down would be harder than finding that proverbial needle in a haystack at this point.

“We’ll figure this out, Remy.”

“There’s no use. The owner spent years trying to track down all the original parts. We don’t have that kind of time. I have to make the call.”

“Will the shop survive this?”

“Insurance should cover most of it, but they’ll jack up our prices to the point we can’t afford it. Without insurance, we can’t stay open. It’s too much of a risk.”

Harlow puts a comforting hand on my shoulder. “We’ll find a way, Remy. We always do.”

I appreciate her encouragement, but the weight of the situation still hangs heavy on my shoulders. This isn’t just about the bike anymore. It’s about the survival of our shop, our livelihoods. I can’t help but feel responsible for this loss, for failing to protect what meant so much to Diaz and us.

As we all stand there, contemplating our next move, a sudden gust of wind blows through the open shed door. The dim light flickers, casting eerie shadows across the damaged bike. And in that moment, I swear I hear a faint whisper in the wind, almost as if the ghosts of Ruddock are trying to communicate with us.

Cheyenne’s eyes widen, and she points toward something hidden behind one of the boxes lining the walls. “Hey, guys, look at this!” She reaches down and pulls up something small in her hand. She passes the material to me. The heavy material is a worn piece of black leather with purple and green stitching along one solid edge.

“What is that?” Harlow asks.

“It’s a piece of a cut.”

“Any idea who?”

I pass the material over to Harlow. Her eyes peer down at it before snapping back up to mine, confirming what I’d noticed as well.

“This is from a Zulu Kings’ cut.”

REMY

As soon asI return to the shop, I make the call I’ve dreaded making for days. It rings and rings, and with it, my heart pumps harder and harder in my chest. The roar of my blood pressure muffles sound around me.

On the sixth ring, the call connects. A low, male voice answers, “Ms. Laveau, I hope you’re calling to tell me why my delivery didn’t arrive this morning.”

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