Page 17 of Sophia, Property of Tracker

Quill picks it up and takes a good look at Tate.

“What makes you think we would know where he is?”

“He hung around with guys in a motorcycle club. I don’t know their club name because I’ve never met them. I didn’t even know he was regarded as a ‘hang around’ in a motorcycle club till he went missing. I found out through one of his friends that he’d been drinking every night with them.”

“So why here? Why New York?”

I shrug. “All the evidence leads here.”

“Evidence? So you are a cop?”

Taking a swig of my beer, I respond, “Yeah, FBI. Agent Cruz. Ryan Cruz.”

The atmosphere changes, and the hairs prick at the back of my neck. I know I’m incredibly close to being shot, and it all comes down to what the president believes.

“So, Federal Agent Cruz, you’re telling me that you’ve come from… where was it?”

“I never told you where. But LA.”

“So you’ve flown to New York from LA because you suspect we would know where your brother is? Does that sound about right?”

“Well… yeah. But not the flying part.”

He frowns.

“I rode in on my bike. Have been traveling for a week, stopping at every town along the way to see if he’s recognized. So far, I’ve got nowhere, but my investigation shows that he would have come to New York and what other place to stop than at a biker bar?”

Quill looks up at his VP, Hawke, and I see something exchange between them. He then focuses on me, his eyes studying me as he rubs his chin. I know he’s trying to figure out whether I’m telling the truth or not, and I don’t blame him. I’m a Federal Agent in a biker bar. He probably thinks I’m investigating them, and I knew that might be the risk of me coming here and letting them know I’m with the FBI, but I got to find my brother. If that means risking my life, then so be it. I can’t let anything happen to Tate. He’s my younger brother, I’ve always protected him, and I am not stopping now.

“We’re gonna help you,” Quill interrupts my thoughts, and I’m brought back to the present.

“Sorry, what?”

“I said… we’re gonna help you,” he repeats, pushing his beer aside and standing. All the other bikers move out of their seats, and I watch as they head out of the bar one by one. Quill and Hawke remain at the table standing in front of me.

Shit, I’m fucked. They’re going to kill me. How the fuck do I get out of this situation?

Shaking my head, I reply, “Nah, it’s all good. You’ve helped enough. I’m just going to head out. I’ve had a long ride and need to bunk down somewhere for the night.”

Standing, Quill crosses his arms and tilts his head, studying me. “I said, we’re gonna help you,” he replies sternly. “We have plenty of room at the clubhouse. You can stay there and get some shut-eye. Now follow us back, and I’ll make a few calls to see if any of our charters have seen your brother around. We have connections with other biker clubs, so if he’s hanging with one, we can get the intel.”

My eyes travel from Quill to Hawke, and I can tell by their eyes they’re being honest. He could be telling the truth and wanting to help, or this could be a trick to get me back to their clubhouse where they can do whatever the fuck they like with me. Torture me, especially now they know what I do for a job. But it doesn’t matter what I think. If I decline their help, that’s like a slap in the face to them. They’re offering me hospitality, and if I don’t take it, I don’t know where I’ll end up tonight. So with a deep breath, I nod and reply, “Appreciate the hospitality. I’ll follow you.”

We head out of the bar. Stepping beside my bike, I lift the helmet, and when I place it on my head, I hear a whistle. Turning around, Quill’s standing there, his hand scratching his jaw as he appreciates my bike.

“This is a beautiful-looking bike, man.”

Smiling, I reply, “Yeah, I like her too.”

Squatting, he begins to state some facts about the bike. “Harley Super Glide Sport. Four-stroke V-Twin engine and 1449 displacement.”

“I see you know your bikes.”

Raising to his feet he winks. “What did you expect.”

I smile, then swing my leg over my seat and buckle up my helmet.

Should I be worried about going to their clubhouse? If I said I wasn’t, I’d be lying, but something tells me I’m going to be just fine.

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