Page 1 of Hellfire's Mercy

Chapter 1 - Chloe

My knees ache from crouching behind this stinking dumpster for what feels like hours, but I'm not moving. Not when I'm this close to getting something real on the Iron & Blood MC.

The camera feels heavy around my neck as I strain to hear the muffled voices coming through the partially open window of their bar.

The harsh October night air is thick with cigarette smoke, and Harleys rumble in the distance. I adjust my position, trying to avoid the puddle of what I hope is just rainwater seeping into my sneakers.

"...hit the Outlaws hard..." A deep voice carries through the window. I press closer, my heart racing. "Their weapon stash is gone, burnt to the ground."

Another voice, rougher, responds, "They ain't gonna take that lying down. Tell everyone to watch their backs. No solo rides for now."

My fingers tremble as I raise my camera, capturing shots of the bikes lined up outside the bar. This is it - actual proof of gang warfare in our sleepy town. I'm so focused on getting the perfect angle that I don't hear the footsteps behind me until it's too late.

A strong hand grabs my upper arm, yanking me to my feet. I yelp, my camera swinging wildly against my chest.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" The young biker's face is partially hidden by his beard, but his eyes are cold. He can't be much older than me, but the patches on his cut mark him as a full member. "Boss! You're gonna want to see this!"

My stomach drops as boots thunder toward the back door. I try to wrench free, but his grip is like iron.

"Please," I stammer, "I can explain-"

The back door slams open, and my breath catches in my throat. I've seen Hellfire around town, everyone has, but never this close. He fills the doorway, all six-plus feet of him, his dark hair pulled back in a tight knot. The cigarette between his lips casts an eerie glow on his scarred face as his eyes lock onto mine.

"Bring her inside," he growls, and my dreams of a bigger career suddenly seem a lot less important than surviving the night.

The young biker practically drags me through the back door, my feet stumbling over the threshold. The bar's interior hits me with a wall of whiskey-scented air, cigarette smoke, and leather. Several heads turn our way, and the usual rowdy atmosphere dies down to an ominous silence.

"Found this little spy taking pictures behind the dumpster," my captor announces, sounding way too pleased with himself.

Hellfire takes a long drag of his cigarette, studying me like a predator sizing up prey. Up close, the scars on his face tell stories I probably don't want to know.

He must be at least twenty years older than my twenty-four, but there's nothing weak or elderly about him. If anything, he radiates the kind of dangerous energy that comes with decades of violence.

"Angel, search her," he commands, and before I can protest, a female biker approaches me.

"Wait," I try to sound professional despite my racing heart. "I'm Chloe Matthews from the Cedar Falls Gazette-"

"Shut up," Hellfire cuts me off, his voice carrying the weight of someone used to being obeyed. He plucks my press badge from where it's clipped to my jacket, examining it with a sneer. "A journalist. Even worse than a cop."

The woman pats me down, removing my phone and the small recorder from my pocket. She hands them to Hellfire, who crushes the recorder in his fist like it's made of paper.

"Please," I say, hating how my voice shakes. "That's private property-"

"So is my club," he retorts, reaching for my camera. I instinctively clutch it closer to my chest, and something flashes in his eyes – amusement? Interest? "Brave little thing, aren't you?"

He steps closer, and my breath hitches as his rough fingers brush against mine while taking the camera. He holds my gaze the entire time, and I feel the heat rise to my cheeks despite my fear.

"Take out the memory card," he tells one of his men, never looking away from me. "And someone get me everything we have on Miss Matthews here."

"Look," I try again, squaring my shoulders. "I understand I was trespassing, but this is a free country with freedom of press-"

His laugh is dark and humorless. "Sweetheart, you crossed a line you can't uncross. The only question now is what we're going to do about it."

The way he says 'sweetheart' sends an unwanted shiver down my spine. I should be terrified – and I am – but there's something else, something in the way he's looking at me that makes my skin tingle and my thighs clench.

"Boss," another member approaches with a tablet. "Got her info. Lives alone in the old Mason apartment complex. Works for the Gazette for three years now. No family in town."

Hellfire's expression darkens at that last bit of information, and I suddenly wish I had listened to my mother about moving closer to home in Ohio.

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