Page 8 of Hellfire's Mercy

"I'm sorry," I say softly, understanding now why this is personal for them.

"Mark was a good kid," he says, and I hear real pain in his voice. "That's when we started digging deeper. Found out about similar operations in other ports. Always the Outlaws, always killing everyone that got too close. Civilians, cops, they don’t care."

"Why me?" I finally ask. "There are other journalists in town. More experienced ones."

He turns those burning eyes on me again.

"Because you were brave enough – or stupid enough – to hide behind my dumpster. Because you didn't break when I threatened you. Because..." he pauses, staring at me. "Because there's a fire in you, sweetheart. You want the truth, no matter the cost."

His words heat my cheeks up, and I look away, focusing on the docks.

"Speaking of costs, what's my protection actually going to cost me?"

"Worried I'll ask for more than just information?" His voice has dropped lower, and something in his tone makes my pulse quicken.

Before I can respond, movement at the docks catches my attention. A large container ship is approaching, earlier than expected.

"That's not scheduled," Hellfire mutters, suddenly alert.

He pulls out his phone, typing quickly. Within minutes, Crow and Wrath appear on either side of the car, their bikes idling quietly.

We watch as the ship docks and workers begin unloading containers. Everything looks normal, routine – until I notice something odd.

"That guard," I point to a man in uniform. "He just let those workers through without checking their credentials."

Hellfire nods grimly. "Keep watching."

Two large trucks pull up to one of the containers. The workers are moving faster now, more urgently. Then I see it – movement inside the container as its doors open briefly. A flash of faces, huddled forms being quickly ushered into the trucks.

"Oh my God," I whisper, grabbing my phone to take pictures through the windshield. "Those are people. They're actually..." My hands shake as I try to steady the phone.

"Now you have your proof," Hellfire says quietly. "Still think we're the bad guys?"

I lower my phone, feeling sick. "We have to do something. We must stop them!"

"Not today," he grabs my wrist as I reach for the door handle. His touch is firm but not painful, his calloused fingers warm against my skin. "We're outnumbered. But now you know. Now you can help us stop this."

His hand is still around my wrist, his thumb unconsciously stroking my pulse point.

"How many?" I ask, my voice shaking. "How many people have they...?"

"Too many," he says grimly. "This stops when your story breaks. But until then..." He turns my wrist, examining the delicate skin there. "Until then, you're in this as deep as we are. No turning back."

Looking at those trucks disappearing into the night, carrying their human cargo, I know he's right. There's no turning back now. Not from this story, and not from whatever is building between me and the dangerous man beside me.

"I'll need everything you have," I tell him, trying to ignore how his touch seems to burn through my skin. "Every detail, every rumor, every contact."

His lips curve into that dangerous smile again. "I was hoping you'd say that." He finally releases my wrist, and I try not to miss his touch. "Time for you to meet the family properly."

"The family?" My voice comes out higher than intended.

"If you're going to help us take down the Outlaws, the club needs to know you. Trust you." He starts the car, nodding at the two bikers through the window. "And you need to understand exactly what you're getting into."

We drive back toward the bar, and I feel sick, close to puking and it has nothing to do with motion sickness. Last night I was sneaking around their dumpster; now I'm about to walk through the front door with their president.

"They won't..." I hesitate, searching for words. "I mean, how will they react to a journalist?"

Hellfire glances at me, amusement dancing in those amber eyes.

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