Page 15 of Everest

“My boss knows about you.” The prick from the other night at the bar smirks.

I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “That right?”

He swallows hard but keeps his mouth running while I keep my gun trained on his rat-faced friend. “He doesn’t like you or your biker friends fucking with his operation.” He looks me up and down. “So back the fuck off before something bad happens.”

I contemplate whether I should pull the trigger and send my own message back to his boss in the form of a corpse, but quickly decide against it. For now. At least until the club discovers who has the brass balls to continue encroaching on Kings’ territory. I smirk, but there’s nothing friendly about it. “Run back to your boss and tell him the Kings don’t take kindly to threats.” I lean in, my voice dripping with something dark. “You tell him if helikes breathin’ to pack his shit and get the fuck out of our city, or he’ll be diggin’ his own grave.”

The muscles in the bastard’s jaw tick, but he says nothing. They waste no time taking off, vanishing down the alley like sewer rats.

Suddenly, headlights flicker in the darkness, and a vehicle creeps cautiously toward me. My weapon stays poised at my side, my grip tight and ready. As the old truck finally halts, I lock eyes with Charlie through the windshield. The old man saw everything, stayed hidden, and had my back just in case. I holster my weapon as he leans over and rolls down the truck’s window.

“I’ll be right behind you,” he says.

I nod, then stroll to my bike, swing my leg over the seat, and fire her up. My fingers tighten around the grip as I pull out of the parking lot, with Charlie falling behind me.

I get the feeling this isn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

A short drive later and it’s damn near midnight when my head hits the pillow. But my eyes instantly snap open at the sharp buzzing of my phone. I snatch it off the nightstand. It’s Riggs. I answer, “Yeah,” and rub my eyes.

“Catcher called. The trail camera near the river caught movement. Need you to get over there and back him up should there be trouble.”

I’m already sitting up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. “On it.”

“Report back,” Riggs orders, and then he kills the call.

My body runs on autopilot, and I move fast, slipping on jeans, a shirt, boots, and my cut. My gun is on the nightstand. I grab it, check the magazine, and slide it into my holster.

Once outside, the humid night air clings to my skin as I sling a leg over my bike, fire the engine, and roll out.

I kill the light and cut the engine about a block away from the clubhouse, and coast to a stop. The last thing I want is to announce myself should the trespasser still be lurking. In the distance, the clubhouse sits along the river. Next to it, the old mill looms in the darkness, abandoned for many years. Beyond that, the club’s fence line runs toward the river. I pull my phone out and dial Catcher.

“Everest,” he answers, his voice hoarse.

“I’m coming in from the west. Take the east. If someone’s still out here, they’ll have to hit the water.”

“Copy.”

I pocket the phone and pick up the pace, the gravel shifting under my boots. I take out my weapon, arming myself. The wind carries the smell of damp earth and rusting metal. Everything else around me is shadow and silence.

Then, I catch the scent of fresh cigarette smoke.

I slow my steps, scanning my surroundings. The shed looms ahead, a structure we use when problems need to be dealt with—the kind that gets dumped into the muddy Mississippi when we’re done.

I see a cigarette butt, still burning, the ember glowing against the dirt as I get closer. I crouch, looking out at the water close by. The light of a few barges glows in the distance, but the water is too dark to see much else. No boat. There’s no movement beyond the river’s slow lapping against the bank. But someone was just here. Maybe they still are. Watching. Listening.

I hear boot steps creeping up behind me. I whip around, weapon ready. “Shit,” I hiss, lowering my arm but keeping my eyes sharp on Catcher.

“Anything?” he asks, unfazed.

I nod to the cigarette. “Someone was here.”

Catcher exhales sharply, and his gaze moves to the river. “Could have been a drifter.”

“Maybe,” I murmur, but anyone snooping around doesn’t sit right with me. “I’ll talk to Prez about beefing up security, just to be safe, more trail cameras, and some motion-activated floodlights.”

We make our way back to the clubhouse, where our club girls, Payton and Josie, are waiting inside. They look up the second we walk in.

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