Chapter 3
Rook
The call comes just after noon. I’m in the garage with Boone, leaning over the open engine of a stripped-down Road King when my phone vibrates in my pocket. Boone doesn’t look up when I answer.
“Yeah.”
The woman on the other end doesn’t hesitate. “My name is Sloane Mercer.”
The name tugs at a familiar thread, drifting away before I can grasp it. I straighten slowly. “Go on.”
“My father was Daniel Mercer.”
For a second, the garage noise fades into the background. Daniel Mercer, the name lands in my head like a dropped wrench. I haven’t heard that name in a long time.
“He rode with you years ago,” she says. “Before he got out.”
I remember him clearly. He was a quiet guy, smart too.
Not a biker by nature, but loyal as hell.
He rode with Iron Vale for about three years before life pulled him somewhere else.
He left clean with no bad blood. He saved Boone’s ass once during a mess with a rival club down near the river.
You don’t forget things like that. Mercer is also someone we owe a favor to. Is it finally being called in?
“What do you want?” I ask.
A pause. “I need a meeting.” Her voice is steady and confident, but I know she wouldn’t be calling for a meeting if she didn’t want something.
“What kind of meeting?”
“The kind where I explain why someone just tried to blow me up in an elementary school parking lot.”
Boone looks up at me, curious as to who’s calling for a meeting. I step away from the bike, running my hands through my hair as I realize why her name sounded so familiar, not just because of her father. “You’re the prosecutor who put Escar away?”
“Yes.”
Now Boone is watching me closely. Everyone in this city has heard of the Escar case, a cartel-laundering operation hidden inside luxury car dealerships. The prosecutor who cracked it made the news for weeks. Now she’s calling me and asking for a meeting.
“What makes you think you want to talk to us?” I ask, scratching the stubble on my chin.
“Because the US Marshals assigned to protect me were ambushed yesterday. One dead, one critical.” The words sit between us. I wait for her to explain more, why that’s my problem. “And because my father once told me Iron Vale pays its debts.”
I lean against the tool bench, considering. “We do, but the debt was owed to your father, not you.”
Her tone is calm, precise, a lawyer’s voice. “I’m not asking for charity,” she says. “I’m offering a deal.”
I’m intrigued enough to hear her out. Besides, she’s right, a debt is a debt, and blood is blood. “Be here at three.” The line clicks dead, and I slip my phone back into my pocket.
Boone wipes his hands on a rag. “You gonna tell me what that was about?”
“Daniel Mercer’s daughter, Sloane.”
His eyebrows lift slightly. “The cartel prosecutor, that Mercer?”
“Yeah.”
He nods once. Then he says the obvious. “Trouble.”
“Definitely.”
Boone grins faintly, never one to shy away from trouble. “The good kind or bad kind?”
“We’ll see,” I grunt, picking my wrench back up and getting back to work.
***
We’re freshened up and waiting in the clubhouse when three o’clock arrives.
Right on time, there’s the low rumble of a sedan pulling into the lot outside the clubhouse.
I’m standing by the front door when it stops.
The driver’s door opens, and for a second, I forget what the hell I was about to say.
Sloane Mercer is not what I expected. She steps out of the car in a charcoal-gray suit that probably costs more than most bikes in our garage.
Dark hair pulled into a tight knot at the back of her head, sharp cheekbones, and kohl-framed eyes that scan the compound like she’s already cataloguing exit routes.
She’s controlled, composed, and beautiful in a way that leaves you speechless.
I don’t react. Years of running a club have given me a pretty good poker face. But damn.
She walks toward me like she belongs anywhere she decides to be.
Up close, I notice something else, the exhaustion buried under that professional armor. She’s hiding it well, but she’s afraid.
“You’re Rook,” she says. There’s no nerves or uncertainty in her voice.
“Yeah.” I nod, not unfolding my arms.
“Sloane Mercer.” She holds out her hand with practiced ease, she’s used to shaking hands and rubbing shoulders with all kinds. Her fingers are slender, with well-manicured yet short nails.
I shake her hand, mine engulfing hers, dirty and stained from years of working with my hands. “I figured.”
Her gaze flicks past me toward the clubhouse. “Should we go inside?”
I shrug, not moving, my frame blocking the doorway. I told the guys to wait inside, but I know they’re hovering behind it waiting for my signal. “Depends.”
“On?”
“Whether you brought trouble with you.”
Her mouth twitches, the trace of a smirk. “Not intentionally.”
I nod toward the lot at her car. “You come alone?”
She bites her lip in a frustratingly attractive way, and I force myself to pull my gaze away from her rosebud mouth. “Mostly.”
“Mostly?” I grunt, frustrated by her never giving a straight answer—typical lawyer.
She gestures toward her car. “My daughter’s with me.”
That stops me. I didn’t know there was a kid involved. That changes things. “You brought a kid to a biker clubhouse?” I ask incredulously.
“Someone tried to kill us. I’m hardly going to leave her at home, am I?” she says.
She’s ballsy, or desperate, probably both. “Bring her in,” I say.
“She’ll be okay in the car. What I have to say won’t take long.” Her eyes meet mine and I see the truth there. She doesn’t want to bring her child into this place unless she has to.
“Fair enough. I’ll have some of my men keep an eye on the car in case she needs you.” I call a few of the guys, telling them to watch the car and holler if anything happens. I push the door open, and she follows me inside. I wonder if she feels like she’s entering the lion’s den.
But instead, she walks in like she’s entering a courtroom, back straight, eyes alert.
I wonder what Sloane makes of the clubhouse.
I notice the peeling paint and cracked leather seats, feeling like the clubhouse seems shabbier in her presence.
Although she’s not said anything negative, I find myself ready to defend our sanctuary.
Cruz is already sitting at the long table, boots propped on a chair. He lowers them when he sees her. “Well,” he says. “You didn’t mention our visitor was the one from the news.”
“Didn’t seem important,” I say.
He snorts. Boone comes in behind us, arms crossed. Sloane takes a seat across the table without being asked. For a moment, she seems ruffled in our presence, but she quickly regains her composure.
“So,” Cruz says. “Prosecutor Mercer.”
“Former,” she corrects.
“Former?”
“I resigned yesterday. I’ll be working freelance now.” She says this without apology or explanation.
Interesting. I find Sloane maddeningly intriguing.
“Because someone tried to kill you?” Boone asks.
“Yes.” Again, she offers no further explanation. She produces a folder from her smart leather briefcase and slides it across the table. “Here’s the short version.”
I open it. Inside are newspaper clippings, financial records, and a neat summary typed in clean legal language.
It’s all there, the information on Valentin Escar’s cartel laundering network and conviction.
The attempt on her life with a bomb planted in her car, my eyebrows raise as I note the attack on two US Marshals working on her case, one dead, one in critical condition. The escalation timeline is rapid.
Cruz, who’s been reading over my shoulder, whistles softly. “Someone really doesn’t like you.” He looks up at Sloane, looking at her in a different light, admiration in his tone.
Her mouth quirks, a shadow of a smile before she regains her composure. “Yes.” She doesn’t explain or apologize for it, it’s simply a fact. She folds her hands on the table. Finally, she explains what she wants from us. “I need protection.”
“From a cartel?” Cruz asks. I doubt she can hear the relish in his voice. Cruz appreciates a challenge.
“Yes.”
Boone interjects softly. “You understand we’re not exactly the FBI.”
“Yes, but I don’t want to go into Witness Protection.
I don’t want to run and hide, to let him win and back down.
If I do, it’s not just me who suffers. Every crook will think they can scare lawyers and witnesses into staying silent.
It’s not an option,” she insists, jutting her chin forward.
I admire her bravery and refusal to compromise on her morals.
“Then why us?” I ask, though I assume we’re a last resort.
She looks straight at me. “My father trusted Iron Vale. He told me you were men of honor who could provide justice when the system fails.”
The room goes quiet, those words have weight here.
“As I said on the phone, I’m not asking for charity,” she says. “I’m offering an exchange—protection for me and my daughter, in exchange for legal services.”
I lean back in my chair. “What kind of legal services?” At the same time, Cruz quips, “What makes you think we need them?”
“I’m a financial crimes prosecutor, an organized crime specialist. I could be useful to your organization, very useful.” Cruz’s eyebrows lift. She’s right, that is useful. “You keep me and my daughter safe,” she says, “And I provide legal counsel to Iron Vale.”
Boone chuckles. “You offering to be our club lawyer?”
“Yes.” She folds her hands on the table in front of her, patiently waiting for our reply now that she’s finished her pitch.
I study her carefully. She’s calm. Too calm for someone whose life exploded a few days ago. Doesn’t she understand the seriousness of her situation? The danger she’s bringing to our doorstep? “You expect us to pick a fight with a cartel in exchange for legal advice?”
“I expect you to evaluate the value of having a prosecutor on retainer.”
Cruz grins and looks at me. “I like her.”