Ice Pick’s Dilemma (Saint’s Outlaws MC: Chicago Chapter #2)

Chapter 1

Ice Pick

The clubhouse reeks of stale beer, leather, and the lingering smoke from last night's party. I lean against the bar, watching my watching my brothers move through the space with swagger and ease. The women move through it too; club whores perched on barstools or leaning against my brothers trying to get their attention, laughing, watching, choosing who they sit beside. None of them look afraid. That matters. Tess’s rules echo even when she’s not in the room.

Tess is Vulture’s ol’ lady, she runs the club whores to make sure they don’t overstep and that there’s no bullying or getting out of hand.

Since Tess took over looking after the club whores it's been a lot more peaceful in here.

Every inch of this compound, every road we ride, every deal we make, it's ours, and that includes the club whores too.

The Saints Outlaws MC didn't build an empire by playing nice.

"Ice Pick." Vulture's voice cuts through the noise.

It's sharp and commanding. Our President doesn't raise his voice often. He doesn't need to. We respect him. We fear him a little too. Vulture didn’t earn his name by accident. He survived long enough to learn that power wasn’t about noise; it was about what you protected, and what you were willing to burn for it.

I push off the bar and cross the room, my boots heavy on the scarred wooden floor.

Vulture stands near the pool table where Zip and Rook are pretending they're not listening.

Sterling's nursing a beer in the corner, his eyes tracking everything as always.

Our Chaplain doesn't miss shit. Knox, our club doc, leans in a doorway nearby, bandaging up one of the prospects with his usual deadpan calm. Digger sits on the stool like he’s trying not to breathe wrong, his eyes flicking to me every few seconds like approval might be handed out with the gauze.

"What's up?" I ask, folding my arms across my chest.

Vulture jerks his head toward the back office. "We need to talk. Now."

I follow him through the maze of brothers and club whores until we're in the relative quiet of his office. The door clicks shut, and he moves behind his desk, dropping into his chair with the kind of weight that tells me this conversation's going to be a pain in my ass.

Falcon, our VP, is already leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, silent and unreadable. There’s a faint echo of laughter from the main room; female, sharp, familiar. Falcon’s jaw tightens for half a second before his face goes blank again.

"There's a journalist sniffing around the warehouse bust," Vulture says without preamble.

My jaw tightens. "How close?"

"Close enough that she's asking questions about the Reapers' involvement.

Close enough that she's connecting dots we don't want connected.

" Falcon pulls out a file and tosses it across the desk.

"Ava Langley. Investigative reporter. She's written exposés on corrupt politicians, organized crime, and human trafficking rings. She's good at what she does. Too good." The trafficking part sticks. That’s a line we don’t blur. Ever. Kids. Women. Anyone who preys on them earns what’s coming.

I flip open the file. A photo stares back at me; dark hair, sharp eyes, the kind of face that probably gets her into places she shouldn't be. Pretty in a way that makes men underestimate her, and that's dangerous.

"She knows about the ledger?" I ask, my voice dropping low.

"Not yet. But she's digging into the Reapers hard. Asking about their connections, their supply chains, and their territory." Falcon leans forward. "If she keeps going, she could stumble onto something that leads back to us."

"So we shut her down."

"Can't." Vulture's mouth twists into something that's not quite a smile. "She's already got enough attention on her work that if something happens to her, it'll blow back on us hard. We need to be smart about this."

I close the file and toss it back on his desk. "What do you want me to do?"

"Keep an eye on her," Falcon says. "Make sure she doesn't get too close. And if she does..."

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to. We all know what handle it means.

Being the Sergeant-at-Arms doesn’t just mean I keep order in the club. It means I get my hands dirty when things need to stay quiet. I've done worse than intimidate some reporter with a hero complex.

"Consider it done," I say, turning toward the door.

"Ice Pick."

I pause, glance back.

Vulture's gaze is steady. "Don't underestimate her. Women like that, they're not afraid of men like us. They think they're invincible. Until they're not."

I nod once and head back into the main room. Zip intercepts me before I can make it to the door, his scarred face twisted into a grin that shows too many teeth.

"Trouble?" he asks, falling into step beside me.

"Always." I grab my keys from the bar. "There’s a journalist's poking around the Reapers. Falcon wants me to make sure she doesn't become our problem."

Rook whistles low nearby. "Better you than me."

Sterling raises his beer in a lazy salute. "Try not to make a mess."

"No promises," I mutter.

"Need backup?" Zip asks.

"Nah. This one I handle solo."

He claps me on the shoulder hard enough to rattle my teeth. "Don't have too much fun without us."

I head out into the late afternoon sun, the heat hitting me like a wall after the dim interior of the clubhouse. My bike sits where I left it, chrome gleaming and the engine ready to roar. I swing my leg over and kick it to life, the familiar rumble settling into my bones.

Ava Langley. Let's see what kind of trouble you're really getting into.

It takes me less than an hour to track her down. The address in her file leads to a shitty apartment complex on the south side, the kind of place where people mind their own business because asking questions gets you hurt. Her car, a beat-up sedan that's seen better days, sits in the lot.

I park across the street, my engine idling, and settle in to wait. Surveillance isn't glamorous, but it's necessary. You learn more about people by watching them when they think no one's looking.

Twenty minutes pass before she emerges from the building, and the first thing I notice is that the photo in her file doesn't do her justice. Her dark hair is pulled back into a ponytail; she’s dressed in jeans and a leather jacket that's probably supposed to make her look tough.

She's got a messenger bag slung across her body, walking with purpose toward her car.

I watch her unlock the door, toss her bag inside. She pauses, hand on the frame, and her head turns. For a second, I think she's made me, but she's looking past my position toward something else. A black SUV parked three spots down, with tinted windows and its engine running.

Her body language shifts. It’s subtle, but I catch it. The way her shoulders tense, how her hand lingers on the car door like she's debating her next move. She knows she's being watched.

Smart girl.

She slides into her car quickly and starts the engine. The SUV doesn't move. She pulls out of the lot, and I give her a five-second head start before following. The SUV falls in behind her, too, keeping two cars between them.

This just got interesting.

She drives like she knows someone's tailing her, taking random turns, doubling back, testing whoever's behind her. The SUV stays with her. I stay with both of them, hanging back far enough that I'm just another vehicle in traffic.

We end up in an industrial area near the docks. She pulls into a parking garage, and the SUV follows. I kill my engine half a block away and jog toward the structure, keeping to the shadows. The sound of car doors slamming echoes through the concrete levels.

I take the stairs two at a time, quiet despite my size. Voices drift down from the third level.

"You need to stop asking questions." A deep and threatening male voice.

"I'm a journalist. Asking questions is my job." Her voice is steady, but there's an edge to it. Fear is trying to masquerade as confidence.

I reach the landing and peer around the corner.

Three men have her backed against her car.

They're not Reapers; they’re wearing the wrong cuts, wrong colors.

But they've got that mercenary look about them. Hired muscle, I’m guessing.

Which means someone paid for this. Someone with money, reach, and no problem hurting women to protect their interests.

"Your job's gonna get you killed," one of them says, stepping closer. "Walk away from the Reapers' story. Forget what you know about the missing women."

"Can't do that."

"Then we've got a problem."

The lead guy reaches for her, and that's when she moves. Pepper spray in his face, a sharp kick to another one's knee. She's fast, I'll give her that. But three against one doesn't work in her favor, no matter how much self-defense training she's had.

The third guy grabs her arm, yanks her off balance. Her bag hits the ground, contents spilling across the concrete. The first guy, still wiping at his eyes, pulls back his fist.

I step out of the shadows. "That's enough."

All three heads whip toward me. Ava's eyes go wide, but I don't spare her a glance. I'm focused on the muscle.

"Who the fuck are you?" the lead guy demands.

"Someone who doesn't like unfair odds." I close the distance between us, my presence alone making them reconsider their life choices. I'm bigger than all of them, and the cut I'm wearing tells them exactly what kind of unfair I'm willing to get.

"This ain't your business, biker."

"I'm making it my business." I look at Ava, catch the fire in her eyes even while she's pinned. "You alright?"

"I had it under control," she snaps.

Despite the situation, my mouth quirks. Yeah, she's definitely trouble.

"Let her go," I say, turning my attention back to the muscle. "Walk away. We all forget this happened."

"We've got orders…"