CHAPTER 10 IRON JACK
IRON JACK
Truth be told, my mind isn’t one hundred percent on the protection gig as I lead the half-dozen members of the Wild Hair in formation down the highway to the old sawmill where the wedding is taking place.
My VP Stoney roars beside me on his hog. Hoss and Two-Shit are right behind. Fancy and Too Fast Freddy form the third layer. Chain drives the truck behind us.
The air is bracingly cold, but it makes me feel wildly alive. I’m not worried about this gig, which makes my mind soft, dipping into places it shouldn’t go when I’m leading my club.
But I picture Greta in the swamp, watching the alligator, slipping her hand into mine. I don’t have moments like that in my life. Not with a woman, not since I’ve been grown.
I used to go out with my paps, dad’s father, an old-school biker from way back. But he loved the swamps. We’d go out fishing or snake hunting or just to stomp through the sawgrass. He was the one who taught me about the copse, the birds, and how the Everglades goes silent around a predator.
I miss him. He died when I was seventeen, after long outliving my grams, who I only knew as a baby.
There are plenty of old bikers in clubs, but the likelihood of dying young due to hard livin’ and refusing to see doctors is high.
Paps was no different, having a sudden heart attack that probably could have been prevented with cholesterol meds or who knows what.
I’m the same. I haven’t seen the inside of a doctor’s office since my last physical, and only then because I had to for the qualifier exams to the MMA circuit. I don’t have much call for docs, and protection gigs don’t exactly come with health insurance, anyway.
Bikers don’t talk about things like that. That’s for cagers. We live until we die. Done and dusted.
But Greta isn’t our ilk. She probably has regular checkups and a MyChart account.
I deleted mine when I left L.A. Just another way to track me. Don’t need it anymore.
She probably sends Christmas cards to her dentist.
I saw that life, a little bit, when I was on the circuit.
Fighters don’t tend to have insurance either, but we have trainers and medics and people always want to know how much we weigh, to keep inside our fighter class.
It’s not half bad, but it’s not compatible with the biker lifestyle. You live tough here.
Greta wouldn’t suit the club. I know that, my mind has the facts fixed, but I can’t seem to let it sink in. I’m pursuing her anyway.
She feels inevitable.
Stoney signals, the red blinker catching me off guard. We’re at the old sawmill, fixed up these days as a rental hall.
Get your head screwed on, Jack. You’ll get somebody killed.
I shove Greta into a corner of my mind, determined not to take her out again until I’m back at the club.
But even as we approach the building, all lit up with string lights and big white bows tied to the lampposts, I wonder what she’d think of the place. The rough-hewn walls, rusty wagon wheels on either side of the door. Would it be charming or cheap?
We roll up and fan out. Everyone has their position. Chain parks the truck near the gravel drive to the lot. Four others take the corners.
Stoney rolls his bike near the door, kicking out the stand and perching on it, arms crossed.
He’ll eyeball anybody walking in for an Unholy Wingmen cut or tat.
We passed around a picture of the brother in case he tries to blend in.
That dumbass has pitch-black hair with blond tips.
Unless he dyes it, he’ll be easy to spot no matter what he wears.
Even so, he’s got two teardrop tats under his eye.
He won’t get by us.
I’ll be patrolling the inside during the ceremony, alone to avoid attention, then with another Wild Hair once the drinkin’ starts. We hope to get ahead of the Wingmen if they show by catching them outside, not after they’ve gotten in. Otherwise, the altercation might disrupt the wedding.
I kill my engine in the darkness near the right side of the sawmill. The old water wheel towers overhead, the paddles long gone dry and gray.
It’s an hour till the ceremony starts. The only cars and bikes in the lot are the wedding party. The guests will start arriving soon enough. Half hour, I figure.
When I enter, two men in Rebel Death cuts stand on either side of the door. They’re both beasts like Hoss, tall and broad. One is bald.
They tense up when they see me, then read my patch.
“Iron Jack,” the bald one says. “Thanks for helping out tonight.”
His patch reads “Enforcer.” This is Damon, fourth in command for Rebel Death.
“Not a problem.” I shift my knife sheath along my belt to be less obvious from the front. I have a long-sleeved black shirt on under my cut, my only concession to the formality of the event.
“How many you got?” Damon asks.
“Seven. Mostly watching the drive-up so we catch them early. Any word?”
Damon shakes his head. “Naw. No drama today, which of course has the bride nervous. She expected an exchange.”
“He might be saving it for tonight.”
“Seems likely.”
The other guard scans the room, then returns to stare me down.
“How many of you are here?” I ask Damon.
“Full contingent. Six standing up for the groom. Ten in the rows. Then me and Field here watching the door.”
“Where’s everybody else?”
“Getting drunk in the back.” Damon aims a thumb at a side door. “Me and Field drew the short straws.”
“Where’s your number one and two?”
“Standing up for the groom. He grew up in the club. His pop was VP till he stepped down ten years back.”
I nod. “All right. How many guests roughly?” Even as I ask, I take a quick count of the white folding chairs set up in rows before an arch covered in blue flowers.
“A hundred or so. It’ll get lit later.”
“I bet. We’ll be here.”
“We’ll handle our own if they get rough.” Damon sniffs. “You just watch for Wingmen.”
“Got it.”
I walk the perimeter of the room, taking in the cake, the kegs, and the DJ set up. I listen at the doors as I pass, noting the heavy laughter of the men getting drunk on one side and the higher voices of the women prepping on the other.
A woman steps out of the bride’s room. She holds a camera and heads to the cake table to snap pictures.
She spots me looking at her, and that’s when something tingles in the back of my head. She’s nervous.
It doesn’t make sense. This isn’t a stressful moment of her work. Not the cakes.
But something about me set her off.
Her eyes dart to the door where Damon and Field stand guard. She acts like she’s lining up a shot of the plastic forks, but her hand is shaking.
Yeah, her hands shouldn’t be like that for forks.
I keep walking, but I watch her. She’s wearing long sleeves, so I can’t see any tats. She’s dressed typical for her work in black pants. She’s got some sort of strap around her that holds extra lenses and pouches for who knows what.
Maybe she’s not used to being around clubs. She could be one hundred percent cager and didn’t know what she got hired for.
I make another pass around the room. The photographer takes some snaps of the flowers on the arch, and that’s when I see it.
Tiny. Subtle. But clearly there behind her ear, visible with her hair up.
A pair of wings connected by a U.
Unholy Wingmen. The photographer’s a plant.
“Damon,” I roar. “Get over here.”
The photographer, to her credit, doesn’t flinch. She takes one more photo like my shout can’t be about her. But she starts walking toward the room where the bridal party is waiting, her hand gripping her camera like it’s a shield.
I move in front of the bride’s door.
Damon and Field are there in a flash.
“Her tat,” I say.
Now she knows I’m on to her. Her hand flies to the Unholy Wingmen’s emblem. She didn’t think to cover it up. Probably forgot about it being there, behind her ear where she never sees it. Big mistake.
Damon jerks her hand down. “Fuck. I hope they hired somebody else to help take pictures or Artemis is going to lose her shit.”
Field snatches the camera from her and slams her up against the wall. “I’ll keep her here. You guys inform Artemis.”
Damon takes the camera. “On it.” He knocks on the door. “Damon coming in.”
I go in behind him. The bride sits on a bench by the window, drinking a glass of champagne. A whole bevy of women in satiny dresses in varying shades of blue fill the room.
“What the hell, Damon?” Artemis says. “This is private time. No Rebels.”
“You hired a Wingmen photographer?”
Artemis stands up. “Of course I did. She’s photographed all the family weddings.”
“She’s Wingmen. We agreed no Wingmen.”
Artemis waves her hand. “She’s like Wingmen adjacent.”
“She’s got a tat. She’s a Wingmen’s ol’ lady or sister or something.”
Artemis’s dark eyebrows draw together. She’s made up to the nines, red lips, sharp lines coming off her eyes. Her veil is big and lacy and flows all the way down her back to the floor. “You think she’ll cause trouble?”
“She will,” Damon says. “She’s probably going to smuggle somebody in!”
Artemis waves her hand in my direction. “You’ve got a whole other club to keep them out. Damon, chill. I have to have a photographer. Just assign someone to watch her.”
“Rumble isn’t going to like this.” Damon crosses his arms over his cut. Rumble is the president of Rebel Death Miami.
“I’ll tell him myself.” She sets down her drink and heads for the door. She’s no sooner flung it open when she cries, “Field! Let her go. Jesus! We’re about to do the first look!”
“What’s the first look?” I ask Damon.
“Fuck if I know,” he says.
We head out of the room, the girls in blue all whispering as we go.
“Give her the camera back!” Artemis shouts. “Right now!”
The photographer is still flat against the wall, her cheek pressed into the wood, Field’s hand on her back.
Artemis takes the camera from him and pulls him away. “Go get Rumble right now!” She pats the photographer’s shoulder. “I am so sorry, Ruby.”
Field growls low and menacingly but heads across the space for the other door.
While we’re waiting, a woman enters the building with a young girl in a pale blue dress.
“Artemis!” the girl cries, running across the space to smash her face into the bride’s gown.
“Hey, baby girl,” Artemis says. “I’m glad you’re here.” She passes the camera back to the photographer and gestures for her to get the shot.
Damon and I step back to get out of the frame. I can put someone on the woman, but I’m interested to see what Rumble says.
Field and a man in black pants, a shiny black shirt, and a Rebel Death cut head our way. They leave the door open, and I spot a bunch of bikers dressed like him drinking whiskey inside.
“What the fuck, Artemis?” Rumble crosses the room. “You hired a Wingmen’s woman for the pictures?”
The little girl shouts, “Daddy!” but her mother pulls her aside.
The photographer backs away from all of them.
“She’s all right,” Artemis insists. “It’s just Ruby. She’s a family friend.”
Rumble’s voice booms in the empty room. “So’s your fucking brother, and they’d torch the place if they got a chance.”
Another man steps out of the room. He’s younger, with short, clipped hair. “Everything all right?”
Artemis whirls around. “Don’t let him see me! We haven’t had our first look!”
Damon and I exchange glances. Now we get it.
Artemis dashes for the bridal room. “You’re ruining everything!” She hurries inside and slams the door.
Rumble turns to his ol’ lady, who has drawn the girl onto her lap. “See if you can scare up a new photographer, will ya?”
The woman nods. “Juliet, you go and be with Artemis, okay? I’ll be there in a minute.”
The girl darts away. The photographer stays against the wall, her eyes a little wild. She’s breathing hard. I don’t think she’s up for club prime time.
My phone buzzes. It’s Hoss.
We got trouble. Twenty bikers just rolled up. Not good odds.
The whole contingent. They aren’t even waiting for the ceremony.
I turn to Rumble. “Get your wife in the bridal room and prepare to block the door. The Wingmen have arrived.”
He nods, but we realize we should have watched the photographer.
The moment Rumble’s ol’ lady is in the room, Ruby swiftly unzips one of her pouches and yanks out a Glock, aiming it at Rumble. “Don’t make a move or I’ll have to blow your head off.”
Oh, it’s on.