Chapter Eight
Ace
The numbers on the invoice stopped making sense somewhere around the third line item.
Shapes blurred across the page as my focus drifted back to black sedans, threats delivered in a calm voice, and the way Mercer spoke Marci’s name like ownership.
The office around me felt smaller than usual.
Framed photographs, filing cabinets crammed full of records, and the faint buzz of the overhead light pressed down on my patience.
The phone rang, cutting through the quiet. I answered without thinking, expecting a routine delivery question.
“Broken Spoke, this is Ace.”
“Hey, Ace. Bill from Premium Distributors.” His voice sounded… wrong. Careful in a way I had never heard from him. Formal. Bill never started a call like this. Three years of business usually kicked off with a joke or a rant about traffic.
“What can I do for you?” I kept my tone neutral, though tension had already coiled in my stomach.
“Man, I’m really sorry about this. You’ve been a great account. Always pay on time. Never any problems.” He paused long enough for me to hear his breathing. “We have to cancel your account. Effective immediately.”
The words hit like steel. I straightened in my chair.
“What? Why?”
“Corporate decision. Nothing personal.”
“Bill, drop that line. You and I have worked together too long for meaningless excuses. Tell me what’s going on.”
Another long pause. When he spoke again, his voice dropped.
“A detective visited our main office yesterday. Oakridge PD. Said he’s investigating possible connections between our delivery routes and organized crime. Suggested continued business with The Broken Spoke would bring extra scrutiny. Audits. License reviews.”
Mercer. Of course.
“He threatened you,” I said.
“He never used that word. Didn’t need to. Message came through loud and clear. I have employees and a business to protect, Ace. I can’t risk everything for one account. I really am sorry.”
I understood. I hated it, but I understood. Mercer had found a pressure point and pushed. Quiet intimidation, no paperwork, no visible fingerprints. This was how institutional power destroyed people: silent conversations, not dramatic raids.
“Yeah,” I forced out. “I get it.”
“Good luck, man. I hope you nail that bastard.”
The line went dead. I stayed there holding the receiver, frozen in place, listening to the dial tone. The photographs on the wall stared back, reminders of brothers who’d built this bar from nothing. Mercer was tearing every achievement to pieces one phone call at a time.
I slammed down the receiver. The desk rattled. Satisfaction lasted three heartbeats before reality returned. No distributor meant no stock. No stock meant no operational bar. Any future distributor would face the same pressure.
This attack focused on more than me. Mercer aimed at Marci by crushing everything she cared about.
Footsteps approached the office. The door opened and Marci walked in carrying the mail. She paused when she saw my face.
“What happened?”
I pointed at the phone. Words stuck behind adrenaline and rage.
She placed the mail on the desk, movements steady and cautious. She had learned to read my temper, even though I had pretty good control over it most days.
“Ace. Talk to me.”
“Bill from Premium Distributors canceled our account. Mercer visited their office and made sure doing business with us would trigger investigations.”
Color drained from her face. She gripped the desk for support.
“No. He can’t --”
“He can. He already did.” I inhaled slowly, forcing myself to stay measured. “His strategy isolates people. Cuts off support until there’s nothing left.”
She swallowed hard, snatched the stack of mail, and ripped into the envelopes. A letter from the health department surfaced, and she extended the page in my direction.
“This came today.”
A notice of inspection. Scheduled for this afternoon. Letter dated three days earlier. “Surprise inspection. Timed perfectly.”
Marci’s voice shook. “He’s coordinating every move. Distributor first. Now the inspection.”
The front door opened before I could answer, which meant I’d been careless and forgotten to lock it. Footsteps crossed the main floor. A man in a suit jacket appeared in the hallway carrying a clipboard.
“I’m here from the health department,” he called. “Mr. Ardis?”
I stood, forced control over every movement, and stepped into the bar. Marci followed, keeping distance so she would not block me.
The inspector waited near the tables, a thin man in his fifties, eyes down, posture tense. He clutched the clipboard like armor.
“I need to examine the kitchen, storage, and bar operations. Standard procedure.”
Same phrase the officers used two days ago. Nothing about this resembled standard.
I escorted him through the bar. He checked temperatures in the walk-in cooler. Examined hand-washing stations. Reviewed storage. Every area met high standards. Years of spotless inspections proved the truth.
He wrote violations anyway.
A narrow gap between wall molding and the floor counted as possible pest access.
A worn rubber seal called for replacement.
A faint crack on a bottle counted as contamination risk.
Each tiny issue went into the report. His hands shook.
His pen scratched frantically across the page. He never made eye contact.
He finished nearly an hour later. The report landed in my hand.
“Official notice will arrive within three days. Violations require immediate correction.”
“These findings hold no truth.” I kept my tone steady. “You know that.”
He flinched. “The violations are documented according to health code regulations. You can appeal.”
“How much pressure did Mercer apply? What did he threaten you with?”
His face drained of color. “No idea what you’re talking about. Routine inspection.”
His voice trembled on the lie. He nearly ran out of the bar.
Silence swallowed the room. Marci stood near the center, still wearing my jacket. Her voice came out hoarse.
“He won’t stop. He wants to destroy everything.”
I walked to her, placed my hands on her shoulders.
“Then we give him something to fight. We start pushing back.”
She jerked away. Her body stiffened. Her new boots, a gift from the club, struck the floor as she paced. The Savage Raptors insignia on the jacket caught the weak afternoon light.
“Fighting back guarantees failure. You heard the inspector. You lost your distributor. Mercer is only warming up.”
“So the solution becomes surrender?”
“My solution saves you. Saves the club. Saves everyone you care about.” She spun toward me. “I brought this to you. I allowed protection from you. Now you’re paying for my choice. The bar, the brothers, you… everyone stands in his line of fire because of me.”
She truly believed every word. She believed we would regret loving her.
“Mercer chose violence, harassment, and fear. You never caused any of those choices.”
“I gave him a reason!” Her voice rose. “If I leave town, he’ll chase me instead of destroying you.”
I stepped behind the bar and planted my hands on the counter to keep from grabbing her.
“He catches you alone next time. No brothers. No backup. No safe house. His goal becomes complete control. Leaving gives him everything he wants.”
“At least only I get hurt.” She resumed pacing, agitation in every movement. “Mr. Henderson lost his home for helping me. Lori from the diner lost her job and her kids for giving me extra shifts. I can’t watch you go through the same thing.”
“Running keeps him in your life permanently. Every new town becomes another battlefield.”
She froze. Anger and grief warred across her face. “Then offer a better solution. He’s a decorated detective carrying connections across three states. You own a bar and stand beside a motorcycle club already monitored by cops. A war against someone like him doesn’t end in your favor.”
I forced myself to circle around the bar and face her directly. “We win by telling the truth. By gathering evidence. By --”
“Evidence takes months. Investigations take longer. His uncle protects him. His badge protects him. And by the time a single allegation sticks, he will have destroyed everything.”
She moved closer. Fire and fear burned together behind her eyes. “You don’t understand what he’ll do. He manufactures evidence. He plants drugs. He sets people up for arrests. He twists records until someone looks guilty. He will throw you in jail and take me the moment you can’t stop him.”
Her panic washed away the last of my doubt. She feared prison for me more than anything Mercer could do to her physically.
Before I could answer, my phone rang. Spade’s name lit the screen.
“Hold that thought.” I answered. “Yeah?”
“Get to the clubhouse right now,” Spade said. “Information on Mercer. You need to hear this immediately.”
I hung up and met Marci’s gaze. “We’re going.”
Nothing between us had been resolved. Her plan to run remained, as did my refusal to let her leave. Mercer pushed closer every hour.
“This conversation isn’t finished,” I said.
“I know.” She adjusted the jacket and headed for the door. “Maybe Spade found something that changes everything.”
I prayed she spoke the truth. Keeping her from running felt like holding back the ocean using bare hands. Losing her terrified me more than anything Mercer could threaten.
* * *
The back room of the clubhouse carried its usual scent of leather softened by age, gasoline embedded in concrete, and cigarette smoke that never completely faded. Fluorescent lights washed the room in harsh white, giving every hard expression a sharper edge.
The heavy wooden table commanded the center, scarred from decades of decision-making and arguments nobody walked away from clean.
Atilla sat at the head, braid over one shoulder and eyes sharp.
General leaned against the far wall, arms crossed.
Spade sat opposite Atilla, manila folders and printed photographs spread across the battered surface.