Chesapeake's Fire (Charm City Killers MC #7)

Chapter One

The skiff was running dark through the cove south of Sparrows Point, which meant the idiots inside it had something to hide.

Chesapeake cut his boat's engine to idle and let the current carry him closer, reading the tide the way his father taught him thirty years ago.

Tide was going out. Wind from the southeast. The skiff would drift toward the shallows in about four minutes if they kept their present heading, and the rocks there had torn the bottom out of better boats than whatever piece of shit those thieves were running.

"Two in the skiff," Dredge said from beside him, binoculars pressed to his eyes. "Maybe a third lying down. They've got the outboards stacked in the stern—riding low."

"Stolen motors." Chesapeake spat over the gunwale. "Running them through our water."

"Bold."

"Stupid." He pushed the throttle forward, and the boat's engine roared to life.

The men in the skiff heard it a second too late. By the time they got their own motor cranked, Chesapeake was already cutting across their bow, close enough that his wake rocked them sideways. One of them stumbled against the pile of outboard motors and nearly went over the side.

Chesapeake brought his boat alongside and killed the engine again, letting momentum carry him the last few feet.

Chesapeake stood at the gunwale, six feet of weathered muscle built by decades on the bay, the scars on his hands silver in the moonlight.

Thirty years of crabbing lines and trap wire had marked him.

"Evening, gentlemen." His voice carried across the water, flat and patient. Crabs didn't hurry, and neither did he. "Nice night for a run."

The three men in the skiff looked at each other. The one in front—skinny guy with a Ravens cap pulled low—tried to find his balls. "We're just fishing, man. Mind your business."

"See, that's the thing." Chesapeake rested his forearms on the gunwale, casual as Sunday morning. "This is my business. These waters belong to the Charm City Killers. Which means anything moving through them after dark without permission is my business."

Ravens Cap went pale. The name did that to people.

"We didn't know—"

"You knew." Dredge had moved to the bow of their boat, and now he was close enough to step across if he wanted. His harbor diver's build blocked out the stars behind him. "Everyone on this bay knows. You just figured you wouldn't get caught."

The third man—older, harder-looking, with dock worker's hands—made a move toward something at his hip.

Chesapeake had his Glock out before the man's fingers touched metal. "Don't."

The man froze.

"Here's how this works," Chesapeake said, his voice still calm, still patient, carrying the certainty of a man who'd spent his whole life reading weather and water and men who thought they were clever.

"You're going to hand over those motors.

Then you're going to answer some questions about who you stole them from and who you're delivering them to.

And then maybe— maybe —you get to keep breathing. "

"And if we don't?" Ravens Cap asked, his voice cracking.

Chesapeake smiled. It wasn't a nice smile.

"Then you go swimming. And I don't think you'll like what's at the bottom of this cove."

The older man moved again, faster this time—pulled a knife from somewhere and lunged across the pile of motors toward Dredge.

Dredge caught his wrist, twisted, and the knife went spinning into the black water. A second later, the man followed it, hitting the surface with a splash that sent the skiff rocking.

"Swim to shore," Dredge said, watching the man thrash. "It's only a quarter mile. If you're lucky, you'll make it before the cold takes you."

The two remaining thieves didn't move. Didn't speak. Barely breathed.

Chesapeake stepped across onto their skiff, his weight making the small boat dip dangerously.

He moved through them like they weren't there, checking the stolen motors—six Mercury outboards, probably worth eight grand total on the black market.

He recognized the serial number pattern from a marina in Middle River that had gotten hit last week.

"Get off." He jerked his thumb toward his boat. "Both of you. Dredge is going to ask you some questions while I deal with this cargo."

They climbed across like beaten dogs, neither one meeting his eyes. The older guy was still splashing somewhere in the dark, his curses getting fainter as the current carried him toward shore.

Chesapeake tied a line to the skiff's bow and towed it behind them as Dredge headed for the Sparrows Point marina. The ride took twenty minutes, and by the time they got there, Stevedore was waiting on the dock with a panel van backed up to the water.

"Six motors," Chesapeake said, tossing the line to the big enforcer. "Middle River job."

Stevedore caught it one-handed, his docker's build making the motion look effortless. "I know a guy who'll take them. Give the marina owner a call, work out a finder's fee."

"Do that."

The two thieves went into the van with Dredge. Chesapeake didn't ask where they were going. Didn't need to. The Killers had places for asking questions, and the harbor had places for disposing of people who gave wrong answers.

He climbed off the boat and onto the dock, salt water squelching in his boots.

The night was warm for April, the air thick with the smell of the bay—that mix of brine and diesel and rotting vegetation that other people wrinkled their noses at but he'd never been able to wash out of his lungs. Didn't want to.

The bay was in his blood. Had been since he was twelve years old, hauling crab pots alongside his father on a boat that had belonged to his grandfather before that. Three generations of Brooks men working the Chesapeake.

Until the inspectors came.

He pushed that thought down where it belonged—in the dark, with all the other things he didn't let himself think about—and straddled his bike. The Harley rumbled to life beneath him, and he followed Stevedore's taillights off the marina lot and onto the road that led back to Fell's Point.

The ride took them through Dundalk's industrial sprawl, past the ghost of Bethlehem Steel and the container ports that had replaced it, then along the waterfront where the city's old working-class neighborhoods gave way to the gentrified boutiques of Canton.

Chesapeake rode with the harbor on his left, always visible, always pulling at something in his chest.

The compound appeared ahead—converted warehouse on a corner lot, three stories of Fell's Point brick with the club's logo painted on the side where it could be seen from the water. He pulled into the gated lot beside a row of other Harleys and killed his engine.

Inside, the clubhouse was doing a slow Tuesday night.

A few brothers at the bar, Natty Boh neon casting everything in amber, the smell of stale beer and engine grease permanent in the walls.

The bar itself was built from reclaimed ship timber—had probably been part of a schooner once, before someone salvaged it and turned it into a place where killers drank.

Chesapeake dropped onto a stool and raised two fingers at the prospect behind the bar. A bottle appeared in front of him, already open, already sweating condensation in the humid air.

"Heard you went fishing," Beltway said, sliding onto the stool beside him.

The club's road captain looked like what he was—a former state trooper who'd seen too much and quit before it turned him into something worse than the criminals he'd chased.

The 695 beltway tattooed around his bicep caught the light as he reached for his own beer.

"Caught some rats," Chesapeake said. "Running stolen motors through the cove."

"Serrano's people?"

"Don't think so. Just opportunists. Dredge is asking them about it now."

Beltway nodded, his eyes drifting to the window and the harbor beyond. "Been hearing things about Serrano. He's expanding his water routes, pushing into new territory."

"He's got no club permission."

"No. He doesn't."

Chesapeake drank his beer and watched the harbor through the window.

The water was black at this hour, just the lights of container ships moving slow against the darkness.

Somewhere out there, Marco Serrano was running contraband through channels that belonged to the Killers—guns, stolen goods, people who needed to disappear.

Using the Chesapeake like it was his personal highway.

"He's going to push too far," Chesapeake said. "Men like him always do."

"And when he does?"

Chesapeake finished his beer and set the bottle down with a soft click.

"Then I'll be there to remind him whose water he's swimming in."

He stayed at the bar another hour, watching the harbor, reading the weather out of habit even though he was thirty miles from his crabbing grounds.

Old instincts died hard. The bay had taught him to watch for storms before they arrived, to read the signs that other men missed, to know when the water was about to turn deadly.

The signs were there now. He could feel it.

Something was coming.

And when it did, the Charm City Killers would be ready.