Jackson (Bastard Kings MC #3)

Chapter One

Jackson’s gaze swept over the wreckage, noting the surgical precision of the entry with a growing sense of unease.

The locks hadn't just been picked; they had been bypassed with a level of technical skill that suggested the Iron Vipers were stepping up their game. His jaw clenched, the muscles working beneath his thick, salt-and-pepper beard. As the Vice President of the Bastard Kings MC, he was responsible for the protection of these local businesses. Seeing the store in this state felt like a personal failure, a stain on the club’s reputation that he wouldn't allow to stand.

He moved toward the back entrance, his gait steady and full of coiled energy.

Every step felt like a move on a chessboard, his strategic mind already cataloging the evidence.

The alarm wires had been cut cleanly, and the security camera in the alley was draped with a black cloth.

Professionals, he thought, his pulse quickening with a cold, controlled fury.

He pushed the heavy steel door open, the hinges groaning in protest, and stepped out into the cool morning air.

The alley was a labyrinth of shadows and damp brick, smelling of wet pavement and old garbage.

Jackson paused, his senses on high alert.

That was when he saw her. A woman with a wild mane of auburn curls was crouched near a dumpster, a professional-grade camera pressed to her face.

The shutter clicked rapidly—a mechanical heartbeat in the stillness.

She was dressed in fitted jeans that hugged every curve and a leather jacket that looked like it had seen its fair share of miles.

“The party’s over, darlin’,” Jackson rumbled, his voice a low, dangerous gravel that usually sent people running. “Unless you want to explain why you’re trespassing on a crime scene.”

The woman didn't jump. She didn't even flinch.

She slowly lowered the camera, revealing sharp green eyes behind stylish glasses.

She stood up with a confident stride that told Jackson she wasn't afraid of the massive, tattooed man looming over her. This was Larkin Jones, the investigative journalist who had been poking her nose into Silverlake’s business since she rolled into town.

Jackson had heard the rumors of the blacklisted reporter from the city, but seeing her in the flesh was a different beast entirely.

“It’s a public alley, Jackson,” Larkin replied, her voice sharp and laced with a sarcastic edge.

“And last I checked, you don't wear a badge. Though you certainly have the ‘tough guy’ routine down to a science. Do you practice that scowl in the mirror, or does it just come naturally with the leather cut?”

Jackson took a step forward, closing the distance until he was inches from her.

He used his size to dominate the space, his broad shoulders blocking out the morning sun.

He could smell the faint scent of vanilla and ink clinging to her, a sharp contrast to the grit of the alleyway.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Larkin.

This isn't some city council meeting you can disrupt with a witty remark. This is club business.”

Larkin didn't back down. She tilted her head back to meet his gaze, a defiant spark in her eyes. “Club business? You mean the businesses you’re supposed to be protecting? Because from where I’m standing, Miller’s looks like a total loss.

I’ve been tracking these heists for three weeks, long before your club even realized there was a leak in the plumbing.

I’m not here for a quote; I’m here for the truth. ”

The air between them crackled with an immediate, antagonistic electricity.

Jackson felt a surge of annoyance mixed with an unwanted flicker of respect.

Most people folded under his stare, but Larkin Jones was digging in her heels.

She was a distraction he didn't need, a firebrand who was going to get herself killed if she kept chasing the Vipers.

“Stay out of it,” Jackson warned, his voice dropping to a predatory whisper. “The Kings handle their own. If I catch you lurking around here again, I won't be so polite. You’re over your head, and the water in Silverlake is deeper than you think.”

Larkin smirked, a flash of white teeth against her freckled skin.

She raised her camera and snapped a photo of him, the flash momentarily blinding him.

“I’ve always been a good swimmer, Jackson.

Thanks for the concern, though. It’s almost sweet.

” She turned on her heel and walked away, her hips swaying with a confidence that made Jackson’s grip tighten on his leather vest. He watched her go, his mind a whirlwind of frustration and a sudden, sharp heat in his gut that had nothing to do with the investigation.

He turned back toward the store, finding Mr. Miller standing by the broken display case.

The old man’s hands were trembling as he swept up the glass.

When Jackson approached, Miller didn't look relieved. He looked terrified. His eyes darted to the club insignia on Jackson’s chest and then back to the floor.

It wasn't the fear of a victim; it was the fear of a man caught between two monsters.

The realization hit Jackson like a physical blow.

The hardware store owner wasn't just scared of the thieves—he was terrified of the Bastard Kings.

Jackson left the store shortly after, the weight of the interaction settling heavy in his chest. He mounted his bike, the roar of the engine echoing through the streets as he headed toward The Iron Sight Bar.

The clubhouse was the heart of their operations, a place where the air was always thick with the smell of grease, stale beer, and brotherhood.

Inside, the dim lighting and the low hum of the refrigerator provided a familiar comfort.

Jackson found Sinner, the Club President, sitting at the far end of the bar.

Sinner was a mountain of a man, his presence enough to command any room without saying a word.

He looked up as Jackson approached, his ice-blue eyes reading the tension in his Vice President’s posture.

“Miller’s got hit,” Jackson said, dropping onto a stool. He signaled the bartender for a drink, his knuckles white against the wood. “Clean job. Too clean. They knew exactly where the cameras were and how to kill the silent alarm.”

Sinner leaned back, his leather cut creaking. “The Vipers?”

“Most likely,” Jackson replied, taking a long pull of his drink.

“But they’re getting help. Someone on the inside is feeding them blueprints or security codes.

And to make matters worse, that journalist, Larkin Jones, was already at the scene.

She’s been tracking the thefts, Sinner. She thinks she knows more than we do. ”

Sinner let out a low, gravelly chuckle. “The one with the curls? She’s got balls, I’ll give her that. But she’s a liability. We can't have her splashing the club’s business all over the front page, especially if Whitaker is looking for a reason to squeeze us.”

Jackson nodded, but his mind drifted back to the alley.

He could still see the way the sunlight caught the auburn in her hair and the defiant tilt of her chin.

He remembered the way her jeans had hugged her curves as she walked away, a sharp, annoying image that he couldn't seem to shake.

He had spent years building walls around his life, focusing on the club and the code of the road.

He didn't have room for a headstrong journalist who looked at him like he was a problem to be solved rather than a man to be feared.

“I’ll handle her,” Jackson said, his voice firm. He wasn't sure if he was convincing Sinner or himself. “And I’ll find out who’s talking to the Vipers. Miller was shaking like a leaf, and it wasn't because of the robbery. Something is rotten in this town, and I’m going to dig it out.”

Sinner watched him for a moment, a knowing look in his eyes. “Just don't get too close to the fire, Jackson. You might find out you like the burn.”

Jackson didn't answer. He finished his drink and stood up, the resolve hardening within him.

The Bastard Kings didn't lose territory, and they didn't lose face.

He would protect Silverlake, and he would neutralize the threat posed by Larkin Jones.

But as he walked out of the bar, the memory of her green eyes haunted him, a flicker of hope and danger in the darkness of the coming storm.