Property of Hayride (Kings of Anarchy MC: Ohio #3)

Prologue Hayride

It’s my favorite time of the year. Fall leaves gather on the ground and whip into the air as I ride by, the colors swirling in hues of gold, red, and orange.

I leave a trail of them behind me that I can see in my mirror, and it’s almost nostalgic.

The first time I ever rode a Harley, my dad took me out on a breezy autumn afternoon much like this one.

Cool, crisp wind. The changing leaves. A hint of spice in the air.

It was the best birthday I’ve ever had. I turned eight, and my father might as well have been a superhero with the awe I felt as we traveled the same worn road I was on now.

That was a hell of a long time ago, but it still hit hard.

Life had gotten a lot more complicated than I ever could have imagined at the innocent and tender age of eight.

My life had shifted gears. I rode with the Kings of Anarchy MC, and I took the same spot my father had vacated when the arthritis in his hands made it impossible to ride.

Now, I ride every fucking day. For him and the life he loved and had been stolen from him. For me, because I love my knees in the breeze and the wind in my hair. For the thrill that shoots through me every time I’m on my bike and hasn’t gone away since my first ride at age eight.

It’s like the air in my lungs and the blood in my veins. A necessity. Vitality I need to keep my heart beating.

This ride is like so many others I’ve taken in the early morning—just a cup of coffee, my Harley, and the empty road. Memories of similar mornings with my father, Roadrunner, are fresh in my mind.

I’ve traveled this stretch of pavement most of my life. As a child. A rebellious teen. And now, a man, and member of the same club my father still loves and supports. It’s a full-circle type of moment that fills my chest with pride.

In honor of my dad, I’m listening to some of his favorite songs. Even though he’s in good health, he’s getting older. It’s a fact of life, and there’s no stopping it. Someday, I’ll be in his place.

Maybe. Not sure I ever want to settle down and find an ol’ lady. But the thought of not having a son of my own to pass down this legacy makes me feel like I’ll be failing my dad somehow.

A call comes through my AirPods and interrupts the song that’s playing. I double-tap to answer the call and hear my father’s voice. “Hey. On the road, Pops.”

“I hear ya. You stopping by for breakfast?”

“You offering? Because I can already smell the biscuits and sausage gravy.”

“Then get home, son. It’s already gettin’ cold.”

My music starts back up as he ends the call, and I laugh. My dad doesn’t like to stick around on the phone. He’s the type that gets right to the point and then clicks off before you realize he’s gone. I think it’s funny. Shows his personality.

I take a left at the next intersection and head toward my childhood home. It’s still the same property. My parents love that house, and it sits on ten acres. They’ll never sell.

The sun is starting to climb higher in the sky, and that’s when I notice something strange up ahead. There’s a bend in the road in front of me, and I slow down as I approach. My bike rolls to a stop as I stare at the scene in front of me.

At first, I don’t believe what I’m seeing. There’s no fucking way this is what I think it is. It has to be a prank.

It’s not.

There’s a rope dangling from a thick, round limb. The loop is tethered around a man’s neck. He’s just swaying in the fucking breeze, his skin a sickly pale gray. Eyes open, he’s not seeing shit because he’s dead.

Fuck.

I dial Scythe, my president’s number, as my bike idles in the middle of the road. I’m not worried about anyone getting pissy I’m there because once they see the body, I won’t be an issue. So far, no one is on the road, and I hope it stays that way.

Scythe answers after a few rings. I probably woke him up. “Yeah?”

“Pres, we have a problem.”

“What is it?”

“There’s a dead man hanging from a tree on Cemetery Road.”

Ironic. Or maybe not.

There is a graveyard further down the road, a few miles, but here, there’s nothing but a thick cluster of trees that cover a popular hill.

“You fucking kidding me?” Scythe asks, sounding both groggy and annoyed.

Yeah, I woke him up.

“No.” I leave my bike in the road and walk closer to inspect the body. It’s not a local. Tourist, probably. It’s not good for us. It’ll have people asking questions and poking their noses in Raven’s Crest and the club’s business.

“Give me a minute. Lottie is sleeping.”

As I get closer to the body, I see that he’s been slashed repeatedly with a knife. His intestines are falling out as a result of the injuries, and the scavengers have already begun to feast on him. I can tell he’s been out here for hours.

“Shit, Pres. He’s been tortured.”

“Tell me it’s not a local.”

“We don’t know him. A loner or a tourist.”

“Stay there and wait for me. I’m calling Boomer and heading your way.”

“I’ll be here, Pres.”

When the call ends, I take out my AirPods and store them. That’s when I hear how quiet it is—just the wind. No birds.

It’s odd until I realize I’m not alone. There’s no sense of danger, so it’s not the killer or killers here. I feel the buzz from a mystical presence.

“Hayride,” a familiar female voice greets me.

I lower my head with respect briefly and then lift my chin. “Granny Jo.”

“The council will want to meet with Scythe.” Her gaze isn’t on me, but the man dangling from the end of a rope.

“I’ll let him know.”

“Tell him noon at the Emporium.”

I nod. “As you wish.”

“Get him cut down before he begins to stink.”

“Already on it.”

She walks away and disappears into the forest.

It’s not long before Scythe arrives. Boomer is with him.

“Pres. Boomer.”

Scythe shakes his head. “Motherfucker.”

Boomer sighs. “This is gonna be a lot of paperwork.”

“Granny Jo says the witches want to meet at the Mystic at noon. I’m guessing you’ll have to face the whole council after this.”

“She showed up already?”

“Yep,” I confirm.

“Goddammit.” Scythe shakes his head. “I need more coffee.”

Boomer is staring at the dead man. “This looks familiar. The same slash marks. Entrails exposed. Swinging from a large limb.”

“And?” Scythe asks.

“It’s the same as the Hillside Stalker.”

“We’ve got a copycat,” I murmur. “Shit.”

“Looks like it. You’ll need to tell all the members. This has to be contained. We don’t want to freak out the town or piss off the witches.”

Boomer is right.

If someone is picking up where the infamous serial killer Rayford Allen left off, we’ve got a big fucking problem.

Raven’s Crest is about to be famous again, and it won’t be for the thrills or Fear Farm.

It’ll be a killer and the hanging bodies that do it.