Spade (Savage Raptors MC #8)

Chapter One

Spade

The numbers weren’t adding up. I tapped my pen against the ledger, scanning column after column in the dim corner of the clubhouse.

The bar had always been a legitimate source of clean profit for the club for years.

Now we were barely breaking even. Something was off -- had been for months now.

I just couldn’t put my finger on why. The other brothers were too busy getting drunk and losing money at cards to notice me flipping back through three months of transactions, searching for the inconsistency that kept me awake at night.

“Fuck you and the horse you rode in on!” Tinker slammed his cards down while General cackled, raking in the pot.

I ignored them, focused on the columns of revenue from The Broken Spoke. The numbers dipped on the same days every month. Not enough to raise immediate alarms, but enough to make me suspicious.

Wildcard belched loudly, reaching for the bottle of Jack. “Spade, quit with the bookkeeping and get over here. You’re missing seeing Stinger lose his shirt.”

“Pass.” I didn’t look up.

The clubhouse reeked of whiskey, cigarettes, and decades of ingrained leather.

Trophy photos of bikes and brothers long gone covered the walls, watching over us like ghosts.

The overhead light flickered, making the numbers dance on the page.

I rubbed my eyes. Two a.m. was no time for accounting, but my gut said something needed fixing.

The front door crashed open, sending a blast of cold air through the room. Every head snapped up. Mine included.

Five-foot-nothing, dressed in jeans and a leather jacket with no club colors.

Chestnut hair yanked back in a tight ponytail, and eyes that scanned the room with purpose, not fear.

She clutched a manila folder to her chest like it contained state secrets.

How the hell had she gotten past the guards at the gates?

Why had they let her in? She didn’t belong here.

The card game froze. General’s hand drifted to his waistband. Stinger pushed back his chair. Tinker’s expression darkened to something dangerous.

“Club’s closed, sweetheart.” Wildcard stood, blocking her path. “Members only.”

She didn’t back down. Didn’t even blink. “I need to speak with Atilla.”

Using our President’s name -- his real name, not his title -- was either brave as hell or stupid as fuck. I set my pen down silently, watching.

“Don’t know who you’re talking about.” Tinker circled behind her, cutting off her escape route. “Think you took a wrong turn.”

“Atilla. Your President.” She adjusted her grip on the folder. “Tell him Lila Mercer is here. He’ll want to hear what I have to say.”

Stinger’s laugh held no humor. “Oh, yeah? And what’s so important that you think you can walk in here in the middle of the night?”

“That’s between me and Atilla.” Her voice didn’t waver, but I caught the slight shift in her stance -- weight on the balls of her feet, ready to jump if needed.

General step closer, towering over her. “Nothing happens in this clubhouse without going through us first. So either start talking or start walking.”

“How do you even know that name?” Wildcard demanded, stepping into her personal space.

I watched her pulse jump at her throat -- the only visible sign of fear. She was smart enough to be scared but determined enough not to show it.

“I’ll wait.” She lifted her chin.

“No, you won’t.” Tinker’s hand landed heavy on her shoulder. “You’ll tell us who sent you, or --”

“Don’t touch me.” She shrugged his hand off with a sharp movement.

The brothers exchanged looks. This wasn’t some random badge or club bunny who’d wandered in. This woman knew things she shouldn’t.

I stood slowly, not approaching but making my presence felt. The movement drew her gaze to me for the first time. Something flashed across her face -- recognition, maybe. She hadn’t noticed me in the shadows before.

“Last chance.” General moved in closer, now fully blocking her path. “Who the fuck are you, and how do you know that name?”

The brothers formed a tight semi-circle around her, her back to the wall. Tinker cracked his knuckles. Stinger rested his hand on his knife hilt. Wildcard stood with his arms crossed, blocking the door.

“I told you. My name is Lila Mercer.” She didn’t raise her voice, making them lean in to hear her. Smart. “And I know exactly who runs the Savage Raptors.”

Her words hit like bullets. Nobody outside our immediate circle used our club name together with Atilla’s. The implications hung heavy in the air.

“Search her,” General growled.

Wildcard reached for the folder. “Hand it over, sweetheart.”

She clutched it tighter. “No. This is for Atilla’s eyes only.”

“Wrong answer.” Tinker grabbed her arm.

“I said, don’t touch me.” She wrenched away, her back hitting the wall. For the first time, I saw fear flash across her face, quickly replaced by anger and determination.

I still hadn’t moved from my spot. Something about this woman didn’t add up. She wasn’t law -- too direct, no backup. Wasn’t from a rival club -- no colors, wrong attitude. Someone with insider knowledge, then.

“You boys playing nice?” a female voice called from the hallway leading to the back rooms. One of the club girls peered in, took in the scene, and raised her eyebrows. “Should I get Atilla?”

“No need,” General said, not taking his eyes off Lila. “This little lady was just leaving.”

“Actually,” Lila said clearly, “I’m not going anywhere until I speak with him.”

Nobody gave ultimatums in our clubhouse. Wildcard leaned in, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Listen carefully. You’ve got three seconds to walk out that door, or --”

“Or what?” she challenged. “You’ll give me the same treatment you gave the Heathens last month? When their shipment mysteriously got intercepted? Or maybe like the Scorpions in June?”

The room went dead silent. Those actions were club business. Private business. I finally spoke, my voice cutting through the tension. “Who are you working for?”

Her gaze locked with mine. “No one. Not anymore.”

The sound of a door opening from the back hallway silenced whatever reply was coming. Heavy bootsteps approached. The brothers shifted, still surrounding her but making room for whatever was coming next.

She held my gaze, then nodded toward the folder in her hands. “The answers you’re looking for, VP. They’re all right here.”

* * *

Atilla filled the doorway like he filled the President’s patch -- completely.

Silver hair braided tight against his skull, face weathered from decades of riding hard.

At seventy-something, he still commanded respect with nothing but a look.

The room went cemetery quiet as he surveyed the scene, his gaze finding mine briefly before settling on our unexpected visitor.

“What’s this?” His voice carried the weight of authority without raising an octave.

The brothers remained still, watching everyone’s reactions.

Lila Mercer straightened her spine. “Mr. Atilla. Thank you for seeing me.”

His eyebrow rose slightly at the formal address. “Don’t believe we’ve met.”

“We haven’t. My name is Lila Mercer.” She clutched the folder tighter against her chest. “I worked for the Iron Horsemen until three days ago.”

The temperature in the room plummeted. The Iron Horsemen were our biggest rivals two counties over.

Wildcard lunged forward. “Fucking spy!”

Atilla raised one hand. The motion was slight, but Wildcard froze like he’d hit a wall.

“Go on,” Atilla told her.

She took a deep breath. “Someone in your club is feeding information to the Horsemen. Routes. Shipment details. Supplier names.”

The explosion was instantaneous.

“Bullshit!” Tinker roared.

“Fucking lying bitch!” Stinger snarled.

General grabbed a chair, sent it flying across the room.

Through the chaos, I watched her. She flinched at the chair crash but held her ground. Her gaze darted between the enraged men surrounding her, but she didn’t back down. Calculated courage.

Atilla let them rage for exactly five seconds before speaking. “Enough.”

The word wasn’t shouted, but the brothers shut up like he’d pulled their plugs.

Lila held out the manila folder with steady hands. “I have proof.” She moved to the nearest table, spreading papers in organized fashion. Bank statements. Ledger pages. Transaction logs. Some originals, some copies. All marked with a highlighter and neat handwritten notes.

“These are payments -- transfers from the Horsemen’s accounts.” She pointed to specific lines. “Coded, of course, but consistent. Ten thousand on April 3rd. Five on April 17th. Fifteen on May 2nd.”

I recognized those dates. The gun shipment that never arrived. The drug run that got raided. The meeting where our supplier never showed.

“Coincidence,” Wildcard spat.

“Is it?” She pulled out another paper. “These are notes from their President’s private ledger. Dates. Times. Drop points.”

The brothers crowded around, their anger now mixed with growing unease. I hung back, watching faces. Listening for what wasn’t being said. “How’d you get access to their books?” I finally asked.

Her gaze met mine. “I was their accountant. They didn’t watch what they said around me. Didn’t think I’d understand what I was seeing.”

“And now you’re here out of the goodness of your heart?” General sneered.

A tight smile. “No. I’m here because I asked too many questions. They tried to kill me.”

For the first time, I noticed the bruises she’d tried to cover with makeup.

“These are the dates and coordinates from their ledger.” She pointed to a column of numbers. I recognized the data. Dates and GPS coordinates. “And these are the dates your operations failed.”

Atilla studied the papers with the focus of a hawk spotting a field mouse.

“You’ve been compromised for at least eight months.” Her voice remained professional, but I caught the slight tremor in her hands as she arranged another document. “Someone close to you. Someone with access to your planning.”