Chapter 2
My stomach heaves. I lurch forward, hanging over the edge of the bed as my body threatens to expel my last meal. In my panic, I tilt too far and barely manage to get my arms out in front of me before I hit the floor with a painful thump.
“Fuck,” I mutter as I roll onto my back.
God. Fucking. Dammit.
Heart pounding in a violent flurry of punches against my ribcage, I drag my hands down my sweaty face and suck in a big gulp of air.
Deep breaths.
My phone rings. I ignore it.
That fucking dream. Her fucking face. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the images to go away. They only become clearer. Dead eyes. Dead Emily.
Deep. Fucking. Breaths.
More ringing. Reaching up, I run my hand over my nightstand, fumbling for my phone. When I find it, I slap my hand down on the screen until the sound stops.
Big breath in. Big breath out.
Dreams of Emily always make for shit sleep.
The car, the argument. Her unbuckling her seat belt.
That fucking song. Same dream, same feelings after.
Or maybe they’re different now. Before, it was all guilt and blame.
Now I’m pissed off. Or maybe I’m tired. Tired of seeing her face, of not fucking sleeping.
I press my palms to my eyes and let out another long breath.
My phone rings again. This time when I reach for it, I accept the call. “Yeah, what?”
“Decker?”
I rough a hand down my face as my partner’s voice scratches at my skull. “Why do you always do that?”
He’s silent for a second, like he doesn’t understand the question. “Do what?”
“Say my name when you call me like you’re not sure it’s me. It’s always gonna be me on the other end, Miller. Because you fucking called me.”
He snorts. “You’re in a fantastic mood.”
“What do you need?”
“Wondering where you are,” he says, the words garbled like he’s got food in his mouth.
My stomach does another uncomfortable twist. I jerk my phone away from my ear to check the time. It’s only three thirty. Still got plenty of time to work out, shower, eat, get to the station before shift, and then?—
Oh .
Shit. What day is it? Shit. Shit.
“Fuck.” I jump to my feet and stumble to the window, then throw open my blackout curtains. “They start yet?” I ask, squinting as my eyes adjust to the afternoon sun.
“Nope. But you better get here quick. Wells is asking for you.”
“Yeah? And what did you tell him?” I put my phone on speaker as I rifle through the pile of laundry on my bedroom floor. I find my shirt and pants, then pull off my sweat-soaked T-shirt and pull on a clean white undershirt.
“That you’re on the shitter. All-you-can-eat buffet at Cooter’s last night.”
I scoff. “Nice, Miller.”
He chuckles. “Just get here. Briefing starts at four.” A second later, the line goes dead.
I shove my phone into my wrinkled pants, then key in the code to my safe and pull out my gun and badge. Time check. Twenty minutes. Of all the fucking days.
Shirt buttoned and gun holstered to my belt, I dart into the bathroom.
I swirl a capful of mouthwash, then throw water on my face and rake the excess through my hair to tame a few rogue strands.
I need a shower. And a shave. I look like shit.
The chief is gonna have my ass when I show up looking like this.
My bike is waiting for me in the driveway.
Sleek jet-black body, gleaming chrome exhaust. Just as I’m about to kick my leg over my machine, I pause.
Last time I drove this thing to work, the chief almost levelled me.
It’s not appropriate, he’d said, because someone might confuse me with one of them.
As if the only kind of man who rides a motorcycle in this town is the kind that keeps his hands bloody and a gun at his back.
I adjust the Glock holstered tight to my side, then straddle my bike and tug on my helmet.
Fuck it. And fuck the chief.
With the turn of the key and twist of the throttle, I crank the ignition, and the engine roars to life.
I take another one of those big, deep breaths.
I push Emily out of my head. The dreams, the accident, all the shit that came after.
I let the bike shake and rumble until it’s the only thing I feel—the thunder in my chest, the vibration working its way into my bones.
Time check. Ten minutes.
Fuuuuuuck.
I kick off and rip down the road. With some maneuvering and a little speed, I make it to the station at 3:59, though Chief Wells is already talking when I slide into the back of the briefing room.
“I expect full cooperation,” he says, voice booming as he zeroes in on me. He sneers. “Decker. Tummy troubles all sorted?”
The entirety of the South Bay Police Department turns to stare at me, along with the front row of uniformed Ontario Provincial Police officers. The unit we’re meant to cooperate with.
In my periphery, Miller sniggers.
Irritation pricks at my neck, but I keep my face neutral and my tone even. “Yes, sir.”
The chief runs a fat hand over his greying mustache. “Good,” he says, readjusting his focus on the rest of the room. “The BEU is here to help. This is a joint effort, but they will be taking point. And we will let them lead.”
Wells adjusts his belt, pulling it up high over his gut as he sticks his thumbs beneath the strip of leather on either side of his buckle and does his best to puff out his chest. It’s a reminder that he’s still in charge around here, despite the OPP takeover.
He nods at the tall man to his left. “Morgan, you’re up.”
“Thank you, Chief Wells. Afternoon, everyone,” the man says as he swaggers to the podium.
His tie is tight to his throat, his face clean shaven, his hair mostly grey with hints of black.
“My name is Detective Inspector Charlie Morgan. Most of you know who we are and why we’re here, but so there’s no confusion, I’ll explain.
” He motions to the screen behind him, where the OPP logo has appeared.
“The Biker Enforcement Unit’s key directive is to monitor, disrupt, and dismantle the inner workings of organized crime groups, specifically outlaw motorcycle gangs. ”
He clicks a small remote, and the picture on the screen changes.
Every muscle in my body seizes as a surveillance photo of a man on a motorcycle comes into focus. Heavily tattooed, deep scowl, snake-wrapped Sinner skull adorning his leather jacket. Axel Donovan. The other reason I can’t find peace when I close my eyes at night.
“South Bay has a biker problem,” he continues. “And we’re here to fix that for you.”
“Think he could fix that stick up your ass too, Deck?” Miller whispers.
I force a smirk. “You sister did that for me last night.”
Morgan pauses. “Comment, Officer…?”
Fuck. Sighing, I stand a little straighter. “Decker, Sir.”
Wells throws me a scathing look. I am in such. Deep. Shit.
“Is there a question?” Morgan asks, his grey brows arched.
“Uh. Yeah. The Soldiers of Sin have been a problem for decades, and this isn’t the first time the OPP has come around to help. Why is this time any different?”
Eyes narrowing, Morgan tilts his head. “Any relation to William Decker?”
The muscles in my shoulders stiffen. “My father, sir.”
He hums. “As I’m sure you know, and as your father and former chief of police would likely attest, it’s not an easy thing, taking down a criminal organization.
Particularly one like the Soldiers of Sin.
From the outside, they may seem disorganized, but I assure you, they’re anything but.
” He clicks the remote, moving on from my question without answering.
“Axel Donovan and his Sinners have a strong influence, not just in South Bay, but across most of the province and farther East.”
Images of various forms of contraband appear on the screen—weed, pills, liquor, guns.
And cocaine. That’s Axel Donovan’s business.
Drugs, mostly, but he dabbles elsewhere depending on what kind of heat is on the club.
It’s why the Sinners have been hard to nail.
They adapt. Profit margins shrinking in the newly regulated cannabis market?
He moves to coke and pills. Too much attention from the feds on his shipments at the border?
He switches to acting muscle for the gun runners in the city.
He’s always moving. The man just wrapped up a two-year prison stint at Central North, and in that time, business barely slowed.
Much as I hate him, he’s far smarter than the average gun-wielding, drug-toting criminal.
Morgan drones on, detailing club hierarchy, known dealings, and affiliated crime groups. Shit we all know. As if we haven’t lived here our whole goddamn lives.
“No disrespect, sir,” I interrupt. “South Bay is our town. We know the Sinners. Some of us even grew up with them. We might not have a fancy presentation laying it all out like that, but none of this shit is new to us. You want our cooperation? You got it. But you’re gonna have to sell us on how your little unit plans to fix our biker problem . ”
“Decker,” Wells barks.
I shut my mouth and scan the room, noting the nodding heads and pissed-off expressions.
Our job is to keep the peace and do it using the path of least resistance. When bullets don’t fly, civilians don’t die. The Sinners keep the more dangerous aspects of their business outside the boundaries of South Bay, and in turn, maybe we don’t go kicking in their door every other day.
Keep the peace. Protect the town.
Every few years, some dick looking for a promotion rolls in with some special unit , shakes shit up, fails to eradicate our biker infestation, and then rolls out. They don’t stick around to stitch our town back together after the dust settles. That’s always on us.
“That’s all right, Chief,” Morgan says with a tight smile. “I imagine your team is anxious to get started. So let’s get to it.”
Another man steps up to join him. Dark hair, square jaw, smug fucking look on his face. He crosses his muscled arms over his chest.