Chapter 3
Riding with Sergeant Allen is about as fun as I thought it would be. By the halfway point of my shift, I’m seriously considering biting the barrel of my gun and pulling the trigger.
We’ve done the main loop around town four times, and we’ve cruised by every Sinner hangout. Then we circled their clubhouse for almost an hour. Rolling down every street in South Bay like we have wouldn’t be all that bad if Allen wasn’t the most irritating, obnoxious prick on the planet.
The guy also doesn’t fucking eat. I missed my eleven o’clock sandwich at Frank’s Deli because Allen said it would be a “waste of time.”
I twist my hands on the steering wheel and let out a sigh as I check the time. It’s like salt in a wound when the clock on the centre console changes to twelve. Frank’s closes at midnight. No sandwich for me.
“I can respect the hustle, Allen, but I’m starving. And I have to hit my route at least once tonight.” I turn my key in the ignition.
The snake-wrapped skull decorating the black door of the Sinner clubhouse is visible from our spot on the street. There are a couple Harleys lined up against the side of the building, but other than the odd biker popping out for a smoke, the place is dead.
“I’m gonna hit up Timmie’s for coffee and whatever stale donuts they got left, and then I’ll take you on my usual route. All right?”
Rather than respond, he stares me down.
He’s been doing this all night. I don’t answer a question the way he wants?
Stare down. I don’t laugh at his crack about female cops?
Stare down. I tell him we’re gonna stop and get sandwiches?
Stare down. I’ve mostly ignored it, but my missed late-night snack has got me on edge.
I’m losing patience with the alpha-dominance-bullshit game the guy’s trying to win.
I stare back, donning an uninterested expression. It isn’t difficult. Not a thing has happened all night. No calls, no disturbances, no teenagers tossing bottles off the Willow Creek bridge. It’s quiet. I won’t jinx it by saying it out loud, but there’s a chance tonight will be entirely uneventful.
After a moment, Allen chuckles and breaks our staring contest. “You don’t intimidate, do you, Decker?”
I shift into drive and start down the road. “Guess not.”
“I like that. Need a guy on my team who doesn’t take any shit. So long as you can follow orders.”
Yeah. I don’t do that either.
“Not a lot of Sinner action on a Monday night,” I say, ignoring his comment. “We won’t miss anything.”
He hums. “I guess you’d know. How old are you?”
“Thirty-six.”
“You and Donovan are about the same age, then, huh? You grow up with him? Go to school together?”
I readjust my hands on the steering wheel, my grip tight. “I’m a couple years older, actually,” I say casually. “But I was in the same year as his VP.”
He already knew that. Any potential conflicts would have been mentioned in my file. Is he testing me?
He hums. “Jack McKenna. The Grave Man.”
Eyes still on the road, I dip my chin. “That’s right.”
“You all get along?”
“Jack and I for a bit, yeah. But Axe and I have never enjoyed each other’s company.”
“Guess not,” he muses. “The police chief’s boy and the heir to Jimmy Donovan’s throne. Woulda been an odd friendship. Your old man put him away a few times, didn’t he? Jimmy?”
I nod. The crux of the problems between Axe and me.
When my dad took over as police chief, he wanted to do a lot more than just keep the peace with the outlaws running his town.
He wanted them gone. Along with every cop in Jimmy Donovan’s pocket.
That didn’t sit right with Jimmy, and his disdain for my family was passed onto his son.
We were raised to hate each other. Probably didn’t help that my old man kept putting his in handcuffs.
“Your father still around?” he asks.
I slow as I pull into the Tim Horton’s parking lot. Right. It’s after midnight, meaning it’s drive-through only. No way to escape this conversation.
“Nah,” I say as I roll up to the order board. “Died a while back.”
“Shit, man. Sorry. How’d he die?”
Slowly. Years of rotting on the couch with a drink in his hand.
That’s what happens when a man lets something eat at him.
It kills him. Not right away. Things like that never come all at once.
It’s a little jab here, another there, a chip off the shoulder, a cut to the cheek.
Soon there’s nothing left but anger. Rage.
My mother fucked her way through half the Sinners before she got pregnant with me.
It destroyed him. And when she left us, he went on a fucking rampage to put an end to the biker gang he felt was responsible for destroying his family.
He wanted Jimmy in jail, and he wanted Jack’s father, my biological father, dead.
It’s why when Jimmy left South Bay and my dad didn’t get the climactic face-off with the outlaw biker president he’d been gunning for, he picked up a bottle and never put it down. He dug himself an early grave.
But that story doesn’t make for good small talk. And revealing that Donovan’s VP is my half brother probably wouldn’t do me any favours.
“He’d been sick for a while,” I say. “You want a donut?”
He grunts. “Coffee. Black.”
Of course he drinks his fucking coffee black.
Once I head out on my route, I distract Allen by asking about his workout routine. The man looks like he could bench at least three of me, and I’m not a small guy. Dudes who look like him fucking love talking about the gym.
The road gets a little darker as we get closer to the edge of South Bay, and as I near my spot, I slow. It’s deserted, like usual. No one’s gonna be driving down a South Bay back road at one a.m. on a Monday. But sitting here gives me a little quiet.
“Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked” by Cage the Elephant plays low on the radio as I put the car in park, kill my lights, and flick on the radar.
As expected, the donuts are stale. I sip my coffee as I stare out at the dark road.
“So you just… sit here?” Allen asks.
“Yup.”
He shifts to face me. “Get much traffic out this way?”
“Not usually.”
He readjusts, like he’s not the type to sit still. The guy would probably blow his fucking brains out in a small town like South Bay. We don’t see a whole lot of action. Other than the obvious drug-running biker thing. Maybe that’s how I’ll get him out of here. Bore him to death.
He sighs. “What do you do for fun around here?”
“Not much. I spend most of my free time at the boxing club. I teach a few classes. Gloved mostly, but a little MMA, self-defence. That kind of thing.”
“Hmm. So you’re a fighter.”
I shrug, focus still fixed out the windshield. “Since I was a kid.”
We fall silent, and Allen wiggles again. “How long are we gonna be here?”
I take another bite of my donut, chewing slowly as he glares at the side of my head. “You ever just pause? Stop and smell the roses kind of thing?”
He snorts. “No. Waste of my time. Guess I forgot why being a patrol cop fuckin’ sucks so much.”
“Right. Well, that’s what this is.” Another bite of the donut. “We’re on a deserted road in the middle of the night. I’d bet Donovan is sleeping snug as a bug with that pretty old lady of his. It’s quiet time. So how about you shut the f?—”
A single headlight appears and my gut drops. Dammit. Allen is nearly vibrating with excitement.
One headlight means a motorcycle.
So much for my quiet night.
The bike tears past us. My radar clocks them at seventy-five. If I were alone, I’d probably let it slide. I’m not in the business of turning on my lights this late for a measly fifteen over, especially when it’s probably one of Donovan’s guys. But with Allen in the car, that might look suspicious.
“Holy shit,” he spits out as the name of the registered owner pops up on the screen of my plate scanner.
Jimmy Donovan.
Holy shit is right.
“What the fuck you waiting for, man?” he shouts. “Let’s go!”
Teeth gritted, I kick the car into drive and peel out of my spot.
On the road, I turn on my lights and siren.
This isn’t good. Axe will have my fucking ass if this ends with me throwing his father in a cell.
But more than that, if the former Sinner president is back in South Bay, that can only mean one thing. Trouble.
The bike picks up speed. The road twists and bends as it winds deeper into the wooded valley surrounding our town, and he rides the pavement like he’s a part of it.
Like he doesn’t realize how fast he’s going or that there’s a set of cherries flashing in his rearview.
That’s Jimmy Donovan, I guess. I might have been raised to hate him, but the man sure can ride.
We hit eighty, and then ninety. He doesn’t slow. Allen is on the edge of his seat, tugging on the overhead grab bar, his other hand on his sidearm. Kid in a candy store.
Just when I think we’re headed for an all-out speed chase, Jimmy’s rear lights flash red.
I have to slam on my brakes to avoid plowing into him. I’ve barely skidded to a halt before Allen is out of the car. A second later, I follow, unclipping the strap of my holster so I can get to my gun quickly if I need to.
“Step off the machine, sir,” Allen commands.
It’s a black sports bike. And pretty high end. Bit of an odd choice for a man like Jimmy, who used to favour bigger, meatier bikes. A Harley-or-die kind of man. Jimmy’s also… a lot smaller than I remember.
I pull out my flashlight and shine it on the bike and its rider. High-heeled boots, tight black jeans, and a fitted leather jacket hugging curves rather than bulk.
The fuck?
The woman hops off the motorcycle and yanks off her helmet, then gives her head a shake, freeing her wavy shoulder-length brown hair. “Who you calling sir?”
Beside me, Allen curses. “Who the fuck are you?”
I shine my light in her face so I can get a better look, and she squints and throws her hand up in protest.