The Three Biker Kings' Obsession

The first man asked for my dead brother’s files before I had even taken off my funeral dress. He stood at the reception counter of Blackline Freight, rain dripping from his leather vest onto the floor I’d paid to have polished last Friday. IRON SAINTS MC was stitched above his heart. “I’m here on behalf of Knox Ryder,” he said. “We need Caleb Carter’s original freight records.” “Need?” “Today.” Beyond the windows, eighteen trucks waited for work. Thirty-four employees needed paychecks Friday. I’d spent the morning burying the man who once handled half my problems. I took the paper he offered. It listed three shipments, two invoices, and a signed delivery receipt. “Copies are available through our normal records process,” I said. “Mr. Ryder asked for originals.” “Then Mr. Ryder can explain why in writing.” The man glanced at my dress. I thought he might apologize. Instead, he said, “He won’t like that.” “Neither did I like lowering my brother into the ground this morning. We all have difficult days.” Asha Morgan made a strangled sound behind her monitor. I didn’t look at her. The man folded his list. “I’ll tell him.” “Please do.” He left. Only then did I let my shoulders drop. Asha approached with two coffees. She handed me the one in Caleb’s chipped blue mug. We both froze. “Sorry.” She reached for it. I pulled it closer. “It’s fine.” It wasn’t. But the coffee was hot, and the mug was something my brother had touched. Six weeks had passed since his car went off the coastal highway. Additional medical testing had delayed the burial. Grief and paperwork had become impossible to separate. People said Caleb was at peace. His unanswered calls were still coming in. “Did you recognize the Iron Saints guy?” Asha asked. “No. Why?” “Because the request wasn’t addressed to the company. It was addressed to Caleb.” I looked again at the form he’d left behind. She was right. Caleb Carter. Not Blackline Freight. My brother had died, but someone hadn’t updated his instructions. I’d just opened our dispatch dashboard when a driver called about a missed unloading appointment. “The receiver changed the time after I arrived,” he said. “Now they’re charging us detention.” “Photograph your arrival ticket. Don’t agree to anything verbally. Asha will get their revised appointment in writing.” A minute later, the dispatcher called out that Unit Eleven had a tire problem. The world was determined to continue being ordinary. Then Asha appeared at my door again. “Another visitor.” “If it’s the funeral home, tell them they already have all my money.” “Redline Kings.” I set down my pen. “Of course.” The second representative was clean-shaven, well dressed, and carrying a proposal rather than a demand. “Daniel Price,” he said. “Cole Maddox sends his condolences.” “Does Mr. Maddox always send contracts with his condolences?” “He knows Blackline has available capacity,” Daniel said. Three months of regional shipments. Guaranteed volume. Rates above our usual contracts. Good enough to make me suspicious. I flipped to page four. There it was: a condition requiring unrestricted review of historical contracts, correspondence, and insurance documents associated with Caleb’s work before the offer took effect. I pointed to it. “This isn’t due diligence. It’s a fishing expedition.” “We need to establish the status of earlier obligations.” “Then name the obligations.” Daniel said nothing. “Take that clause out, and I’ll consider the freight work.” “Mr. Maddox anticipated you might say that.” “Did he also anticipate I can read?” This time, Daniel’s smile was real. “He said you’d be harder to negotiate with than your brother.” My fingers tightened around the paper. Cole Maddox knew Caleb well enough to compare us. But I had never heard Caleb mention him except as the owner of a motorcycle workshop. “When did Mr. Maddox prepare this offer?” “Yesterday.” I turned to the cover page. October twentieth. The day before the funeral. Business had continued while I grieved. Mine had. But someone had decided my brother’s burial was the perfect time to test our vulnerability. “Tell him the terms are rejected,” I said. “He can contact me directly.” Daniel nodded. “I think he will.” The third person arrived without a contract. A woman in a worn Ghost Mile jacket stopped just inside reception and asked, “Have the other clubs collected anything?” I stared at her. “You must be the only person in Grayhaven who didn’t receive the memo. Apparently today is the day to ask me about Caleb.” “Did they get anything?” “No.” “Originals? Copies? Access to his email?” “No.” Her relief was so immediate I almost missed it. “Who sent you?” “Zane Wilder.” The third president. The three presidents ran rival clubs. None was known for sharing favors. Yet all three wanted something from a dead freight manager. “Why does Mr. Wilder care about my brother’s records?” She glanced toward the closed door at the end of the hallway. “Because he doesn’t trust the other two men with them.” “And why should I trust him?” “You shouldn’t.” That was the first honest answer I’d heard all afternoon. “Tell Wilder I don’t take orders from strangers,” I said. “And tell him to stop sending them.” She gave me a long look. “He doesn’t think your family tells the whole truth.” The words hit exactly where she intended. “My brother isn’t here to defend himself.” “No,” she said quietly. “He isn’t.” She left. I stood in reception. For six weeks, I’d been angry with Caleb for dying. Anger was easier than remembering our final conversation. We’d argued about a broker’s invoices. I’d seen amounts that didn’t reconcile and demanded an explanation. “Give me one more week, Ivy,” he’d said. “You’ve had a month.” “I’m handling it.” “You keep saying that.” He’d looked exhausted. Three days later, the police called. Now people I’d never met were using his name like a password. I asked Asha for the visitor logs and copies of everything the representatives had brought. I called our attorney about preserving Caleb’s records. When I finished, I looked at the three business cards spread across my desk. One demand. One offer. One warning. Each man had sent someone to see what I would surrender. I knew negotiations. Three people trying to corner me separately was a bad one. “Call their offices,” I told Asha. “Tell Ryder, Maddox, and Wilder I’ll meet all three at our front gate at five. Together. No representatives.” She blinked. “Together?” “If they want the same company records, they can explain their interests where everyone can hear.” “Do you think they’ll come?” “I think they already know the answer.” At four fifty-six, the sound of motorcycle engines rolled across the yard. I looked through the window. Three bikes waited beyond the fence, deliberately spaced apart. Knox Ryder stood beside a black touring motorcycle, broad shoulders filling his leather vest. He didn’t pace or check his phone. He simply watched the building, as if patience were another form of authority. Cole Maddox leaned against a red-and-black bike. Dark hair, an easy smile that made trouble look inviting. Zane Wilder remained a few yards away. No smile. No interest in performing for anyone. His eyes were fixed on Caleb’s office window. I put on my coat, took the three requests, and walked outside. Asha joined me but stayed a step back. I didn’t open the gate. “I assume you know why you’re here,” I said. “Because you invited us,” Cole answered. His voice carried an unexpected warmth. “I was beginning to think you didn’t like my offer.” “I liked the rates. I disliked the trap.” His smile widened. “Fair.” Knox stepped forward. “Did my man take any documents?” “No. Neither did anyone else.” “Good.” The word was so firm that I almost mistook it for praise. “I didn’t do it for you,” I said. “I know.” He looked straight at me. Gray eyes. A small scar at his jaw. Nothing soft about him, except that he lowered his voice when he added, “I’m sorry about Caleb.” It caught me off guard because he didn’t make it sound like an introduction to another demand. “Thank you.” Zane finally approached the gate. “Did he leave you anything you haven’t opened?” I felt the other men go still. “That’s none of your business.” “It might be.” “Then explain why.” Zane’s gaze moved to the office window and back to me. “Because Caleb was keeping something from all three of us.” Cole stopped smiling. Knox said, “Zane.” “She’s going to find it eventually,” Zane replied. My fingers tightened around the cold metal bars. I had brought them here to answer my questions. Zane’s next words made me forget every one of them. “Your brother called me the night he died,” he said. “I let it ring.”