BOUND TO THE OUTLAW ALPHAS

The first bullet went through my father’s photograph. The second shattered the clock above my office door. By the third, I was already on the floor. For a few seconds, I couldn’t move. I pressed myself against the concrete and tried to breathe quietly. Glass covered the floor around me. Somewhere outside, an engine roared, then faded into the night. What the hell was happening? I raised my head. My father’s photograph lay crooked against the wall. A bullet hole had torn through his face. I stared at it, my stomach twisting. He had been dead for three years. Apparently, that wasn’t long enough for someone to leave him alone. I crawled behind the workbench and reached for my phone. My fingers shook as I unlocked it. I almost called the police, but another sound stopped me. A motorcycle. Then another. I held my breath. Three engines settled outside my garage. Heavy boots struck the ground. Someone knocked on the door, hard enough to rattle its damaged frame. “Open up.” The voice was deep and impatient. I looked at the shattered window. Whoever had fired those shots might still be out there. Opening the door sounded like a terrible idea. Then again, I was running out of good ones. I grabbed the heavy wrench beside me and stood. “Who are you?” I called. “Knox Mercer.” The name meant nothing to me. “Congratulations. You’ve introduced yourself. Now tell me what you want.” Silence followed. Then a second voice spoke from outside. “She’s got a mouth on her.” “Jude,” the first man warned. I tightened my grip on the wrench. “I’m not opening this door until someone explains why bullets are decorating my office.” A pause. “We didn’t fire them,” Knox said. “But we know who might have.” That was not the comforting answer he seemed to think it was. I checked the lock, then opened the door just enough to see who stood outside. Three men waited beneath the flickering security light. All wore black leather jackets. A silver emblem showing a vulture wrapped around a broken chain marked their backs. I knew that symbol. Everyone in town did. The Iron Vultures Motorcycle Club. Wonderful. Because a quiet evening in my garage had apparently been too much to ask for. The man in front was tall, broad-shouldered, and looked as though smiling was something he charged people for. His dark hair was damp from the rain. A trimmed beard sharpened his jaw, and his eyes moved over me, the wrench in my hand, and the damage behind me. “Put that down,” he said. “Give me one reason.” His gaze returned to mine. “Because if I wanted to hurt you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” “That’s supposed to make me feel better?” “No.” At least he was honest about that. The man beside him gave a quiet laugh. He had an easy expression that didn’t quite hide the sharpness in his eyes. “I’m Jude,” he said. “The charming one.” “And the other one?” I asked. “Silas,” the third man replied. He looked calmer than the others. His attention kept drifting toward the damaged office, as though he were already piecing together what had happened. I didn’t like that. I liked none of this. Knox glanced past me. “Who has your father’s repair records?” My fingers tightened around the wrench. “My father’s dead. His records aren’t your business.” “They might be.” “That’s not an answer.” “No,” he said. “It isn’t.” I should have shut the door. Instead, I watched him, trying to decide whether he was a threat or simply a man who had forgotten how to speak to people. Then Silas stepped forward. “May I look at the photograph?” “No.” He stopped immediately. That surprised me. The others might have been dangerous, but at least one of them understood the meaning of a refusal. I turned toward the office. The photograph had fallen face down. Its cracked frame lay beside the desk, and something white protruded from behind the backing. I crouched and pulled it free. A folded note. My father’s handwriting covered the front. BLACKRIDGE ROUTE. VALE—ORIGINAL LEDGER. IF MERCER ASKS, TELL HIM NOTHING. I read it twice. Then I looked at Knox. “Why does my father mention you in a note that tells me not to trust you?” His expression changed. It was small. A tightening around the eyes. A brief stillness that made the space between us feel colder. “Let me see it.” “No.” “Mara.” I hadn’t told him my name. The wrench suddenly felt less reassuring. “How do you know who I am?” “Your father talked about you.” “When?” Knox didn’t answer. I hated that silence more than I hated the bullets. Silas studied the note from where he stood. “Blackridge Road was connected to an incident years ago.” “What incident?” “One that never received a proper explanation.” “Convenient.” “Very,” Jude muttered. Knox shot him a warning look. I folded the note and slipped it into my pocket. “You’re going to tell me what happened.” “We will,” Knox said. “But first, we need to know whether you have the original ledger.” “I don’t.” His eyes narrowed. “Are you sure?” “Do I look confused?” “No. You look angry.” “Good. At least we’re making progress.” Jude coughed into his fist, hiding another laugh. Knox ignored him. He moved toward the desk, then stopped when I stepped between him and my father’s belongings. “Don’t touch anything.” For a moment, neither of us moved. I knew I was outnumbered. I knew three men from a motorcycle club were standing in my damaged garage, and I had no idea whether they had come to help or finish what someone else had started. But this place was mine. My father had built his life here. I had spent years keeping the doors open after he died. I wasn’t about to let strangers walk in and take whatever they wanted. Knox seemed to understand that, even if he didn’t like it. He stepped back. “Fine.” The word caught me off guard. Before I could respond, his phone rang. He answered without taking his eyes off me. “What?” He listened. His expression hardened. “When?” Another pause. “Find him.” He ended the call. “What happened?” Silas asked. “Harlan Pike is gone.” The name meant nothing to me, but the way the other men reacted told me it mattered. Jude’s humor disappeared. Silas went very still. Knox looked at me again. “Someone sent the club a photograph of you.” My stomach dropped. “When?” “Tonight.” “Who sent it?” “We don’t know.” I looked toward the broken window. The night beyond it seemed darker than before. Someone had watched me. Someone knew where I worked, where I kept my father’s things, and perhaps what he had left behind. And now the Iron Vultures were involved. Knox stepped closer, though he stopped far enough away that I could still reach the door. “You shouldn’t stay here alone tonight.” “That’s not your decision.” “No,” he said. “It isn’t.” His answer was quiet, but his expression remained grim. “The person who ordered those shots knows something about your father’s death. And if I’m right, they’re coming back.” I wanted to demand proof. I wanted to tell him to take his club, his secrets, and his threats somewhere else. Instead, I looked at the ruined photograph on the floor. My father had left me a note warning me not to trust Knox Mercer. Someone had just shot up my garage looking for something connected to that note. And the one man who might explain it had already admitted he was keeping secrets. I lifted my chin. “Then you’d better start talking, Knox. Because I’m not going anywhere until I know what my father died hiding.”