The Devil Doesn't Forget
1767 Words
My fingers twitched beneath my leather jacket.
The gun rested exactly where I'd left it—pressed against my ribs, cold enough to remind me why I'd come.
One draw.
One shot.
One dead man.
That was the plan.
So why couldn't I move?
Damien Cross stood less than three feet away, his gray eyes fixed on mine as though he wasn't looking at a stranger, but at a memory.
A memory that hurts.
Pain recognized pain.
That was the only explanation my mind could offer.
Men like Damien Cross weren't supposed to look at strangers as though they carried ghosts.
They were supposed to sneer.
Threaten.
Laugh.
Instead, he looked at me the way my father used to look at old photographs—carefully, as if touching them too roughly might make them disappear.
"Welcome home, Little Flame."
The nickname struck harder than a bullet.
Only one person had ever called me that.
My father.
My pulse thundered in my ears.
"What... Did you just call me?"
The corner of Damien's mouth lifted, not quite a smile.
"I said welcome."
"No."
I took one deliberate step toward him.
"You said something else."
Around us, the clubhouse had gone eerily quiet.
The bikers who'd been laughing moments ago now watched with expressions ranging from curiosity to outright panic.
No one interrupted.
No one breathed.
Damien tilted his head ever so slightly.
"Did I?"
His calmness scraped against every nerve I had.
He wasn't denying it.
He wasn't admitting it either.
He was watching me.
Studying me.
Like he wanted to see which version of me had walked through those gates—the little girl from the fire...
Or the woman carrying a loaded pistol.
I forced my breathing to steady.
"You've mistaken me for someone else."
The lie came easily.
I'd rehearsed dozens of names during the ride to Blackridge.
New identities.
New histories.
None of them included the frightened little girl who had survived a house fire.
Seraphina Hale had died fifteen years ago.
At least, that was the version of the story I'd spent years convincing myself to believe.
"I rarely make mistakes."
His answer came so quickly it felt rehearsed.
"I think you do."
"And I think you're lying."
A murmur rippled through the men behind him.
Nobody spoke to Damien like that.
Good.
Let them be uncomfortable.
I wasn't here to make friends.
"I'm here about the accounting position."
His eyes lingered on my face for another heartbeat before he nodded once.
"So you are."
That wasn't how normal people answered.
Everything about him felt... off.
He wasn't surprised to see me.
He wasn't suspicious.
He was...
Prepared.
Prepared people were dangerous.
The clubhouse smelled of cedarwood, whiskey, gasoline, and old leather.
Mounted antlers decorated one wall.
Pool tables occupied another.
Country rock drifted from a battered jukebox.
It looked less like a criminal headquarters and more like a place where broken men came to remember they were still alive.
Someone was repairing a child's bicycle near the garage door.
Another man was replacing a broken cabinet hinge while an elderly woman scolded him for doing it wrong.
A television played an afternoon baseball game no one seemed to be watching.
Ordinary.
That single word disturbed me more than the guns.
Evil was supposed to look unmistakable.
This place looked lived in.
Several women glanced toward me before returning to their conversations.
None of them looked frightened.
That bothered me.
I'd expected fear.
Control.
Abuse.
Instead...
One of the bikers carried a sleepy toddler through the room while another woman laughed and stole fries off his plate.
This wasn't what I'd been trained to expect.
Don't be fooled.
Monsters laugh too.
A giant with blond hair blocked the hallway.
He looked like he could lift a truck without breaking a sweat.
"You serious, Prez?"
His voice was gravel.
"We're letting a civilian walk in here?"
Damien never took his eyes off me.
"She's expected."
The giant frowned.
"I wasn't told."
"You are now."
Silence.
The giant finally stepped aside, though his gaze never left me.
"If she pulls anything..."
"I know."
"If she lies..."
"I know."
"If she—"
"Ace."
One word.
Nothing more.
The blond biker lowered his head.
"Yes, Prez."
Interesting.
Respect.
Not fear.
I'd spent years studying outlaw motorcycle clubs.
Every report described violence held together by intimidation.
Yet Ace hadn't looked frightened.
He'd looked... disappointed.
Like a younger brother questioning an older one he still trusted enough to obey.
Respect.
I filed that away.
Damien led me upstairs.
The second floor overlooked the garage below through reinforced windows.
Rows of motorcycles gleamed beneath fluorescent lights.
Mechanics moved between them with practiced efficiency.
No chaos.
No drunken idiots.
No disorder.
Everything had its place.
Even the silence felt organized.
No raised voices echoed through the hall.
No drunken shouting.
No pointless displays of dominance.
The order unsettled me.
Chaos would've been easier to hate.
Including him.
His office was unexpectedly simple.
A solid oak desk.
Bookshelves.
Maps.
A coffee pot.
A framed photograph turned face down.
No trophies.
No expensive whiskey.
No gold-plated ego.
The room belonged to someone who expected to leave at a moment's notice.
Nothing sentimental.
Nothing unnecessary.
Everything chosen because it served a purpose.
It looked less like a president's office...
and more like a soldier's command post.
"This is your office?"
"For now."
I frowned.
"You're giving me your office?"
"You'll use the desk."
"And you?"
"I don't need one."
Nothing about this man made sense.
He walked toward the coffee pot.
"Black?"
"What?"
"Coffee."
"I don't drink coffee."
Without looking at me, he reached into a cabinet.
"Chamomile."
I froze.
"...Excuse me?"
"You prefer tea."
My heart skipped.
"I never said that."
"No."
He poured hot water into a mug.
"You didn't."
He set the steaming cup in front of me.
"I don't want tea."
"You will."
"I'm not drinking anything you make."
"Reasonable."
He took the mug himself.
Drank from it.
Then quietly prepared another one.
He slid the second cup across the desk.
"There."
"No poison."
"I didn't say—"
"You thought about it."
His voice remained maddeningly calm.
I hated calm people.
Calm people made mistakes harder to predict.
Angry men announced themselves.
Calm ones smiled while they dismantled your defenses one quiet sentence at a time.
Especially when they were right.
I sat.
Mostly because standing made me feel like prey.
He leaned against the edge of his desk instead of sitting behind it.
As though he wanted us on equal ground.
Or wanted me to believe we were.
"I read your résumé."
"You haven't."
"I have."
"It was delivered this morning."
"It was delivered six days ago."
My stomach tightened.
Impossible.
I mailed it yesterday.
Unless...
Someone had intercepted it.
Or...
Someone had been watching me.
The realization settled slowly.
Like cold rain soaking through leather.
Every motel.
Every gas station.
Every lonely stretch of highway I'd ridden to reach Blackridge suddenly felt less private.
Had he known I was coming all along?
"You've been investigating me."
"I will investigate everyone."
"Liar."
"I don't lie."
The certainty in his tone caught me off guard.
Most men defended themselves.
He simply stated facts.
"I find that hard to believe."
"You don't have to believe me."
"Then why tell me?"
"Because it's true."
His answers weren't evasive.
They were...
Incomplete.
Like pieces of a puzzle deliberately scattered across the floor.
A sharp knock interrupted us.
The blond biker—Ace—opened the door without waiting.
"Prez."
Damien looked over.
"What is it?"
"We've got a problem."
"What kind?"
Ace's eyes flicked toward me before returning to Damien.
"They found another one."
The room changed.
Damien's shoulders stiffened.
His expression hardened into something terrifying.
"Alive?"
"Barely."
"How old?"
Ace swallowed.
"Maybe sixteen."
Damien closed his eyes for exactly one second.
When he opened them again...
The warmth I'd imagined seeing outside was gone.
Only ice remained.
"Call Maya."
"Already did."
"Get Noah on surveillance."
"Done."
"I'll be downstairs."
Ace nodded and disappeared.
I watched the entire exchange without understanding it.
"What happened?"
Damien reached for his leather cut hanging behind the door.
"A girl."
"What about her?"
"She's been trafficked."
The words hit the room with a weight I hadn't expected.
No one rolled their eyes.
No one cursed about the inconvenience.
No one asked whether she was worth the trouble.
They moved.
Immediately.
Like this wasn't unusual.
Like saving girls was simply another part of their day.
Every muscle in my body tensed.
He shrugged into the cut.
"They dumped her behind one of our garages."
"Our?"
"The Iron Reapers maintain six safe houses."
Safe houses?
For what?
He buckled the holster at his side.
Then looked at me.
"I'll be gone for a few hours."
"You expect me to stay here?"
"I expect nothing."
"You barely know me."
He met my gaze.
"No."
His voice was quiet.
"I know enough."
He held my gaze for another second.
Long enough that I almost asked the question that had been clawing at me since he spoke my childhood nickname.
Who are you to me?
But the words never came.
The door closed first.
Those words lingered long after he walked out.
The office door clicked shut.
Silence.
I waited exactly thirty seconds.
Then I smiled.
Finally,
My chance.
I pulled a pair of thin black gloves from my jacket and slipped them on.
One drawer.
Locked.
Too easy.
A hairpin disappeared into the keyhole.
Click.
Inside were files.
Cash.
A pistol.
No drugs.
No stacks of counterfeit passports.
No ledger filled with extortion payments.
The evidence I'd expected simply wasn't there.
Either Damien Cross was the most disciplined criminal I'd ever encountered...
or I'd misunderstood what kind of man I'd come to kill.
And...
A faded photograph.
My breath caught.
A little girl.
Curly dark hair.
Gap-toothed smile.
Holding a silver phoenix pendant around her neck.
My pendant.
My hands began to shake.
The photograph couldn't exist.
I'd never given one away.
I'd carried that pendant since the night of the fire.
So why did another picture of me exist inside Damien Cross's desk?
And why had he kept it?
Someone had written a single sentence across the back in neat black ink.
If she ever comes home... tell her I'm sorry.
The office door opened behind me.
A deep voice filled the room.
"I was wondering how long it would take."
Slowly...
I turned around.
Damien Cross stood in the doorway.
He wasn't angry.
He wasn't surprised.
He looked...
Disappointed.
And somehow...
That hurt far more than fear.
- Writer
