Where the wild Hearts Ride

Chapter1

Death always smells like scorched metal and wet asphalt, especially when it comes wrapped in the twisted wreckage of a midnight car bomb.

"Move your light, Officer," I snapped at the rookie whose hands were shaking so hard the beam bounced wildly off my coat. "If you ask her another question while she is bleeding onto this gurney, I will have your badge before the sun comes up."

She was shivering, her wool sweater soaked in black soot, clutching her side where the shrapnel had torn straight through her leather jacket. I dropped onto the wet concrete right beside her, ignoring the puddles soaking through the knees of my trousers.

"Look at me," I said, keeping my tone low and steady to cut through the wailing sirens. "You are breathing. You are right here with me. Who was standing by the back fence before the explosion?"

She gasped, her fingers digging a sharp crescent into my wrist. A local name, but one that made my stomach drop like lead.

"Do not speak to her again," I told the officer as I stood up, smoothing my lapels with the kind of icy calm that always made men take a step backward. "She has legal representation. Me."

The doors of the ambulance slammed shut with a heavy thud, cutting off her voice as the vehicle sped toward the trauma entrance. I followed them inside, my heels clicking a sharp, steady rhythm against the linoleum. The waiting room smelled of stale bleach and wet denim. Two prospects from the club were pacing near the corner, their knuckles scraped raw and their faces pale under the flickering fluorescent tubes.

"What the hell are you doing here, Ava?" one of them choked out, wiping rain and sweat from his forehead.

"Keeping you out of a federal penitentiary," I said, walking right past them without breaking my stride. "If the detectives get a statement from her while she is in shock, your entire charter goes down for conspiracy before morning. Sit down, keep your mouths shut, and let me deal with the desk sergeant."

They looked ready to argue, but the hard glare in my eyes stopped them dead. They knew I was the only wall between them and a prison cell. I reached for the handle of the trauma doors to check on the victim when the heavy glass entrance at the front of the hospital exploded inward.

The wooden frame banged against the drywall, shattering the hum of the waiting room. A rush of cold wind and exhaust fumes swept into the lobby. Everyone flinched, turning toward the sound.

Jesse Thorne stood in the doorway.

He looked like a storm wrapped in black leather, water dripping from his dark hair and soaking into the shoulders of his battered vest. The prison pallor still clung to his skin, but his eyes burned with a reckless, dangerous fury that sucked all the air right out of the room. His fists were clenched, fresh scabs cracking on his knuckles.

"Where is she?" Jesse demanded, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated straight through the floor.

I let go of the trauma door, turned around, and crossed my arms over my chest. I did not blink.

"She is inside getting patched up, Jesse, and you are not tracking mud and murder all over a sterile ward," I said, my voice sharp enough to draw blood.

He took three long strides across the room, closing the distance until I had to tilt my head back just to keep his gaze. He towered over me, radiating pure heat and raw aggression, his chest heaving as he stared down at me.

"Move, Ava," he growled, the threat in his tone thick and heavy. "That is my brother's woman in there, and someone just tried to turn her into ash. I am not asking twice."

"You can ask a hundred times and the answer is still no," I snapped right back, stepping closer instead of backing away, pressing my index finger hard against his leather vest. "You want to charge in there and start a war based on pure rage, which is exactly why your old man locked you out. You are reckless, Jesse."

He looked down at my hand on his chest, his jaw tightening so hard the muscle jumped. A slow, dangerous smirk touched the corner of his mouth, though his eyes stayed frozen.

"You think you run this club just because you keep us out of handcuffs?" he whispered, leaning down so only I could hear. "You think you own the room."

"I own every room I stand in," I replied, never breaking eye contact as the tension between us stretched like a wire about to snap. "And right now, you are standing in mine. Back off, Thorne, or I will have the marshals haul you back to the county line."

He didn't move an inch. Instead, his hand came up, his fingers wrapping around my wrist, his grip firm enough to test my weight, testing my nerve. The heat of his skin burned right through my sleeve, sending a sudden, unwanted jolt straight up my arm.

"We are not done talking about this, Ava," he muttered, his breath warm against my temple as he leaned in closer. "Not by a long shot."

"If you think that little threat is going to make me pack my bags and head back down the highway, Ava, you really do not know anything about how things work around here."

I didn't flinch. I left my finger pressed flat against the scarred leather of his vest, feeling the heavy thumping of his heart beneath my touch.

"I know exactly how things work," I whispered back. "I am the one who keeps your brothers from spending the next twenty years wearing orange jumpsuits. Do not test me, Jesse. This courtroom is mine."

He let out a harsh, dry breath. Slowly, his fingers tightened around my wrist, sliding up just an inch past my cuff so his thumb brushed against my pulse point.

"You think you are untouchable," he murmured, his face coming down so close to mine. "Blood is spilling on our streets, Ava. My family is bleeding out, and your clever little legal tricks are not going to stop a bullet."

"My legal tricks are the only thing keeping the feds from tearing this hospital apart right now," I countered, teeth clenched. "If you storm through those doors and start ripping throats out, you give them the exact excuse they have been waiting for. Is that what you want?"

The silence between us was heavy. For a second, I thought he was going to shove past me anyway. Then, the tension in his frame shifted. He didn't drop my hand. Instead, he pulled me just a fraction closer.

"You've got a lot of nerve, counselor," he muttered, a dark, wicked smirk breaking through his hard expression. "Coming down here into the dirt, barking orders like you own the patch without ever having to bleed for it."

"I bleed for this club every single day in front of a federal judge," I snapped, wrenching my hand free. "Now get out of my way. I need to see if she gave me a name."

He watched me with piercing eyes, stepping aside just enough to let me pass. I pushed through the heavy doors into the sterile white hallway of the trauma ward. A tired nurse looked up from her desk but didn't say a word. She knew better.

I found the victim resting in a corner bay, a pale blanket pulled up to her chin. Her face was smudged with soot, her breathing shallow as the heart monitor beeped in a steady rhythm. I pulled a metal chair over and sat down quietly.

"They're gone," I said softly. "It is just you and me now. You do not have to talk to the police yet. But you need to tell me what you saw."

She turned her head slowly on the pillow, wide with terror. "It wasn't the rivals, Ava," she whispered, her voice cracking. "They pulled up in a clean black SUV. No colors. No patches. They just dropped the package under the hood, and when I tried to look at the driver, he looked like a businessman. Suit and tie. Not a biker."

My stomach gave a sickening drop. A businessman. This wasn't a turf war.

"Are you sure?" I asked, leaning in closer.

"I am sure," she whimpered. "They are clearing us out, Ava. They want the blocks. They want the land."

The heavy curtain was yanked back with a sharp rip of fabric. Jesse was standing there, his dark silhouette filling the space, his chest heaving. He had been listening right behind the partition.

"What did she say?" Jesse demanded, his voice dropping to a harsh, lethal whisper. "Who did this?"

I stood up slowly, stepping directly into his path, refusing to let him intimidate the witness.

"It wasn't the Southside gang, Jesse," I said, my voice cold and steady. "It wasn't a turf war at all. Someone is trying to frame this club to clear out the neighborhood, and whoever is behind it is wearing expensive suits."

Jesse stared down at me for a long, heavy moment, the anger in his eyes shifting into something much colder.

"Then we find out who is paying for the suits," Jesse said softly, his hand coming up to brush a stray lock of hair away from my face with unexpected gentleness. "And then we burn them out."