Iron Goddess

Chapter 4

4

At nine thirty, Shea pulled her bike around to Iron Goddess’ back lot and parked on the crumbling blacktop next to Terrance’s beat-to-s**t, industrial-green Ford pickup truck. A golden seal with the Sheriff Office’s logo had been pasted on the back door of the building, warning folks not to come in or tamper with the sticker. She considered cutting it out of spite, but resisted the urge and walked around to the front of the shop.

A crime scene unit van occupied two motorcycle spaces closest to the sheet of plywood that now served as the front door. Yellow crime scene tape wound around the posts supporting the porch roof. She ducked under the tape and knocked on the makeshift door. Willie opened it. “Come on in. The boys are about done.”

“Thanks.” She didn’t feel thankful. It was her shop, after all.

“How’s Derek?”

She shook her head, pushing against a wave of sadness. “Doctor says he’s in critical condition. Not sure if he’ll make it.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Any idea who did this?” She stared into his eyes, looking for clues.

“Too early to tell.”

“Think maybe the Jaguars did it?”

“The street g**g? Why would they hit your shop?” Willie raised an eyebrow.

She didn’t want to mention her conversation with Goblin. “Just a thought. The Confederate Thunder used to do business with them back in the day.”

“Back when your old man ran the club.”

Unpleasant memories pressed on the walls she’d put up against her childhood. “Yeah.”

“You still hanging out with the MC?”

“Hell no! I put them in my rearview mirror years ago.” Her jaw tensed with anger.

“I figured since your sister married the MC’s current president—”

“I don’t care if Wendy married the f*****g pope, I ain’t seen her in years. I don’t have anything to do with the goddamn Thundermen. I’m busy building bikes. They’re all ancient history, far as I’m concerned.” She kicked a can of windshield cleaner across the debris-strewn floor. “Now I got all this s**t to deal with.”

Willie stood there looking at her without a word. She tried to get a handle on the bitter emotions twisting up inside her. “Sorry, this whole thing’s got me upset.”

He nodded. “I understand. You worry about cleaning up your shop. We’ll get whoever did this. The Violent Crimes Division will be handling the investigation. I can have whoever’s assigned to the case get in touch.” He slapped her on the shoulder. “Real sorry about Derek. I’ll let you know what we find out.”

Willie led the last of the crime scene investigators out the front door, leaving her staring at the empty shelves and an emptier showcase floor. She wanted a drink. A bottle of Bushmills sat in her desk drawer in the office, but she decided to wait. People look at you funny when you start drinking before lunch.

She stood over the place where she’d found Derek. Dried blood, broken glass, and medical trash littered the floor. Her blood-soaked shirt lay in the middle of it all. She picked it up and her stomach clenched. Old memories of growing up as the tomboy daughter of Ralph Stevens, the Confederate Thunder’s former president, ripped through her mind.

For most of her childhood, Ralph had been her hero. A six-foot-five ex-Marine, he’d taught her how to ride a motorcycle, how to swap out the tranny in a car, and how to fire a pistol with deadly accuracy.

She’d participated in all but the most private of club business, much to her mama’s chagrin—riding along on runs to move guns, drugs, and whatever stolen goods the club had acquired. She could pick locks, disable alarms, and hot-wire cars like a pro, all thanks to Ralph.

Living as Ralph Stevens’ kid ruled until Mama died.