I’ve never felt the urge to procreate, and after all the violence that I’ve seen and committed, I’m even less inclined to bring an innocent child into this world and its problems.

“If the right woman turns up, maybe I will.” I don’t even try to sound convincing.

Bentley sighs and I sense that he’s given up on that conversation. “Just move fast on this assignment. That tape is out there somewhere, and it needs to be found now. Today. Yesterday, in fact. If it comes to it, keep it quiet and clean. But make it fast.” His deep frown tells me this video is worrying him. Royce must have accused these other guys of using some highly unpleasant interrogation methods. Things that are divulged by a Medal of Honor recipient will hold sway in the court of public opinion, even if they’re not true. The media will release it and the American people will grab pitchforks and light flames.

And burn everything Bentley has worked so hard to accomplish.

I nod, hearing the directive loud and clear, checking the safety on the gun before tucking it into my boot. “I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”

FIVE

IVY

I glare at the last rusted bolt, my face damp with sweat, the socket wrench dangling from my aching hand. Black Rabbit has been open for thirty years and this leather chair has seen every last sinful day of it, stationed in the center of the worn wood floor like some sort of monument. I bugged Ned endlessly to replace it with a more modern design, but he refused.

Now I know why.

Because it is stuck to the fucking floor and is never going to move.

Ian left this morning, on a plane for Dublin via New York City, leaving me with some cash for a painter and the freedom to do whatever I want with this place. He’s already lost almost a week’s worth of business with the Fine Needle being closed and, while he’s not driven by money, he needs to pay his bills. Plus he has also missed a week of the political science doctoral program he just started.

I understand why he left and I made sure to offer him a wave when the cab pulled out of the driveway, even though inside my head I was screaming at him to stay.

Not to leave me here to deal with this alone.

We called a real estate agent yesterday afternoon, for both the shop and the house. The woman’s name is Becca. She sounds like she knows what she’s doing. We also contacted a lawyer, to get the ball rolling on the estate settlement. I think Ian’s secretly hoping that I’ll change my mind and decide to stay in San Francisco to run Black Rabbit. That emptying the shop of Ned and giving it a fresh look will suddenly inspire me to make it my own. I don’t see that happening. I’ve already got a place to stay in New York lined up with friends, if I want. Or maybe I’ll head to Seattle.

But what is going to happen before I leave is this chair is going into a goddamn Dumpster so no one ever sits in it again. Whoever buys this shop will just have to get a new one.

I look down at myself, at my tight, torn—on purpose—jeans and my Ruckus Apparel T-shirt, smeared with dust and God knows what else, and chastise myself for not dressing more appropriately. Not that my clothing choice is going to give me the rusted-bolt-twisting superpowers that I need right now anyway.

I drop to my knees, the wood grain rough against my exposed skin, and I grit my teeth as I throw my full weight—which isn’t nearly enough—against the wrench’s handle. It doesn’t move, not a fraction of an inch.

It hasn’t my last five tries either. This time, though, I actually lose my balance and tumble over flat on my back. “Fuck!” I yell, whipping the wrench across the floor to clatter noisily in a corner. I pull myself up and lean back against the chair and close my eyes, tears of frustration threatening to spill.

Of course someone chooses that moment to knock on the glass pane in the door.

The sudden sound makes me jump. Most sudden sounds have been making me jump lately.

“Closed!” I holler. I’m in no mood to deal with anyone and kick myself for not shutting the steel grate. I can’t bring myself to pull the shades, though. It makes Black Rabbit too dark, too isolated.

Too much like that night.

“Ned was halfway done with my sleeve,” a guy’s muffled voice answers from outside.

“Well, then I guess you’re only going to have half a sleeve.”

“Come on, Ivy . . .” he pleads in a whiny voice.

With an irritated sigh, I open one eye and take in the burly man pressed against the glass, watching me. “I don’t know you.” Ned worked a lot of strange hours, though, especially in the mornings. It’s quite possible this guy sat in this chair for five hours before I ever stepped in here.

Or maybe he isn’t a client of Ned’s and he’s here to hurt me because I gave the police information about “Mario.” It’s a worry that lodged in the back of my mind a few days after the initial shock wore off. What if I saw something I wasn’t supposed to see? What if someone thinks I know something that I don’t? I certainly don’t have any valuable intel. The police thanked me for my help with the information I provided—a first name and shiny black combat boots, and a mediocre description of the cash register man’s profile that hasn’t resulted in any leads through the media so far. There’s a good chance that Ned’s murder will go unsolved. Detective Fields was considerate enough to spell that out to Ian and me when we asked.

The bushy blond beard covering the man’s face doesn’t hide his broad smile. “You mean to tell me you don’t remember the scrawny kid who’d come in here with toy race cars, wanting to play?”

That does sound familiar. I frown. “Bobby?” Son of Moe, one of Ned’s biker customers? This guy looks nothing like that scrawny kid. He could easily pass for thirty, even though I remember him being younger than me.

“In the flesh.”

Holy shit. I completely forgot about him. “You heard what happened, right?” I can’t see how he didn’t. It was all over the local news, and his dad was at the funeral, along with a dozen other bikers. Maybe he was there, too. I didn’t pay much attention to faces.

A solemn look touches his eyes when he nods. “Come on. Open up.”

Reluctantly, I climb to my feet and make my way over to unlock the door. Bobby has to duck to step through the doorway, his heavy boots making the floorboards creak. He’s more than double my size, and I don’t doubt there’s also muscle under all that leather and thick layer of fat. If I hadn’t spent so much time with guys like this, I’d be nervous standing in here alone with him now.

But I see the Harley parked outside and the official death’s hand insignia on his leather vest that marks him as a member of Devil’s Iron, and I’m just plain mad. “The cops said that what happened to Ned may have had something to do with you and your guys. Is that true?” I stare him right in the eye, willing myself to see the truth—or lie—for what it is. Ned was no saint, I know that. I know of a couple instances where some booze and cartons of cigarettes “fell off the back of a truck” and into the hands of guys like Bobby. Ned helped sell some of the inventory through here, to his regulars. People he trusted.

And that’s just what I know about. I have no idea what I don’t know about.

“Me?” Bobby’s hands press against his chest. He looks taken aback.

I nod toward his vest. “You.”

He’s shaking his head even before the words come out. “No, ma’am. We had nothing to do with what happened in here.” His soft blue eyes roam the shop. “Though trust me, the pigs have been poking around the clubhouse, trying to provoke the guys plenty.”

“What have you heard on the street?” It’s a ballsy question, assuming that a biker gang that despises law enforcement would offer information that might help in an official investigation, but it’s worth a shot.