“Hey, D!” Colt Nichols shouts from the main room of the Drifters’ clubhouse.
Diesel Short slips his kutte on and walks out of his apartment, shaking his head at the sandy-haired President he’s known since he was born. His best friend’s son. His son’s best friend, and the husband to the woman he considers a second daughter. To say he’s proud of the way Colt grew up is an understatement.
It hurt when Jennings Molloy blindsided Diesel, along with the rest of the club, when he let everyone know he was stepping down, along with Colt’s dad, TK, and Lex’s dad, VP. Their friendship spans forty-plus years, and it was a slap in the face tobe left out of the loop. They started the club together, and he’s been part of every major decision since the very beginning.
The moment he announced Colt was the chosen one to replace Jennings, the sting disappeared. A new generation steps up now, taking over where the old-timers have left off. They’re taking what they’ve been taught and applying it with their new ideas to make the club the best it’s ever been.
It doesn’t hurt that Diesel’s son wears the Vice President patch, either. The two boys at the top make him prouder than he can express, so he stays silent. Silent, but they know how he feels. He’s certain they do.
“What’s with all the hollering?” Diesel jokes and runs his hand over his bald head.
“You got a visitor waiting for you outside.”
Who the hell would come here rather than simply calling? “And you didn’t think it appropriate to invite said visitor inside our humble clubhouse?”
“Nope. That motherfucker won’t step foot in here without a warrant in his hand.”
Julian Black would never just show up. But Travis Hall would. Both men were once allies and welcome in the main room of the clubhouse, but they’ve quickly turned into enemies.
The minute Diesel learned they fired Grayson after taking a bullet for Diesel’s daughter, the club took issue with the police department. For almost twenty years, they had a working relationship to assist the boys in blue, but that changed in an instant.
When Ashley came to Diesel crying, scared she was about to lose the man she loves, Diesel was done. The club was already sick of Julian going on the news bragging about how he, and he alone, cleaned up Griffin’s Beach bytaking out the trash.The same way he views the club now.
The judicial system fails more often than not around here, it seems, and Julian or Travis would come to the club to make sure justice was served where they couldn’t. Take care of things in a not-so legal way.
Diesel steps out into the bright sunlight and winces at the slight hangover from the night before. It was Nancy’s birthday yesterday, and it seems to get harder rather than easier every year that passes without his beloved wife.
Even in plain clothes, everything about Travis Hall screams cop. From his aviator sunglasses to his collared shirt tucked into designer jeans to the almost-new Dr. Martens on his feet.
Couldn’t even pretend this isn’t off the books and behind Julian’s back.
“Hairline seems to be running further away from your face these days, Hall,” Diesel says, smirking at the same buzz cut the man’s sported for the past thirty years. “What brings you to the trashy side of town?”
“I need to talk to you about a case,” Travis says. “Any chance I can come inside and talk?”
“Got a warrant?”
He shakes his head and sighs. “I’m not even here now, Diesel. It’s not that type of visit, and I’d rather not have it out in the open. Could use a beer, actually.”
“See, a few years ago, I would’ve invited you in and poured you a beer myself. But, you see, you fucked that up.”
“Diesel—”
“You can’t be trusted, Hall, so if you wanna talk, you better get comfortable doing it right here. Besides, I wouldn’t want to subject you to the horrors of being around the trash Julian claims he’s cleaning up.”
Two weeks ago, Julian specifically singled out the Drifters in his call for action to get rid of scum in town. He thought it would make him seem powerful, but the truth is, it hurt him a lot morethan he ever expected. He forgot how most of the town loves—or at least respects—the club. That trouble only occurs in town when necessary, and the fact they reside in Griffin’s Beach is a big deterrent for all other criminals.
Clenching his jaw, he fidgets with the folder in his hand. “And if I don’t wanna talk out here?”
“Then you can carry your ass out of here the same way you brought it here.”
“Fine,” he says, shoving a file folder at Diesel.
“What the fuck is this?”
He clears his throat and glances behind him before turning back to Diesel. “I’m not here, and I’m not giving you this, okay? So, I also never said this, but I need your help. The Drifters’ help.”
Opening the folder, Diesel stares wide-eyed. The top document is a picture of a dismembered woman, part of a tattoo exposed. The Un-Identifier. “You know who’s doing this?”
