PROLOGUE: SAINT
OCTOBER 25
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” I mutter as I dash around my undercover apartment, shoving anything that might keep me alive for the next four hours into a backpack.
I yank open the cabinet beneath the bathroom sink and grab my medical kit, one with more than simple over-the-counter remedies. Antibiotics. Synthetic monofilament sutures. The kind of painkillers that can cause addiction.
When I stand, I see my brown hair and beard trimmings in the sink and wonder who the real me is; I run my fingers across my cheek, beardless for the first time in years. Spark, the Iron Outlaws’ sergeant at arms, had teased me about how I looked like Jesus. Now I actually look like who I am. Who I’m supposed to be.
Fuck.
I don’t even know who that is anymore.
Am I clean-cut Special Agent Ryker Miller, undercover for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives? Former army bomb disposal expert? Because that guy surely wouldn’t have recklessly detonated his career as I’ve done. Or am I Saint, preacher and strip club manager for the Iron Outlaws Motorcycle Club? Or, in Ryker’s language, an Outlaw Motorcycle Gang.
For two years, I’ve danced between the two.
And today I picked a side.
My brothers’.
But doing so has made me the ATF’s enemy number one, collapsed a huge interdepartmental investigation, and will likely cost me my life. At some point, I’m certain my Iron Outlaws tattoo, the one I was forced to receive, will be burned off my body.
Bates will do it. He loves the sound of pain.
I suppose it’s cheaper than laser removal.
This is the price of the path I’ve chosen.
One day I’ll look back and realize I did this for two women. For Iris, so she can love my friend back to life. And for Briar, so we can love each other, and I think we’re starting to.
Until I’m out of danger, I need to keep my distance from Briar. She’s been through enough. And I can’t let her get hurt for me.
I run back into the bedroom. “Think,” I mutter. My electronics are packed. My wallet with all my fake identification was tossed in a dumpster halfway between here and the shoot-out at the warehouse. My legitimate identification is in my real house in Portland, Maine. In the past few weeks, I procured another set of documents that neither the ATF nor the Iron Outlaws know about. I also stole two weapons from the club.
If I’m fucked, I might as well be properly fucked.
I maybe have another ten minutes.
I chose to help Spark save Iris because of the kind of man he is. I’ve seen the sacrifices a man like that makes. And for once in my life, I wanted to do the right thing. Because he’s a good friend, a shit fisherman, and a hypervigilant veteran with PTSD.
He deserves the love Iris gives him unconditionally.
And seeing her hurt will kill him.
It would also kill me. Iris was born into a life she didn’t want. Daughter and niece of Irish crime family kingpins. I know how it feels to live a childhood in the shadow of that kind of legacy.
I’ve made calls I shouldn’t have.
I’ve made calls I should.
I stuff my fleece, waterproof clothes, and hiking boots into the suitcase. I’ll buy more, but the basics are good. Maybe I’ll head to my sister Rae’s house in Michigan. But in case I don’t, I’ve already thrown my tent and sleeping bag into my truck. Not the truck the club knew about, but the one I kept parked on a patch of dirt a mile from the clubhouse. I left my bike there. They’ll figure it out eventually, but by then, I’ll have made it to Maine and swapped it with my own ride. Switching things up—directions, license plates, lodgings—will make it harder to trace me.
My phone rings, and I know I’m in deep shit. Because instead of it being Weicker, my boss, it’s Special Agent in Charge Harry Davis. They know enough that they can call my undercover phone now.
Instead of answering, I hang up and then make a call I don’t want to.
“Saint, what happened, man? Where the fuck are you?” Uther “King” Hills, president of the Iron Outlaws, says when he answers. I admire him as a man and a leader. He makes the toughest calls with the greatest ease. Two months ago, I’d watched him put a bullet in his girlfriend’s head after he found out she was a traitor to the club.
