Riders Of Tyr 5: Ironhand

CHIARA

My voice echoes faintly in the background, likely from the wet T-shirt contest coverage on KWSC news. I don’t bother to glance at the screen. Instead, my attention is riveted to the wall and the papers I’ve pinned there.

It’s Friday night. Most people my age are out and about, enjoying themselves, flirting, having sex, dancing. I mean, I’m twenty-eight years old, for heaven’s sake!

Yet here I am, staring at a wall adorned with red threads connecting random bits of information. At the center of it all is a picture. Daultrey. I’ve been on this man’s trail for nearly a year.

“Literally a whale.” He probably weighs as much as the containers he traffics. Daultrey, the former cop turned smuggler, murderer, and a host of other things ending in -er, was once the kingpin of the Cisco docks.

That is, until he vanished. Street gossip suggests he crossed the Chuen Yatt and paid the price. But Daultrey was a big player, always adept at handling threats.

He must have stepped on the wrong toes this time, and danced on them too. There’s been a shift in San Francisco’s underworld, and one group links it all: Riders of Tyr. My gut tells me there’s more to this Berkeley-based MC than meets the eye.

I glance at the file box on the floor and sigh. It cost me nearly half my salary, all my persuasion, a few threats, and a ton of favors to get these files on the Riders.

I only asked for the current members’ files, and surprisingly, they’re thinner than I expected. Rumor has it that the new king, as the Riders call their president, has guided the MC into legitimate businesses.

They own two porn studios and an escort service, all quite successful, making them the wealthiest ROT chapter in the US They have other businesses too, enough to support their own.

“Too good to be true.” The feds have been after them for years. There may not have been an open prosecution, but even the kids in Berkeley know the Riders deal in guns.

Imported from their contacts in Europe, the Riders are a quality supplier of firearms and a fierce defender of their small university town. Recently, they struck a deal with the ATF, turning in the former king, Haf Stenson, who was charged with selling those guns.

He was also implicated in several murders and other crimes, but no one else was taken down with him. Haf died in prison. Either this new king has made a very good deal with the Bureau, or someone exerted some serious influence on them.

“Okay, here we go,” I mutter to myself, picking up the box.

I clear another wall in my apartment. I sit across from it in a chair, the box beside me, a glass of wine on the floor, and my hair in a bun held up by a pencil.

Friday night…Yay!

***

Hours later, I’m still only halfway through the files. I started with the King’s. Tor Larsson had an arrest for a bar fight when he was about nineteen, but that’s it.

The photo in his file doesn’t look like a mugshot at all. He’s smiling directly at the camera, dimples on his cheeks and a twinkle in his eyes.

Good-looking boy. It’s hard to believe there’s a criminal mastermind behind those sky-blue eyes. Daniel Garlton, his VP/Earl, is an older man who’s done time for assault and illegal use of firearms but has been quiet for years.

Then there’s Vincent Thompson, the Sergeant-at-arms, the Herre of the Riders, charged with counts of assault, never went to trial. He has a long scar on his face, but that just makes him more attractive.

Next up on the wall is Bjorn Engström. Arson, two years. Tall, good-looking man. Scorching hot—pun intended.

What the hell? Do the Riders hold a beauty contest to admit members? I sift through the files, pinning the relevant ones to the wall and reading through them.

I need more wine, I decide, heading to the kitchen. I pour some, sit on the floor, and take a few sips. Without even realizing it, I swish the liquid around in my mouth, letting all the flavors sink in, just like my mother taught me when I was only supposed to be drinking milk.

“Not bad,” I judge, and dig into the next file. I open the first page and glance at the picture. And almost choke on my wine for the first time in my life.

I can’t tear my eyes away from the small, photocopied mugshot. There’s a man in it, all right. “Man? Try god.” He’s incredibly tall if the lines behind him are any indication.

He’s staring straight into the camera with a sharp, dark look in his almond-shaped eyes, framed by thick, straight eyebrows. He has full, fleshy lips and a tight, square jaw.

His long black hair extends beyond the frame of the picture. Native American, I realize. “Bless the Sacred Spirits, this man can have my scalp anytime.”

With great effort, I tear my eyes away from his picture and read further. Piwapisk “Ironhand” Girard, a Canadian of the Cree nation. He was charged with assault causing bodily harm.

I read the report. The man who pressed charges was a Berkeley resident. He claimed that Girard showed up at his workplace and beat him unconscious.

Eventually, the charges were dropped. The Riders either have the best lawyer in the state or the best intimidation tactics. I’m leaning toward the latter.

I take my wine and Girard’s picture and lie back on the couch. I stare into those eyes and find myself entranced, unable to look away.

“Control yourself, it’s just a picture. Of a criminal.” My mind completely agrees, but my body has already ventured down a rabbit hole of fantasies.

Hot, steamy, undeniably sexy fantasies. And it’s a nice place, filled with a dark, huge man, with olive skin, with wet lips on my skin, hands on my thighs and…

“No, no, no!” I jump up, spilling all the wine on the carpet.

Sex may not have been high on my priority list this past year, but that doesn’t mean I need to get off on a stranger whose idea of fun is sending people to the hospital.

He’s a case file. Nothing more. I put a lid on the treacherous path my mind has taken and focus on the carpet.

And as I clean the carpet before it’s permanently stained, I hatch a plan. A plan that will get me the answers I want, a hot piece for the news channel, and most importantly, the priceless look on Clarence’s face when he sees what a “cute girl” can do.

Casting a final glance at Girard’s photo, I inhale deeply and reach for my laptop. The task ahead requires research, planning, and sheer determination. Not to mention a touch of insanity.

Luckily, I’ve got all bases covered. Including the insanity part.

“All right, time to uncover some dirt on the Riders,” I murmur to myself, my gaze fixed on the screen.