Chapter 3

Magnolia Shores, Florida Two months later

T his motorcycle was proving to need more repairs than the customer had indicated. Jace picked up a socket wrench. It was Thursday, and the customer wanted the bike by tomorrow for a big trip he'd planned for the weekend.

As a full-fledged member of the Devil's Patrol, Jace had made himself as useful as possible. The club liked his knowledge of bikes and how he had doubled business—legitimate business—at Al's Body Shop, the garage the club owned.

Thanks to his old man, he knew a lot about fixing bikes and cars. Not that Jace ever expected to see his old man again. Hell, he'd hoped as much. Considering Albert Beckett was imprisoned, his wistful thinking was valid.

All his hopes died a quick death when he went to get a part from a shelf and felt a strange prickling at the back of his head.

A warning.

"Hey, you work here?"

He'd know that deep voice, raspy from all those years of smoking, anywhere. The old man wasn't in prison anymore.

Heart hammering against his chest, he waited a minute. Couldn't show any emotion. No anger. Certainly no fear. Jace nodded but did not turn around.

"Al's Body Shop. They named it after me, you know. I was damn good with fixing things when I was with the Devil's Patrol."

Jace's hand tightened on the wrench he'd grabbed off the shelf. His knuckles whitened. A chill ran down his spine. Knew his past would catch up to him, but did it have to be this soon? Why the hell did his old man have to get paroled early?

He headed back to the bike, keeping his head down.

"Any chance Walt's still around? He used to work here."

Squatting down, Jace pretended to be absorbed in the bike he was repairing. "Not familiar with that name."

"Walt worked here years ago, when this was my garage. I'm Al, like the Al on the sign."

Yeah, I know. The same Al who fought and killed a member of a rival bike gang and left me and Mom to fend for ourselves while you were supposed to rot in prison.

Al wandered closer into the garage. Jace's stomach tightened. Old man wasn't supposed to be in here, only employees, but he acted like he still ran the place. Why couldn't they have kept him locked up and tossed away the key?

"Garage looks good, same as it did when I was here. Some improvements." A deep inhale. "Still the same smell. Love that smell. Miss it. Oil and power."

Jace pulled out the carburetor and examined it, saying nothing.

Al began talking about the bikes he'd fixed, the machines he adored, while sweat trickled down Jace's back, banding in the waistband of his jeans. He wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his shirt.

"You don't talk much."

No kidding. Finally, Jace gritted his teeth. "Can I help you with something?"

"Came here to ask for a job."

"Not hiring now."

Al walked around the bike's other side until he stood directly in front of Jace.

"Who would I talk to about a job around here?"

Jace mumbled something.

"Look at me when I talk to you, son."

Now Jace did look up, the term sending him into a slow boil. I'm not your son. I ceased being your son the day you killed that biker.

He stood, wiping his grease-stained hands on a somewhat clean towel. "No work around here. Lance runs the place and he doesn't have any jobs open."

"Huh. You look like you know what you're doing. Experienced. Good for Lance, having you as a mechanic." Al's tone deepened. "Always good for a man to have a trade to fall back on. I always told that to my son. Damn, I haven't seen him in years. Wish I could find him, but I heard his mother moved out west. She probably took him with her."

Now he got a long look at his father. The dark hair, so similar to his own, had been replaced with a shock of iron gray. His cheeks were leaner, and a sense of weariness hung around him like baggy clothing. He looked presentable in clean, somewhat new jeans, a crisp white T-shirt and a denim jacket.

But his blue eyes, an echo of Jace's, held a sadness previously missing, edging out the hardness Al always exhibited.

Prison had done something to his father. Didn't matter. They were finished, and he only wanted the old man gone before he started sniffing out the truth.

"Anything else? I've got to get this bike fixed."

Al gave him a long, thorough look that made Jace squirm internally. Finally, he nodded. "I get it. Old biker like me, and you have no time for me. Got it. No worries. But if you run into Snake or Vic, tell 'em Diesel was here."

His father walked out the open garage bay doors.

Too close. No warning. No time for him to reel in his emotions, pretend he didn't care.

Good thing no one else witnessed this little interaction. Jace blew out an angry breath and saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He headed for the back door, saw a bulky, large figure disappear around the corner. It might have been one of the guys. Or not. Couldn't worry about that now.

At least he'd succeeded in driving away his old man, who hadn't a clue he'd chatted with the son who hadn't seen him since the day Al got hauled off to jail by the cops.

An hour later, he headed to the apartment rented for his undercover assignment. Home never looked so good to him, even though this temporary place was to crash. It was safe from prying, suspicious eyes. Here, in the privacy of this little studio, he could be himself.

As he pulled into his assigned space, he saw Oscar Porter, the neighbor who'd recently moved into an apartment on his floor. Oscar was in his assigned space, putting new wiper blades on his elderly sedan.

The man turned and pushed his glasses up his nose, grinning, as Jace roared into his spot, pushed down the kickstand and switched off the engine.

"Hey, Jace. Wow. I love your bike. Harley, right?"

Jace bit back a smile as he removed his helmet. "Yeah."

As if the bike's insignia wasn't already a clue, but Oscar wasn't bad. Guy kept to himself and didn't cause problems. Not too curious, either, which Jace appreciated after a long day of dodging questions and trying to act the part of someone he was not.

Someone he'd vowed to never become.

"Great bike," Oscar continued, walking over and giving the motorcycle the same look some men gave an attractive woman. "Mind if I look her over?"

Jace dismounted. "No problem. Just don't touch the chrome."

Oscar whistled as he ran fingers across the hand-tooled leather seat Jace had specially installed. "Custom job, right?"

"Yep."

Oscar's dark brown hair was cropped short and spiky on top. With his button-down shirts, neatly pressed trousers and white socks with black shoes, he might as well carry a pocket calculator.

"You think I could get a bike like that?"

The wistfulness on his face gave Jace pause from replying with the flip answer he'd intended. "Maybe. But you sure you want a motorcycle? Your car suffices. Plus, with the weather down here in Florida, in the summer, you never have to worry about sudden rainstorms."

For a mere few seconds, he saw contempt flicker in the other man's gaze. But the sun was setting in his eyes, so Jace rubbed his face and then put on his sunglasses. Must be a trick of the light.

"Sure. You're right."

Oscar's gaze traveled over Jace's arms and one of the tats inked on his right bicep. "Rise? What does that mean? Like in flour? Or sunrise?"

Jace grinned. "It's a reminder for me to rise above certain things."

In truth, he'd gotten the ink shortly after he and Kara broke up. It served as a bittersweet reminder for him to get up each damn day and face the morning instead of wallowing in self-pity.

Kara had smashed his world when she'd left him. Hated to admit the truth, but though he'd told everyone it was mutual, he truly wanted to stick it out.

Work things out.

"Jace?" Oscar pushed up his glasses again. "Did you hear me? What kind of things?"

"Many things. Like rising above a situation, or a person. Especially in my job. Working with the public can be a bitch, but you can't let it get to you."

Oscar nodded, as if approving. "I get it. I go through the same stuff in my job."

He nodded, his mind elsewhere. Few details with this guy or anyone else. Rule of undercover work—it was best to stick as close to the truth as possible.

"I'm thinking about getting one. They make you look bad."

Jace nodded again. "Well, gotta get upstairs, lots of stuff to do before I go out tonight."

Oscar brightened. "You have a favorite biker bar you hang out at? Maybe I can join you sometime for a beer."

They would eat you up in a minute and spit you out in one sip of domestic beer. And then use their boots to kick out what was left. If anything was left.

"Maybe."

"Great. Thanks, man, really appreciate it."

With a wave, Jace dismissed his neighbor and raced up the steps to his second-floor apartment.

Even someone as innocuous as Oscar could prove dangerous if he learned too much. Best not to trust anyone.

Jace tossed his helmet and sunglasses on the worn sofa and closed his door. It had been a devil of a day, and he rolled his eyes at his own pun. Suddenly exhausted, he plopped onto the sofa and closed his eyes just for a minute.

He dreamed of Kara, her soft smile, her big blue eyes gazing at him with the love she once felt.

And then they clouded with terror as she gazed beyond him. Something yanked her away with extreme force.

Something dark, hidden in the fog suddenly swirling around them.

He saw her fading, her scream ringing in his ears as she vanished from his sight.

TGIF, but not for her. Today was already proving challenging.

On a bed of black velvet, the diamond necklace gleamed beneath the quartz light. Dylan Moore stared at the gems, his eyes huge in his thin face.

"Kara, what do you plan to do with it?"

Kara paused in checking off an item on her to-do list. So much going on at the Willow Wind Estate Sales that her head whirled. "I have a buyer from New York coming next week. He's offering the right price."

"What's the right price?" Dylan frowned as he set down the box on the glass case. "How do you know?"

"You know from research and experience in this business." She gestured to the box. "Off the glass, Dylan. You know the rules. Don't set anything on the display case."

"Sorry." He set the box on the ground. "What's the right price?"

"The diamond necklace is worth about two hundred thousand and he's offering one hundred seventy-five. Cash."

Dylan whistled. "That's a lot of dollar bills. Why the discount?"

"It's too risky for me to keep it here in the store. If I can sell the necklace sooner, I stand to turn a better profit." Kara wiped her forehead after setting down the clipboard.

He glanced around the shop. "You're installing the new security system day after tomorrow, right? Want me to come in early to help?"

Dread shot down her spine as she thought of how vulnerable the store might be, especially with the necklace. She'd purchased a portable safe with a sturdy lock, and planned to hide the safe, but the idea of having such expensive jewelry in her store troubled her.

Even more troubling was that her friend's husband's firm, SOS Security, couldn't guard the diamonds for another three days. Jarrett Adler, owner of SOS, had apologized, but they were short-staffed at the moment.

"No, the men will be here at seven a.m. and you're working hard enough. As a matter of fact, why don't you come in later? The security system is going to take a few hours and there's nothing for you to do until they're finished."

A shadow crossed his face. "Sure."

He probably hoped for overtime. Kara made a mental note to try to give him his monthly bonus early. "What about lunch? You've barely taken a break all morning."

His face dropped. "Not hungry. Besides, you wanted these boxes all moved today."

No lunch again. Dylan had that hungry look, though. Kara inwardly sighed.

Money was tight with nineteen-year-old Dylan. This was his only job. He should be in college. Her cousin had a sharp intelligence and quick learning ability, but Kara knew he saved every penny to help his mother.

Ever since she got cancer and moved from Nevada back here to Florida last year, Wanda Moore had become top priority in Dylan's young life. Kara suspected Bruce, Dylan's stepfather, beat him and her aunt. Dylan remained tight-lipped about it, but she'd seen him sport a few bruises.

Her father, Wanda's brother, gave his sister money for medical expenses and food, but each time he did, Bruce took the money and used it to gamble. Kara worried about her aunt and cousin all the time. Until Wanda willingly left Bruce, her family could do little.

Not for the first time she wondered what would have happened had her brother, Dylan's best friend, lived. Maybe Dylan wouldn't have had emotional problems and his father wouldn't have tossed his hands up in the air and divorced her aunt. Maybe ten years ago Dylan's mom wouldn't have married Bruce, who had a good job, but a violent temper. Maybe they wouldn't have moved to Nevada, where Dylan's stepfather's gambling addiction deepened.

Too many maybes . All she could do was offer Dylan that raise and hope it helped.

"All that work on an empty stomach isn't good. I need you energetic, kid." She reached for her phone. "How about sub sandwiches delivered? You deserve a break for all your help. Roast beef on whole wheat with mayo, lettuce and provolone sound good?"

"Cheddar." Dylan's face relaxed. "Kara, you don't have to..."

"But I will." She ordered online and waved her phone. "Done."

Shame flickered in his dark eyes. Kara went to him, put her hands on his thin shoulders. So thin.

"Dylan, you're the hardest worker I have on staff. Treating you to lunch once in a while is a job perk. You will get that raise, I promise, after the diamond sells."

How she wished she could do more, but she also knew his pride. Dylan wouldn't take charity. She considered calling Lacey Adler, her friend who ran a women's shelter, but she had to feel Dylan out on the prospect.

Dylan's phone rang. He answered. "Hey, Mom!"

His expression went from sunny to dark in seconds. Dylan shoved a hand through his hair. "No, Mom, wait, I'll come for you. Don't move. Don't worry, I'll be there in minutes. Mom... Mom...just wait."

He thumbed off the phone. "Kara, sorry, I have to take care of something."

Worried, she nodded. "Need help?"

"No." A line furrowed between his eyebrows. "I've got this."

When the order arrived, she kept his sandwich in the fridge, waiting for him. Two hours later, Dylan returned, sporting a fresh bruise on his cheek.

She found an ice pack and silently handed it to him. Dylan winced and put it against his face.

"Is your mom okay?" she asked gently.

His voice trembled. "She told my stepdad the insurance wouldn't cover chemo for breast chemo and found out he canceled the insurance four months ago. When she questioned him about it, he hit her. He didn't break anything. She'll be okay."

"Dylan, I can pay for her chemo. Please, let me help you and Aunt Wanda, I know people—"

"No! She's my responsibility. I have to get her out of there..."

He turned away, dropping the ice pack on the table. "Thanks."

Kara brought his sandwich from the refrigerator. "I saved this for you. You have to keep up your strength."

Sullen, not looking at her, he nodded his thanks as he devoured the sub. Dylan glanced at her. "Kara, there is something you can do. Can you follow me on my bike to Al's Body Shop after work? I need a tire change."

Kara winced. "I wish you wouldn't ride that bike, Dylan. Cars are safer..."

"My bike isn't any bike. It's a racing bike." His face lit up. Sandwich in hand, he gestured out back. "She's gorgeous and fast and the best thing I have in my life now, Kara. Every time I race her, I can leave the world behind."

Maybe the best way to reach him was through understanding the motorcycle he loved so much. "Tell me about racing. I don't know much about any kind of car or bike racing."

"Cars, that's a different world. When I race my bike on a track, I can go up to two hundred miles an hour. The turns are the trickiest. I have a suit and I bend into the curve, so low I can scrape my knee, so I wear knee sliders."

Kara's stomach roiled at the image he'd painted. Was the biker who crashed into her car twelve years ago going that fast? He'd died on impact. The police investigation said the biker ran a red light as he was escaping a crime scene, but it didn't matter. She had always blamed herself for taking out the car without permission.

She put a hand on his arm. "If your bike means that much to you, let's go now. Then take the rest of the day off."

He brightened. "Thanks!"

Kara understood all about leaving the world behind. She only hoped Dylan wouldn't lose touch with reality so much that he would keep refusing help for a situation that was growing increasingly worse by the day.

On his lunch break from the mechanic shop, Jace went home. He managed to down a slice of cold, leftover pizza and used one of his burner phones to message his boss. Got word the big job moved up to tomorrow night. Planning to knock off a local shop with more than six figures in jewels. Don't know more than that.

The phone rang. He answered with caution. "What?"

"Checking up to see how you're doing." Rafael Jones Rodriguez was his boss and a supervisory special agent in the FBI's southern Florida office.

"They're planning a huge job tomorrow night using the bikes." He blew out a breath. "Rafe, they're using teenagers on crotch rockets for their thefts. Biker named Snake, who did time for armed robbery, knows how to open safes and do quick smash-and-grabs. He and two other Devils ride on the back of the crotch rockets for a quick retreat before the cops arrive."

"They'll go down with the others when we do the raid. Time's not right yet. We want to nail the big boss—Marcus."

"Not these kids, Rafe. These are kids who fell in with the wrong crowd for the wrong thrills. Except for Dylan. Lance bought him a Ducati and this is how he has to pay him back. I hate this. Want to tell them to get the hell out before they land in prison." He thought of Dylan, a nice kid, and not the rough and cocky kids who enjoyed stealing for the thrill.

"Jace, we can offer the kids a deal after all the arrests, but the time isn't right. You have to keep on them. If you nab Lance, he'll lead us to Marcus. There's a plausible domestic terror threat on the table."

"How plausible?"

Rafe's voice tightened. "You hear about that train derailment in northern Florida? Found out today ten tons of ammonium nitrate went missing. Devil's Patrol members were in the same area not long before the derailment. Hell, they might have even caused it to seize the stuff. Chatter has it they plan to do something big."

His blood ran cold. Ammonium nitrate was a fertilizer terrorists used to make bombs. That amount was enough to blow a city block. The Oklahoma City bomber used only two tons. It was regulated and hard to purchase, but now enough to blow up a city block had gone missing. If the DP planned a terrorist attack, maybe to cover their criminal activities, all they needed was to mix the nitrate with petroleum-based oil and add a blasting cap.

Pow. Major damage. Property destroyed. Innocents killed.

This assignment made him feel like the grime beneath his biker boots. He'd gotten into riding for the freedom and the friends who enjoyed motorcycles as much as he did.

But with this new threat, he felt a grim conviction to do whatever necessary to nail the bastards.

Rafe interrupted his thoughts. "Any leads on Marcus? Anything?"

He plopped onto the sagging sofa and rubbed his forehead. The studio apartment, necessary for his undercover gig, was decorated with used furniture, a far cry from his one-bedroom condo in a respectable community.

"All I've heard is Marcus is shifting his attention to something big that's personal and he needs quick cash. Lance is focusing on making one big score with these kids, and after, lying low. He's planning a trip to New York to sell the jewels from the last theft."

"What are your plans, Jace?"

"We have church tomorrow night," he said, indicating a meeting of the Devil's Patrol. "The kids will be there for Lance's orders to pull off this heist. Might get some intel at that point."

The gang liked him. Most of them, anyway. Called him Gator for killing a gator with his bowie knife and then grilling said gator at a BBQ. They liked that he could repair their bikes and trusted him up to a point. But still, he hadn't cracked open the inner circle with Big Mike and Lance, and had discovered only a little about the group of young thieves Lance recruited over the past three months to steal for him.

He thought for a moment. "There has to be another reason you called, Rafe. What's wrong?" His fingers tightened on the phone. Being deep undercover meant little contact with anyone from his normal world.

"Is it my mom? Stepdad? I haven't talked to them in months." Not that she'd worry about him. His mother hadn't bothered to check on him in a long time. All contact was made by Jace, and his mother was always too busy for dialogue. Naw, it was more one-sided, telling him her latest shopping spree and never asking how Jace was doing.

Still, he couldn't help but hope she cared a little...

"Far as I know, they're fine. But I got word of someone else." Rafe's voice lowered. "Your father was released from prison. He finally got parole. Soon as I found out, I contacted his parole officer. Your father wants to see you."

Jace closed his eyes. Swore. "Too late. He already did."

Now it was Rafe's turn to swear. "Jace, do you need to come in?"

"No. He didn't recognize me. At least I doubt he did. Hell, I barely recognized him. I haven't seen my old man in fifteen years. Not going to start socializing with him now."

"I know." Rafe's voice sounded soothing. "Sorry I couldn't get you a heads-up earlier."

"You mean in case he takes up with this chapter, or another one, of the DP? Damn." Jace rubbed a hand over his beard. Laughed. "He had to get paroled now , of all times? Couldn't they keep him locked up for a few more years?"

"Parole officer says he really did a one-eighty in prison. Taught other inmates auto and motorcycle repair."

"Yeah, he was always good at that. Taught me." The irony wasn't lost on Jace. The same skillset had gained him respect and entry into the DP.

"He had to give an address to his parole officer. I'm keeping tabs on him, just in case he decides to return to his old haunts."

"Right. Where is he living now?"

A moment's hesitation. "Why do you want to know?"

"Where is he, Rafe?"

"Jace, you can't risk seeing him again. You'll blow your cover."

"Let me worry about that." Then, because he and Rafe were good friends and he didn't want him worrying, he added, "I have no intention of visiting. I didn't visit in prison, not going to start now. Now, where the hell is my old man?"

"He's in town. That's all I can tell you. That and he's changed. Let it go, Jace."

"Trust me, he's still the same asshole he always was."

"Need to tell you... I have a CI on the case as well, with instructions to keep an eye on your father in case he wants to rejoin the Devil's Patrol."

Interesting. "Who's the confidential informant?"

"You know I can't tell you."

He knew, but at least Rafe told him there was a CI. To protect an informant's identity, the FBI assigned the person classified numbers. As the CI's handler, only Rafe would know that number...and the person's true identity.

"Whoever it is, tell them to watch the old man. He's slick. Gotta go."

Glancing at the clock and realizing he needed to return to work, Jace stared at his cell phone and thumbed through the contacts until finding it.

Mom.

Seeing his old man had made the painful past rush back in a flood. His father was right in that his mother, Al's ex-wife, had moved away. But she hadn't taken Jace with her. Nope, he'd been in the Army by then, in boot camp.

He hesitated. She might ask questions. Where Jace was, what he was doing. Maybe even worry about him. He only needed to reassure her he was on a big assignment and could take care of himself.

Jace hit the button. Deep inside, he had a tiny hope she might express concern. Maybe she might care.

This time.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Mom. It's me."

"Stephen? Is everything all right at school?"

Jace's throat tightened. "No, Mom, it's your other son. You know, the firstborn son. Jason."

"Jason. Oh, my. I thought you were Stephen and calling about your bank account again to borrow more money. That boy goes through his allowance for school like money grows on trees." A throaty laugh.

"I don't need money. I called to say hi," he said. "I thought you'd like to know... I mean, just in case if you don't hear from me... I'm working on this special assignment..."

"Oh, yes, that's right. You're home on leave now from the Army."

Jace closed his eyes. He hadn't been in the Army in years. He'd gone to college after, on his own dime and the government's. His mother knew he held a government job now. But it hadn't registered. "No, I'm working in Florida on something important..."

"Oh. Well, have fun. I have to go. The Maxwells are throwing a big party and I can't decide if I should wear the blue dress with my black heels or the black dress."

"Mom..."

She hung up. Gripping the phone so tight his palm hurt, Jace stared at the wall. Mom hadn't changed. Didn't give a damn. Didn't ask how her firstborn son and heir was doing, nope. For all she knew, he could be dead in a ditch and her biggest worry would remain what to wear to his freaking funeral.

The only real mother he got to know was Kara's mom, Claudia, who treated him like family. Welcomed him, fussed over him, made him feel accepted and cherished.

Strange how he loved his ex's mother and father more than his own dysfunctional family. He rubbed the back of his neck. Kara had always asked about his family. Even gently badgered him because she'd wanted to meet them. But he'd been too ashamed.

Add that to yet another reason they'd broken up.

Then there was dear old Dad...

For a minute he got lost in the past, back when he was a teenager and he'd wanted to be so much like his dad. Wanted his respect at any cost.

The wake-up call was a hard life lesson. Fast and furious. Following his old man to that biker bar, itching at fifteen to be just like him. Maybe have a beer, trade rough talk with the guys about girls.

Even though he'd barely kissed a girl. Too shy.

Jace closed his eyes, remembering sneaking into the club, seeing his old man and another biker have at it, the fists flying, the sharp explosion of gunfire...the metallic smell of blood slicking the floor, a wide-eyed gaze staring at the ceiling.

Soon after, his father went to prison and his mother divorced him.

Two years later, he enlisted and never looked back.

But he never forgot that day. It fueled him, gave him purpose all the times in his life when he wanted to quit.

Never be like your old man . Family wasn't anything to him anymore. He had no real family.

With a strangled curse, he threw his phone at the sofa. Screw family and screw the past.

He needed to get the information and get out from under this gang. Deliver justice by doing his job and keep the public safe from these rat bastards. That was more important than his terrible family.

Before someone ratted him out and he turned into a cold corpse lying out in the Everglades.