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Chapter Three

Griffin’s Beach Diesel

“ H ey, 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 to be 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 by taking 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 more than 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?”

“No, we don’t. We’ve got fucking nothing. This guy finds women who clearly have no close ties to anyone who may consider it strange when they disappear.”

“What—”

“This asshole needs to be stopped. Based on various wounds, and the stages of healing, our medical examiner says the guy holds these women and tortures them for upwards of two to three weeks.”

This captures his attention, and Diesel looks up to what he thinks is Travis’s eyes. It’s hard to tell with the reflective sunglasses. “Two to three weeks?”

“And then he disfigures them and removes all identifying markers we typically use. None of the victims’ DNA is on file. Their hair is gone. Scalped, assuming we even get a head in the remains. No fingertips. No teeth. Nothing.”

“What exactly is it that you think we can do that you can’t? You know, you being the law enforcement officer and all.”

“You don’t have to follow the same rules I do.

The city is scared. Rightly so. Women are terrified to go out at night, and the news thankfully doesn’t know that this last victim likely isn’t number eight.

We’re pretty sure it’s the twelfth, but we haven’t been able to tie the first four cases to him definitively yet. ”

The stories in the news haven’t shed the most favorable light on the department, and if the Drifters were on better terms with them, they’d be more than happy to help. Especially with a perpetrator who tortures women for weeks. Unfortunately, they’re not on good terms.

“That’s not going to look too good on you when that confirmation gets passed down. To know the count is higher, not lower, is going to create a bit of panic.”

“This guy won’t stop until someone stops him. I know you have Bradshaw, who can do things our technical analysts can’t even dream of doing. They either don’t have the skills or the balls to step around legality.”

Of course, he wants to bring in their tech wizard.

And reference the illegal ways Brock’s able to get around virtually.

That way, when it comes time to apprehend this asshole, they can claim recognition.

If Brock or the club tried to say anything different, they could wave illegal activity to do it over their heads.

“Not that I’m a fan of the feds snooping around here, but why hasn’t the FBI shown up to take over? Since you clearly have nothing,” Diesel asks with a chuckle. “Or is Julian trying to keep it quiet because he’s a glory hog?”

Shaking his head, Travis sighs. “All I know is what Julian’s said.

He claims the FBI is backlogged thanks to budget cuts and other priorities.

The women appear to be transient because we can’t even connect them to a missing person.

It hasn’t garnered the right attention, which means national coverage. ”

“I find it kind of interesting that you’re here, asking for our help, when you fired Grayson because we were a liability .”

“You weren’t a liability; Grayson was. Which doesn’t sound any better,” he admits. “Look, it wasn’t my decision to let him go, okay?”

“Then your boss goes out there talking shit about us. He really has no idea you’re here right now, does he? You weren’t just blowing smoke up my ass.”

His silent stare at the building tells Diesel he’s right on the money. Although getting caught going inside the Drifters’ clubhouse would actually have looked worse than him standing out here talking to Diesel.

“You fired my son-in-law and called us trash. Now, you’re crawling back asking for our help. What exactly do I get out of this, Hall? What does the club get? Because from where I’m sitting, we’re still gonna be the ones shit on.”

“Women are dying!” he shouts.

Shoving the folder against Travis’s chest, he shakes his head. “And you know who would have been great at heading up this investigation? Grayson. But you fired him. Then you made us an enemy when we were an ally. This isn’t our problem, Hall.”

He steps around Diesel and sets the folder on the picnic table next to the front door. “In case you change your mind, there’s everything we have on the last woman found at the gas station. I can get you the rest of the files, if you need them, too.”

“And why would—”

“The woman who found the body at the gas station was Edna Miller. She was so startled by the grotesque sight that she had a heart attack and died in front of pump four. That’s where we’re at right now, Diesel. It’s bigger than me, which is why I’m here. Fruitless or not, at least I tried.”

He walks away, and Diesel stares after him. Edna Miller was once their neighbor. Before Nancy died. She was a sweet woman, and the thought of her finding a dismembered and disfigured body being the last thing she ever saw tugs at his heartstrings a bit.

No! That’s exactly what Hall wants. What he tried to do. He’s trying to bait me by making me feel sorry for others. Those motherfuckers should learn not to shit where they eat.

He grabs the folder and takes it inside. Maybe he’ll bring it to the table this week. That wouldn’t hurt, right? At least agree together that the decision is a big, fat no?