Page 51 of Asking for Trouble

I’d never been good with people tellin’ me what to do. Jumpin’ down from the dumpster, I set off at a sprint down the back alley before turnin’ right, headin’ to where we’d left our bikes two blocks down.

Behind me, sirens started up again.

Goddamn, it had been a minute since my last police chase.

I shucked my cut, tossin’ it behind a garbage can with a silent apology, and flipped the hood up on my grey sweater as I picked up speed.

My bike was the only one left, but that was the way it shoulda been.

It wasn’t every man for himself in the club, but it sure as hell was get the fuck away from the cops as quick as you can.

They didn’t exactly love The Fallen.

I swung my leg over the bike, startin’ the engine with a loud purr just as a siren whooped behind me. Thankful my helmet obscured my face, I gunned the throttle and took off through the streets of Vancouver.

I’d grown up in the city and still knew it well enough, thanks to all our business there to give the cops a merry little runaround. They couldn’t follow down some of the narrow lanes in the residential area I veered into, and then when they caught sight of me again, I was two blocks ahead, cutting to the left to head toward the seawall. They’d expect me to head right to get outta town, maybe disappear into the traffic leadin’ out to Burnaby.

Which was why I took the seawall, cuttin’ down off the street to take the pedestrian walkway on my bike, grateful it was a Thursday and the weather was shit so I didn’t have to contend with too many tourists as I flew around the curves and then cut back up to the road to head into Stanley Park.

By the time I was in North Van, there were no sign’a the cops on my tail.

Still, I didn’t pull over ’til I reached our next destination, a pretty house backin’ onto Grouse Mountain where one’a our biggest distributors lived.

Shelly Byers’s Mercedes SUV was in the driveway when I walked up, havin’ stashed my bike a few blocks away for good measure, but no one answered the door when I rang.

That was not like Shelly.

She was the kinda PTA mum who colour-coordinated her kids clothes and had a schedule for each member’a the family on the kitchen fridge. You told Shelly a time, and Shelly’d fuckin’ be there lookin’ like she stepped right outta some Brook Brother’s catalogue.

So where the fuck was she?

I texted King my location as I walked around the side’a the house, grateful Shelly lived in a posh neighbourhood with huge, treed lots seperatin’ each house from view’a the others. There was no movement in the windows and the doors were locked. But I could see a spill’a toys in the livin’ room that was totally outta character for Shelly.

“Fuck.”

Someone had got to her.

At the very least, they’d tried.

“You good, brother?” King asked, joggin’ up behind me with Carson at his back. “That was fucked back there.”

“Don’t worry about me. Shelly’s not here,” I said and watched King’s face close down.

“Shit, they’re really comin’ at us,” he muttered. “You check the house?”

“She’s not here. We can break in to check, but she’s got a good alarm system, and we’d have to get Curtains involved. I’d rather not hang around long enough to see if those fuckers set another trap for us. But give me a second here,” I asked, turnin’ my back on them to pace ’cause movin’ always helped me think.

I was good with people, which was an important skill when you were a member’a an outlaw organization filled with the kinda personalities that usually made people uncomfortable or terrified. So ’fore I’d been in charge’a the prospects, I’d been one’a the main brothers on the ground connectin’ with our network. Nova, King, and Buck were all good options too, butthey were busy with other work for the club, and talkin’ to people was no hardship for me.

I’d always been able to talk my way outta scraps, and Curtains always fuckin’ hated that I had a memory like a steel trap.

Both things worked to my advantage in a situation like this.

’Cause I remembered once, over coffee at Shelly’s marble-topped kitchen island, she’d mentioned how happy she was with her cut lately. It meant she could buy that cabin her husband always wanted up in Whistler.

Ding fuckin’ ding, I bet we had a winner.

My phone was in my hand taggin’ the speed dial for Curtains’s number ’fore I explained shit to King and Carson.