Havoc (Tattoos and Ties 1)

He wound his way to the back. They had a small office that was little more than a storage unit. Nothing there but records from past years, things like that. The room was almost empty now. Keyes turned back, surveying the shop from this angle. His heart dropped when he remembered his Harley parked to the side of the building.

He pushed through the outside door, his boots hitting the ground with a thud, eating up the gravel to the side of the building. His bike lay on its side, more than likely kicked over. He immediately righted the bike, looking for any purposeful damage. Luckily there wasn’t anything he couldn’t buff out.

“He won’t take the tires off. I don’t know what to do.” The woman from earlier stood between him and the front of the building, cash in her hand, holding the wad out toward him.

“Just go,” he said, scrubbing a hand down his face. In mid-motion, he lifted his eyes, and she was still there, looking so undecided and scared as hell all at the same time.

“They said you were in the Disciples of Havoc gang. I didn’t know that before I came here,” she stated. It wasn’t a question, but not really an accusation either, so he just corrected her.

“It’s a bike club, not a gang. We’re not a gang.” He brushed the hair from his eyes and tried his best to give her a reassuring smile.

“The immigration officers said it was a gang,” she said, pointing her thumb over her shoulder back out into the parking lot.

“Immigration officers?” When the fuck had they arrived? Screw the smile, Keyes stalked toward her, the look of fear came back to her face as she scurried backward several feet, allowing Keyes to pass by. He rounded the corner, anger again building when he saw most of his employees handcuffed, lying face down on the parking lot pavement. A new set of vans, trucks, and SUVs lined the road, blocking the entrances. Motherfucker. Keyes heard the call from one of the officers that they hadn’t spotted him yet. Keyes had a split moment of utter gratification as he witnessed his father in the back of a police cruiser, clearly handcuffed, banging his head against a door window, raging at no one in the empty car.

That image and short-lived feeling of contentment had Keyes taking a huge mental step backward. Dread and uncertainty fueled by anger washed over him. What the hell had happened to cause all this? With all the money the club made, there was plenty of cash shared under the table to pay their informants. Dirty cops, judges, dealers on the street, whoever should have given him the fucking heads-up that this was headed his way.

Why hadn’t any one seen this coming?

Keyes pivoted on his feet, cutting back to the office, hoping they hadn’t taken the landline. He had to call the club president then his attorney. If this was in fact club-related, they had five other businesses the motorcycle club partnered with and everyone needed to know what was possibly coming their way.

Alec sidestepped one conversation, only to lift a finger and nod toward the patio when another small group opened to include him in their discussion. This political party could have easily been held in the local nursing home. Geriatric hour was what Blaine had dubbed it within seconds of walking through the front doors of the older, stately mansion. Although Blaine got a firm nudge in the ribs to quiet his observations, Alec agreed. Any comparison that included Eisenhower was just way outside Alec’s knowledge base, causing him to drink a little more than he should and migrate from group to group to talk about local sports, of all things, just so he didn’t fling himself off the roof from boredom.

On the other hand, Blaine had been in rare form. He made fun of the whole party with his extravagant gestures and over-the-top comparisons, except only Alec seemed clued in to the sarcasm. They found Blaine charming, the hit of the gathering, a true young patriot in the making. Many guests invited Blaine to their church which included coming to their homes for Sunday dinner. The very idea caused Alec to down the rest of his vodka as he opened the patio door in hopes of escape.

“Alec, have you met Sheriff Black,” his father asked, drawing his attention from the crisp evening air and inviting night sky back in the direction he’d just come. Well shit. Escape denied. Regret for opportunities missed filled his heart even as he plastered his fake toothy grin on his face and headed back toward the living room.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” he said, nodding in the older man’s direction, extending his hand for a hearty shake. The sheriff looked like most other men in the room: the older cowboy type. Big, burly, calloused hands, thinning gray hair with a round, barreled belly. The western-cut suit jacket and open-collared dress shirt were alive and well in these circles, even if Alec’s tailor might find it impossible to believe.