“Well, well, well, Iris.” The Irish accent is unmistakable. I’d heard he was born in Ireland to an Irish Republican Army sympathizer during the troubles, the family moved to America after the signing of the Good Friday Agreement.
“Thomas,” Iris gasps, and one of the men reaches for her. I feel an irrational need to cut the fucker’s hand off when it takes hold of hers. I wonder who he is to her.
Cillian gestures to another man. “Cormac’s going to take a look, yeah?” Then he turns and faces King and Clutch. “Uther Hills?” he asks.
I tune out what is happening between King and Ó Ceallaigh. Instead, I stand guard over Iris.
“Just a local anesthetic,” Cormac says as he pricks her skin without warning.
“Don’t put stuff in me without talking to me first,” Iris says, and I instinctively take a step nearer.
Cormac cleans the wound as Iris screws up her eyes and nose. Her hands curl into fists by her side. She’s persevering. Dealing.
Brave.
I hear pieces of the conversation. Cillian asking why his goddamn niece is being stitched up on our pool table.
King and Clutch explaining.
And all the while, Iris endures as a row of simple stitches is executed down her thigh.
Cillian keeps his icy cold glare on me as he approaches the table.
I want to tell him to get the fuck out of my club. But one of the most important things in warfare is recognizing when you’re up against a bigger army.
Not only here in this room, but out in the world. Ó Ceallaigh’s organization is a lot bigger than ours.
“You want to tell me what happened, neacht liom?” I don’t know what the words mean, but Iris lets out a breath and relaxes her shoulders.
“I saw a truck hit a bike. I called the police. Turns out it was their president. They wanted answers. I gave them the only ones I had. Clutch shielded me while Spark tried to take out the people who shot me. Then brought me here.”
She’s concise. Factual. And Cillian nods.
Nothing more.
No words of consolation for his niece.
Cunt.
But I tune him out. Because Iris’s eyes are back on me. Even as the last of the stitches is knotted.
It’s intense.
Too intense for someone I met less than an hour ago.
And yet, something stirs inside me. It must be the surge of adrenaline, endorphins, or something.
But it’s sure as hell not normal.
Because I’ve got a longing to see where the brat goes when Iris is fucked hard. Which is a terrible idea, given she’s Ó Ceallaigh’s niece.
A sterile dressing is applied, then the guy who held her hand lifts her up.
The fucker is taking her from me.
I step forward, but King shakes his head.
I want to defy my president for her.
They’re leaving, but I know where she lives. I can find her.
Finally, only Cillian is left, and he squares up to King. “Come near one of mine again, and you’ll be picking lead out of someone you love.”
And I know I’m fucked because there is no hope I can stay away.
1
SPARK
ONE MONTH LATER
Darkness cloaks us as I scan between shipping containers. My SIG sits comfortably in my palms, pointed to the ground, as my brothers take care of what we’re here for.
“Is that the last of them?” King quietly asks me. His dark hair flops over his face as he flicks his cigarette butt into the water.
I glance inside the shipping container as Saint, our priest, and Switch load another wooden crate into the van. “It is.”
Niro, our scarred treasurer, is behind the wheel, keeping watch.
I nudge the shipping container door closed. Military grade weapons do not come cheap, but we’ll make a killing on this load, even with all the bribes we’ve had to pay to make the delivery happen.
If you ever want to start a fight, ask who actually runs the Port Newark–Elizabeth Marine Terminal on Newark Bay, arguably the busiest shipping terminal on the East Coast.
Some think it’s New York, some New Jersey, as both states straddle the natural harbor.
Some think it’s the Italian crime families or the Waterfront Commission of New York Harbor.
What none of them realize is it’s the Iron Outlaws.
Sure, we’re dancing across all of them. Taking cash from one, using it to bribe the other. Worming our way in. The Italian families are losing focus as they struggle to make money. Legalizing sports betting and cracking down on opioids trimmed their finances. Even sex work is taking a hit with online apps that allow girls to take control of their clients without even leaving their homes.
And we’re ready to step right in, greasing palms and brokering deals.
Owning the port will be the biggest coup the club can pull. It’s a work in progress, but we already have unbridled access.
It’s midnight, and our goal is to be rid of the weapons before dawn. The less time we have them, the less likely anything can go wrong. It’ll take us a solid ninety minutes to get to the meeting spot. The buyer is meant to be there by three.
“Let’s get out of here,” says Halo, our road captain, as we all mount our bikes.
Getting out of the port is smooth, as promised. Five grand gets you a lot of cooperation.
When we arrive at the meeting point in the Pine Barrens, I set about securing the site.
“Something’s off,” I whisper to King.
King lights a cigarette and leans back on his bike. “You always think something’s off.”
I shake my head. “Yeah, well, I’m usually right when I say it.” My long hair is getting blown about by the late-September wind, so I whip it up out of my face. I’ve got a feeling I’m gonna need my peripheral vision.
“Yo, Saint,” King shouts to our former-Army-chaplain-turned-biker priest. “You wanna say a blessing or some shit to soothe Sparky-boy?”
Saint grins. “My pleasure.” He coughs, then makes the sign of the cross in the air. “Have I not commanded you? Be strong and of good courage: do not be afraid, nor be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go, fuckers.”
I shake my head again. “The fuckers God’s words or yours?”
“All mine. The rest is paraphrased Joshua 1:9.”
“Yeah, well. Joshua can go eat a dick. I’ve not yet met a man or beast that scared me.”
King laughs.
Humor breaks the tension . . . like it always did when I was deployed. I miss my unit. But I’ve found that same camaraderie in my club.
“Tell Prez I can hear him laughing all the way over here, dumbass.” Switch’s voice rumbles in my ear. He, Halo, and I are the only ones with communication. They’ve got their sights on the entry road.
“Prez, Switch’s got a problem with your volume.”
He mimics zipping his lip and throwing away the key before flipping the bird in Switch’s direction.
“Tell him I saw that too,” Switch grumbles.
Since I keep that to myself, our silent surveillance resumes. King has a point; I do think something’s off. It always feels off. Ever since the day I missed the suicide bomber in Kabul who killed thirteen of my platoon, guilt has riddled me as surely as a hailstorm of shrapnel. I’ve become obsessed with keeping people safe. The guilt of letting the unit down never leaves. The therapist I talked to after it happened said it was PTSD. Induced hypervigilance shit or something. But I didn’t stick around for the sessions long enough to figure it out. Not when they were trying to tell me it wasn’t my fault.