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“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.
Thisassignment 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.”
