Page 8 of Contracted to the Bikers

“So,” Cruz says. “Prosecutor Mercer.”

“Former,” she corrects.

“Former?”

“I resigned yesterday. I’ll be working freelance now.” She says this without apology or explanation.

Interesting. I find Sloane maddeningly intriguing.

“Because someone tried to kill you?” Boone asks.

“Yes.” Again, she offers no further explanation. She produces a folder from her smart leather briefcase and slides it across the table. “Here’s the short version.”

I open it. Inside are newspaper clippings, financial records, and a neat summary typed in clean legal language. It’s all there, the information on Valentin Escar’s cartel laundering network and conviction. The attempt on her life with a bomb planted in her car, my eyebrows raise as I note the attack on two US Marshals working on her case, one dead, one in critical condition. The escalation timeline is rapid.

Cruz, who’s been reading over my shoulder, whistles softly. “Someone really doesn’t like you.” He looks up at Sloane, looking at her in a different light, admiration in his tone.

Her mouth quirks, a shadow of a smile before she regains her composure. “Yes.” She doesn’t explain or apologize for it, it’s simply a fact. She folds her hands on the table. Finally, she explains what she wants from us. “I need protection.”

“From a cartel?” Cruz asks. I doubt she can hear the relish in his voice. Cruz appreciates a challenge.

“Yes.”

Boone interjects softly. “You understand we’re not exactly the FBI.”

“Yes, but I don’t want to go into Witness Protection. I don’t want to run and hide, to let him win and back down. If I do, it’s not just me who suffers. Every crook will think they can scare lawyers and witnesses into staying silent. It’s not an option,” she insists, jutting her chin forward. I admire her bravery and refusal to compromise on her morals.

“Then why us?” I ask, though I assume we’re a last resort.

She looks straight at me. “My father trusted Iron Vale. He told me you were men of honor who could provide justice when the system fails.”

The room goes quiet, those words have weight here.

“As I said on the phone, I’m not asking for charity,” she says. “I’m offering an exchange—protection for me and my daughter, in exchange for legal services.”

I lean back in my chair. “What kind of legal services?” At the same time, Cruz quips, “What makes you think we need them?”

“I’m a financial crimes prosecutor, an organized crime specialist. I could be useful to your organization, very useful.” Cruz’s eyebrows lift. She’s right, that is useful. “You keep me and my daughter safe,” she says, “And I provide legal counsel to Iron Vale.”

Boone chuckles. “You offering to be our club lawyer?”

“Yes.” She folds her hands on the table in front of her, patiently waiting for our reply now that she’s finished her pitch.

I study her carefully. She’s calm. Too calm for someone whose life exploded a few days ago. Doesn’t she understand the seriousness of her situation? The danger she’s bringing to our doorstep? “You expect us to pick a fight with a cartel in exchange for legal advice?”

“I expect you to evaluate the value of having a prosecutor on retainer.”

Cruz grins and looks at me. “I like her.”

I ignore him. “You would stay here?” I ask. She hesitates, so I continue. “That’s the only way it’s gonna work. We can’t watch you twenty-four-seven otherwise.”

“Yes, I guessed as much,” she admits. It seems she knew it was inevitable, yet didn’t want it to be.

“For how long?”

“Until the threat is neutralized and we’re truly safe,” she says, seeming to have come to a decision.

I frown, wondering if she has fully considered what she’s asking. “That could take years.” I’m also wondering if she’s expecting us to neutralize the threat, but for now, I keep that to myself.