Page 139 of The Best Shot

The Iron Kings kept to themselves. They didn’t start shit, but if shit found them, it usually learned not to come back.

I’d started working on their bikes six years ago, after their usual mechanic retired and every other shop within fifty miles found a reason not to take their business.

I took the business.

I fixed what they brought me, stayed straight about the bill, and somewhere along the way that turned into being welcome.

Which was how I could sit at the back table on a Wednesday night with Annie beside me and Shaun’s truck parked out behind the building where he couldn’t see it from the road.

We’d taken the truck two hours ago.

Or Annie had.

I’d planned to hot-wire it myself, which I knew how to do the honest way, after a lifetime under hoods. Annie had it running before I got the panel off.

I’d raised a brow at her.

“What?” she’d asked, all innocence.

I didn’t push it.

Some questions a man was better off not asking, and how a woman with a dog-treat startup knew how to steal a truck in under a minute ranked high on the list.

An hour ago, I’d sent Shaun a picture. His truck sitting crooked in the gravel, the Iron Kings’ bikes lined up behind it like a fence.

Come get it before it’s scrap metal. You’ve got one hour.

I hadn’t included an address. He’d know the place by reputation, and he’d know exactly what it meant to come out here at night, alone, into a room full of men he’d only ever heard stories about.

The point was, he’d be scared shitless.

Annie was on her second club soda, studying the room with open approval.

“This place is great,” she said. “How have I never been here?”

“Drink your soda.”

“I’m just saying. The vibe is committed.”

Sal came out from the back then, and beside me, Annie sat up straighter.

He was late forties or older, salt-and-pepper through the hair, and he carried his size without advertising it. Slow movements, steady eyes, a face that gave away exactly what he wanted it to and nothing more. He ran the Kings.

He stopped at the bar, exchanged a few words with the bartender, then headed toward us.

“Hale.” He tipped his chin. “Everything all right?”

“Getting there.”

His gaze shifted to Annie. “Who’s this?”

“This is Annie.”

She leaned forward on her elbows and looked up at him through her lashes like a woman ordering dessert. “Hi.”

Sal studied her. “Evening.”

“Nice place you’ve got here,” she murmured, eyes making a slow crawl over his body. “Nice everything.”