“Prospect! Where the fuck is my bike?”

The gangly kid startles and turns to look at me wide-eyed. He’s still wet behind the ears — doesn’t look any more than eighteen, though I know he’s a few years older than that. The newish-looking tattoos that line his stringy arms look like they’re serving as some sort of inadequate armor.

“It’s outside, sir,” he stammers. “I just got done washing it, like you asked.”

“No it’s fecking not!” I sneer at him. “I didn’t give yeh permission to move the thing, yeh gobshite.”

“I didn’t!” he insists, and swear to God, he raises a shaky hand. “I swear, Thorn, I didn’t do anything to it!”

“Then where the feck is it?”

He’s still staring at me in terror and disbelief as I shove his shoulder roughly toward the front door and motion for him to go outside. He pushes the door open and holds it for me, then trots ahead of me to the side of the lot where the hoses are.

My bike is nowhere to be seen. I think he’s gonna shit his pants right then and there.

“Oh my God!” he yells. “It’s gone! I don’t know where it is! I swear! I don’t know!” His head is shaking back and forth so fast it looks like it’s about to fly right off his neck.

“Well, you had the charge of it, didn’t yeh?” I growl, taking an angry step toward him. I make a show of pushing up my sleeves and coming at him with clenched fists. “Yeh’d better find it, then, or I’ll rip yer feckin’ head off yer neck, boyo!”

“Jesus fuck, quit torturing the prospect, Thorn,” Beast drawls lazily as he comes up behind me. “And lay off the fuckin’ leprechaun act. Jesus, you sound like a fuckin’ Irish cop from an old-time movie.”

I turn and flash my brother a grin. “All part of the role, brother.” I let my accent slide back into its natural slight brogue. I grew up in Ireland, true. But I’ve lived here in the States for long enough that most of my accent’s gone. Unless I’ve been drinking, that is — in which case my brothers tell me it comes back with a vengeance.

Fucking with prospects is a time-honored tradition. And I’m a man who respects tradition. Besides, Beast is a fine one to talk. He’s legend for putting young hopefuls through their paces. I should know: I was a prospect once myself, and Beast accidentally shot me during a prank gone wrong. I’m lucky I lived to tell the tale. But do you catch me holding it against him? You do not.

Since Beast has ruined the fun, I bark out a laugh and nod over toward the other side of the lot. “You’ll see my bike’s just over there,” I say to the prospect’s pale, sweating face. “I moved it. To teach you a lesson. As long as one of our bikes is under your supervision, you’re responsible for whatever happens to it. Don’t you forget that.”

We don’t refer to prospects by their names — the idea being that they’re unimportant and interchangeable to us, until they’ve proven their worth and get patched in. Or until they’ve proven their worthlessness and get kicked out. I’ve heard another prospect call this one Hollis, though I don’t know whether that’s his given name or his family name. Hollis’s head nods up and down like a bobblehead doll. “Yes, sir. I will, sir.”

“Good.”

“Thorn,” Beast grunts. “Rock wants to see you. He sent me out here to find you.”

I nod and turn back to the prospect. “I’ll check the bike later to see how good a job you did of washing her. Meantime, take one of the cages to the store and pick up some Guinness. And some Lucky Charms.”

The prospect laughs. “Good one.”

I look at him sharply. “What?”

His face turns uncertain. “I mean… You know. Lucky Charms. Irish. Leprechaun.”

“I fuckin’ like Lucky Charms!” I roar at him. “Get the fuck out of my face and do what you’re told!”

Wide-eyed and white as a sheet, the prospect runs off to do my bidding like his ass is on fire.

“God, you’re an asshole,” Beast mutters.

I laugh. “At least I haven’t shot him yet, fuckface.”

With that job done, I go off in search of Rock, our prez. I find him in the chapel with our vice-prez Angel.

“Hey, boss,” I call as I walk through the heavy oak door. Rock is sitting at his usual spot at the head of the table. To his right, Angel is reclining in his chair with his feet up, hands laced behind his head. “Angel.”

“Brother,” Angel nods.

“Have a seat,” Rock rumbles.

I do as I’m asked, quickly scanning their faces for any trace of what this is about. They don’t look too serious, which is a good sign. But the fact that they’re both here, and that we’re in the chapel, tells me this is a little more than just a casual conversation.

“What’s up?” I ask as I lean back and eye them both.

“I’ve got a job for you,” Rock says without preamble.

“What kind of job?”

“Protection.”

The club offers protection to a number of businesses here in Tanner Springs, in exchange for a small fee or some other type of arrangement. I immediately assume this is what Rock’s talking about. “Okay,” I nod. “Who?”

Rock hesitates. Angel glances at him, and then at me.

“Oz Mandias’s daughter,” he says.

What. The. Fuck?

“I’m sorry, what?” I ask. “Oz’s fuckin’ daughter?”

“Your hearing is excellent,” Rock mutters, narrowing his eyes.

Oz Mandias. The president of the Death Devils. A rival club to our east. We’ve done business with them before — some drugs, primarily guns. Recently, our two clubs have been approaching something like an alliance. Kind of a mutual back-scratching arrangement. With a vague promise of mutual aid in case of infiltration from other clubs to the south of us.

Mutual aid. Like, providing backup muscle. Extra protection on runs. Things like that.

But babysitting?

“I didn’t even know Oz had a daughter,” I say stupidly. I’m stalling for time, because I don’t know what the fuck this is, but everything in my head is screaming no fucking way I’m doing this.

“Apparently,” Angel says mildly. He leans back further in his chair and shrugs slightly. “I guess she’s his only kid. Name’s Isabel.”

“Jaysus,” I mutter, running a rough hand through my hair. “What’s the problem? She in danger?”

“Don’t know.” Rock shifts in his seat and grabs a pack of cigarettes sitting in front of him. Lighting up, he continues. “Oz wouldn’t tell me the details.”

“Why the hell doesn’t he put one of his own men on it?”

I’m envisioning being posted outside the girl’s fuckin’ high school or something. I can’t even imagine how old Oz’s daughter would be. The prez of the Death Devils has one of those craggy, weather-worn faces that seems ageless. He could be anywhere from thirty-five to fuckin’ sixty, how the hell would I know? The only indication is that his beard has a few flecks of gray in it, but that could just be due to the hard life he’s led.

“Well, that’s the thing,” Rock begins, leaning forward and putting his elbows on the table. “Oz wants her out of sight. And somewhere not connected to their club. That’s why he’s not putting any of the Devils on it.”

Angel laughs again. “Yeah. And probably because he can’t trust his men to keep their hands off her.”

“Shit, are you kidding me?” Rock tosses back. “Can you imagine what Oz would do if he found out one of his men was screwing his daughter?” He mimes pulling out his dick and cutting it off with a knife.

So. She must be at least past puberty, this girl. Fuckin’ great. Although I guess I should be relieved that I’m not being asked to protect a little kid.

My blood runs icy in my veins at the thought. A flash of the darkness — the darkness I try never to think of — erupts behind my forehead. It threatens to grow large, but I close my eyes and push it back. Even so, my heart starts to thud erratically in my chest.

I don’t want to protect someone helpless. I don’t want to do this. I can’t…

With an effort that’s almost more than I have in me, I take a deep breath and open my eyes again, hoping to Christ I’m quick enough that Angel and Rock won’t notice anything. But Angel’s peering at me curiously.

“Why are you choosing me for this?” I say quickly, to keep him from asking me whatever question is in his eyes.

“Actually,” Rock replies, “Oz is the one who chose you.”

“Oz chose me?” I didn’t even know he’d be able to identify me by name.

“Yeah,” Angel snorts. “He said, ‘I want the Irish cunt’.”

Rock laughs, but I’m still too stunned to join him. “Fuck you, Angel,” I growl. “What the fuck does he want me for?”

“Apparently, he’s done his research on you,” Rock says mildly. “He chose you because he knows you’ll do anything to protect her, and to keep this away from the cops.” A corner of his mouth goes up. “He said he knows he can get your ass deported if you fuck up.”

Shit. That’s undeniably fucking true. I’ve got a prison record in the U.S. that’s just bad enough one more trip to jail could wind me up on the next plane back to Ireland. And I do not want to go back to Ireland. What’s waiting for me there is worse than death.

And then after that, maybe death.

“How the fuck am I supposed to protect this girl, when I don’t even know what I’m protecting her from?” I say helplessly, reaching for my own pack of smokes.

“Oz told me to give you this number,” Rock says. He pulls a slip of paper out of his jeans pocket and hands it to me. “He’ll give you as much information as he wants you to know.” He takes a long drag of his cigarette and lets it out. “We’re going to set you up in our safe house outside of Connegut River. Not even Oz knows where it is. Oz will have us meet up with some of his men, do the transfer of the girl, then we’ll bring her up there. I’ll send up a couple of the Lords periodically with supplies, for as long as it takes for whatever shit to die down.”

“Wait a minute,” I explode. “I’m gonna be holed up at Connegut with this girl? Indefinitely?”

“Oz says maybe a couple weeks. Maybe a month. Long enough for them to deal with their problem, till it’s safe enough for Isabel to come back.”

“Fuck me runnin,’” I mutter.

“Do not fuck this up, Thorn,” Rock growls as I stuff the slip of paper into my pocket. “I don’t have to remind you how important our alliance with the Death Devils is.”

“No. You don’t,” I agree.

“And keep your dick in your pants.”

No worries there. I’d have to be a fucking idiot to screw Oz’s daughter. And I’m not a fucking idiot.

And so there it is. I’m doing this thing.

I get up from the table, shoot Rock and Angel each a look, and leave the chapel without a word. I think I catch Angel giving me a sympathetic eye on my way out.

This is happening. I have to obey my president. I have no choice in the matter.

I’m gonna be stuck out in the middle of nowhere playing bodyguard, protecting some snatch from the wolves for the fuckin’ duration.

Or die trying.