Chapter one

When I was born on the eve of Christmas, my father and mother peered out the window of Cole Memorial Hospital in Avondale, New York, to behold a blanket of ivory snow; a nature made covering enhanced by the ethereal and continuous fall of bright crystalline snowflakes.

“Winter,” my father suggested. “We should call her Winter.”

After apparently protesting that this was just about the most out and out ridiculous name she ever did hear, my mom finally relented—probably because of the copious amounts of meds that flowed free and hard through her intravenous drug line, as my mother is not quite known for her keen ‘relenting’ skills. So from that day forward, I was known as Winter McDonald.

The name turned out to be fitting, as my dad and I always welcomed and savored the coming of winter. I never will forget the many long afternoons that he and I spent sledding up and down the many hills that distinguished the back acreage of our sizable country estate. I also remembered all of those December days that found me sitting on Santa’s lap at the mall, demanding my coveted Dori doll while Dad took pictures; or skating hand in hand in hand with him and my mom across the sparkling surface of the downtown roller rink.

Then finally there arrived that fateful winter’s evening that I thought would make me detest this supposedly celebratory season for the rest of my earthly days; even inspiring me to hate my own name, at least for a while.

I always did worry about my father in his high-paying but risky position as a special prosecutor. As a little girl, I wondered as to why so many people hated the jolly, loving man who bounced his little girl on his knee and sang her Christmas carols, all year round. And as I grew up, I couldn’t help but to notice the inordinate amount of midnight phone calls and top secret letters he seemed to receive; mysterious communications that would leave him quiet and flustered—and that would leave Mom trapped in a perpetual state of absolute panic.

Then I took a break from senior year studies at the University of New York City—where I study English lit and advanced education in hopes of someday becoming a prof—to come home for the holidays; never feeling more placid and relaxed as I left the books behind and envisioned two weeks’ worth of rest, relaxation and—or so I hoped—obscenely excessive amounts of frivolous gifts that would be pretty, frilly and have little practical value.

I remember fondly the moments that my mom and I spent trimming the tree the evening that I came home; putting up our favorite scarlet red and emerald green ornament balls plus our favorite angel tree topper—pausing only when my dad suggested that he and I venture out on this snowy, chilly evening and head for the local Christmas tree yard.

“You know that every year I let you pick out our family’s second Christmas tree for the year,” he told me, his brown eyes sparkling as he ran a casual hand through his distinguished shock of silver white hair. “That puny little fir that you can put in my room and decorate with those frilly pink fan ornaments and lavender garland that makes me physically ill every time I see it.”

I smiled.

“The Winter Tree!” I exclaimed, throwing my arms up triumphant in the air. “The frilliest, most disgustingly frou frou concoction I can muster. It just gets more sickingly sweet every year!”

I still remember my father’s loud, robust laugh as he seemed to acknowledge the truth of this statement; as well as the sweetest way that he held out his hand to me and suggested that we head out to our favorite local tree farm.

How I wish I had refused him; insisting that it was too cold to go out, saying that I had outgrown the concept of The Winter Tree and that we really only needed one tree this year.

How I wish that, when we piled into his favorite old pickup truck, the one he drove only on the weekends, and hit that lonely country road, I had thought to mention the slick silver car that seemed to follow a little too closely behind us. I guess I just figured that, the week before Christmas, more than a few people would be hightailing it to the tree farm; and in an odd sort of way, I felt a sort of kinship with the person who lingered so close, duplicating our every turn.

That feeling dissolved in a fire of terror moments later, as the car followed us through the ivory arched entryway of the Harrison Tree Farm; coming to a screeching halt as a tall, hard muscle thug erupted from the driver’s seat door and bounded up to our truck.

The next few seconds passed in a black haze of mind-numbing fright. I watched helpless as this nameless phantom—a hulking bald man with empty ice blue eyes, dressed as he was in a jet-black coat and knee high leather boots—ripped my father’s door open and seized his brawny shoulder; throwing his body cold and hard on the icy ground beneath as he opened up his coat.

A hard, brutal cry escaped my throat as I saw the glimmer of shiny cast iron that glowed in the light of the moon above; a cry that evolved to a single word as I stretched my arms outward in a blind, desperate gesture.

“Daddy!” I screamed out, my eyes meeting my father’s for a split second as he writhed and wriggled on the ground beneath him.

At the sound of my voice my father stilled and stiffened; raising his head to look into my eyes as he bellowed, “Get out of here! The keys are still in the ignition and the engine is running. Leave, now!”

I shook my head.

“I won’t leave you, Daddy!” I insisted.

We both fell silent as the man between us pointed his long, sawed off shotgun point blank at my father’s head; cocking his firearm with a menacing click as I screamed in protest.

I jerked my head away from the melee as my ears were assailed with a resounding blast; one fired direct into the face of the man who had brought me into this world.

In a quick reflexive action, I jumped into the driver’s seat of my father’s truck; slamming and locking his door as I revved the engine and tore like a fury from the parking lot of the tree farm.

I jerked in my seat as additional shots rang out into the night; one of them shattering the back window of my father’s truck as I clamped down hard and desperate on the gas petal beneath me.

“I witnessed his crime and he wants me dead,” the thought rang loud and hollow through my psyche, impelling me to action as I escaped into the night.

So here I am, driving fast and blind through what seems to be an impenetrable darkness. Where should I go? Is he following me? The questions run fast and furious in my mind as I calculate my next plan of action.

Once safe and assured that I am not being followed by the car that stalked my father, I finally pull over to the side of the road and grab my purse from the passenger seat; opening my clutch and fishing out the silver metallic cell phone that gleams in the glow of my ceiling light.

First I dial 911, telling the operator in trembling tones that my father has been murdered. I beg for her to send someone to the scene of the crime; then driving home to wake my mother and relay the terrible news.

After bursting into tears and joining me in a loud, heart wrenching expression of grief, Mom quickly collects herself and commands me in a stern voice to get my things and go from the house immediately; also bidding me to call a number that she provides me with in a matter of fact tone.

“These people are old friends of your fathers,” she advises me. “They will keep you safe. I’m going to pack up and go to my sister’s; these people will tell you where you need to go.”

As I tell my mother I love her and click the ‘end call’ button, my addled mind rushes to identify the mysterious people that my mother references—these ‘old friends’ that are supposed to spell my salvation.

At various times during my childhood, I remember coming across several photos of my very dignified father wearing bandanas and leather biker jackets. At first dismissing them as wayward shots probably taken during a costume party, I was shocked when my mother related to me the details of Daddy’s wild, rip roaring past.

“I found it extremely difficult to believe at the time,” I reflect, adding as I punch in the number my mother just supplied, “Now, I guess, is the time to find out.”

With trembling fingers, I dial the number provided; soon talking to a stranger named Pete who insists that he was a good friend of my father and is devastated to hear of his loss. After talking for a few brief, stilted moments to the man who has a surprisingly gentle voice, I am told to drive to a part of town that I don’t usually frequent; arriving finally at a nondescript, three story warehouse with those steel grey walls so commonplace in New York.

The man who greets me at the door, though, is anything but commonplace. Standing tall and muscular in the doorway of this ranch-style home, the man before me boasts a thick shoulder length fall of thick ebony hair that frames a face boasting chiseled cheekbones, wide eyes as dark as midnight and full, moist lips.

Furthermore, his slick black biker’s jacket and tight blue jeans tells me that I’m at the right place.

“Winter?” inquires an abnormally deep voice that comes attached to this admittedly attractive man. “I’m Joey.”

I nod a listless greeting, arching my eyebrows as a shorter, slenderer blond man appears at the shoulder of my quiet, stoic host.

“Hey Winter, I’m Pete!” the second man announces, chomping his bubblegum to loud and most annoying effect. “You’re probably wondering just who the heck we are.”

I arch my eyebrows higher still.

“Well, now that you mention it….” I begin with a shrug.

“There’s not much time for explanation,” Pete interrupts me, stepping forth from the doorway. “Just rest assured that I ran with your father, back in the day. And we are here to protect you.”

The mysterious Pete and Joey then inform me that the latter will be joining me on a trip to the country; where the former has reserved a house for us to stay until the two of them can figure out a solution to my situation.

Nodding mutely in response to these words, I follow Joey in a haze as he leads me to a steel blue pickup truck; one that, I can’t help but notice, just happens to contain a shiny black motorbike in its bed.

Soon I find myself in the truck’s passenger seat, holding on to the dashboard for what seems dear life as my driver rattles his way at a too fast speed down the length of a plain dirt road.

“Now Pete didn’t fill me in on why you need protection, Winter,” my driver tells me. “It was probably pretty awful—but take comfort at least that you are safe now.”

I say nothing, just nod silently in response to his words as I collapse back in the cushions of my seat; finally surrendering to the depression and exhaustion that I’ve been fighting since the moment of my father’s death.

“Now while I’m very glad to be helping you out this evening, please know that I usually don’t do bodyguard duties in The Bronze Eagles. I’m usually out there on the front lines, defending our turf against any all comers,” Joey assures me, adding with a shrug, “But I didn’t do so well in our last rumble, so I guess I’m out of commission for a while.”

I listen halfhearted to the stranger’s ramblings, finally sitting up in my seat as we pull into the driveway of what appears to be an aged red brick farmhouse; a rustic old three story effort that—at the very least—looks warm and homey.

“Our treasurer owns this place,” Joey explains, opting out of the driver’s seat before crossing over to open my door for me.

As I follow him quietly through the arched entryway of this antiquated country estate, I ponder as to just why a biker gang would need a treasurer, anyway; a question I quickly set aside as I am lead into a cozy, traditionally designed guest room that—or so it seems—will serve as my quarters for the duration of our stay.

Lingering for a while to help me unpack, Joey rambles on for a bit to fill the space between us; finally and mercifully leaving me alone to collapse on the surface of a soft and comfortably quilted bed—its patchwork pattern lending me a small measure of comfort as I stare blankly up at a rustic brown ceiling.

Struggling to focus on the carved wooden chandelier that hangs from this ceiling—one that boasts the likenesses of tiny roosters along with smiling symbols of the morning sun—I do take a small measure of comfort in the lingering presence of my protector; one who, after finally leaving me alone in my room, moves with stealth silence around the house, checking to make sure that every door and window of the house is locked and sealed.

Then, finally, I shut my eyes tight and drift off to seek some much-needed sleep.