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CHIEF STOOD OVER THE still body on the bare floor and planted his boot in the middle of the man's forehead. Sanders, the double-crossing motherfucker, should have kept his mouth shut about his deal with Brikken Motorcycle Club.

Now, two men were dead.

The only way to survive and make sure the club's successful business of chopping motorcycles and sending them down to Southern California required him to make sure loose ends were tied.

It only took one rat to squeal to the Feds, who were always monitoring their activities too closely. He needed to keep eyes on his enemies and his MC brothers close.

"Wipe the place down." Chief stepped away and swept his gaze around the small apartment looking for anything of value.

The bare walls yellowed by tobacco smoke gave no insight to the dead man on the floor. No television, no extra pair of boots, no stacks of magazines on the one end table. Only two spoons and a dirty syringe on the arm of the couch showed what kind of existence the man lived.

Chief scattered the junk mail stacked on the kitchen counter. Going by the lack of contents in the place, Sander's cousin probably lived off government assistance and spent all his money he made from stealing on drugs. Unfortunately, listening to Sanders talk bought the fucker a premature death.

His riders conversed in low voices behind him doing their job to clean all evidence away. He walked down a short hallway and swung the first door open. An unmade bed took up most of the floor space. He stepped inside and moved the pile of dirty clothes out of his path with the toe of his boot.

Movement came from the other side of the room. He lowered his gaze to the floor. A mouse ran along the base of the wall and escaped under the closet door. He cocked his head, sensing there was something he was missing in the room.

From all appearances, Sanders' cousin barely existed and he lived alone. Not even a pile of pocket change sat on any surface in the apartment, no empty beer cans beside the bed.

A low crooning came and went. He held his breath and listened. Several seconds passed with no sound. He shifted to leave and spotted the closet door move. That was no damn mouse.

Taking out his knife, he sidestepped closer. His men had checked out the apartment before killing Sander's cousin. He'd received the all-clear and believed the apartment was vacant of anyone else.

A soft putter came from inside the closet. He reached above the bi-folding door and pulled, opening the closet. No clothes or hangers hung on the dowel. He lowered his gaze to the box on the floor of the two by four-foot closet. Shards of cardboard led a trail to the bottom corner where the mouse had already done its work.

The large box moved. He bent down, and using the tip of his knife, flipped the lid open. Bare skin peeked through the opening. His chest tightened, and he reached down with his other hand and propped the other side of the box open.

A thin, gangly girl, curled as tight as a potato bug hid at the bottom of the box. He took her condition in with a glance, scooped the mouse off her bare thigh, and tossed the rodent across the room, splattering it against the wall.

The same soft whine reached his ears at the same time the child's body constricted into a tighter ball. His chest expanded in irritation. The Brikken members who'd cleared the apartment had fucked up.

He grabbed the child's skinny arm and stood her up on her bare feet outside the closet. She stared at his boots without making a move to dart away. That alone surprised him. Kids were meant to run away from danger, a raised hand, a big man, a mouse.

His sons knew about the dangers out in the world and were taught at a young age how to stay aware of their surroundings. He hoped if they were in the same situation with a strange man wielding a knife over them, they'd scream their fucking heads off and run.

He slipped his knife into the sheath at his side. "Look at me."

The girl raised her chin and sniffed. Tear tracks marked her flushed cheeks. She had the lightest brown eyes he'd ever seen, reminding him of gold.

She couldn't be more than ten years old, probably younger than his youngest son. All skin and bones and knobby knees.

"What's your name?" he asked.

Her full bottom lip trembled, but she kept her eyes on his face the way he'd told her. The voices of the others in the front room grew louder. Within minutes, they'd need to leave the building.

And, they couldn't leave a witness behind.

He shook her arm. "Answer me."

"Johanna," she whispered. "Johanna Marie Koller."

"How old are you?"

She stared at his beard. "Eight."

"The man who lives here. What's his name?"

She turned her head slightly without looking away from him. "Don't know."

Silas. Sanders' cousin. He already knew the man's name. He shook her again. "He your daddy, girl?"

The tears started again. "Don't know."

"Where's your mom?"

Johanna shrugged and dropped her gaze. He studied the spit of a girl. Her shoulders thrown forward, her neck arched, and her brown hair a ratted mess he couldn't tell if she had curls or needed a good brushing.

Under the circumstances, her reaction seemed more miserable than scared. A little girl had no reason for sorrow unless she'd lost her parents. He had a feeling her lack of running away came from the sense she had no idea where to run. She looked lost.

"Your momma gone?"

The slight nod was the only answer he needed. He let her go and walked out of the room. Only D-Con remained in the room with the dead guy on the floor.

"Cover him up," said Chief. "Get a blanket or coat or something to put over his body. Then, move the couch across the room and keep him out of sight."

"Chief, if I move stuff, the police will know something is up." D-Con eyed the small room.

Brikken Motorcycle Club would need to take a gamble and later figure out how they screwed up a routine crime. "There's someone in the bedroom. I'm taking her to the club with me. I don't need her seeing anything on her way out the door. You've got about thirty seconds to make sure that doesn't happen."

He returned to the bedroom. The child stood in the same spot he'd left her. She appeared even more neglected than he'd originally thought. Wearing a pair of jeans that looked like a castoff going by the way they dragged the ground, she was skinnier than he'd originally thought but it could be the skimpy girl top with flowers barely covered her belly button, and she had no little kid belly the way his boys had at that age.

He looked around the room. There were no young girl clothes or toys or stuffed animals.

Disgusted, he shucked off his vest and removed his shirt. Johanna stared up at him. He chuckled at the obvious interest the girl gave him. She'd gotten over the shock of him showing up in the bedroom and the mouse touching her. Her wise eyes tried to make sense of all the tattoos on his upper body.

She reached out and trailed her small finger over his heart. He didn't have to look to know what caught her attention.

"Jett, Olin, and Thorn. Those are the names of my sons." He pointed to his ribs. "You know what that is?"

She leaned forward. "A bike?"

"Close." He motioned with his chin. "Put your arms up, bug."

She lifted her hands in the air without taking her gaze off his chest. He slipped the T-shirt on her and rolled up the sleeves past her elbows. Only when he put his vest back on had she broken her fascination with him.

Johanna's attention went to balancing on one foot and holding up the hem of his shirt. She'd quickly forgotten about being scared and used his shirt for entertainment.

"Do you know how to ride a bicycle?"

She stumbled, caught herself, and looked up at him. "Uh huh."

At least she had that going for her. He picked her up, and she wrapped her arms around his neck with nary a second thought. Amused, he looked into her eyes, finally seeing her up close. She took that moment to stick her fingers in his beard and tug. Her slim body wiggled. Little shit thought he was funny looking.

"All right, bug. I'm going to carry you out of this place and take you for a ride on my big bike. Can you be good for me?" He wrapped his arm around the back of her thighs.

She sat on his forearm as he lifted her slight frame off the floor. A case of beer weighed more than her.

She brought her other hand forward and stuck all her fingers in his beard. He chuckled softly. Ready or not, he needed to get out of here before one of the neighbors in the apartment complex got curious and spotted him carrying a child out in the middle of the night.

He strode out of the room, cupping the back of the child's head to keep her from looking in the front room. Johanna used that opportunity to giggle at the way his beard tickled her face and wrapped her arms around his neck as if she liked the sensation.

Right then, she'd sealed her fate.

He'd take her back to the club, put her up with one of his women, and make damn sure the child had a life fitting for a little girl. Then, he'd come back after he figured out how she was connected to Silas, and do what he needed to do to make sure nobody reported the kid missing.

Outside in the parking lot, he strode to his motorcycle and glanced down the block. His crew waited for him to ride out. As president, only he would give the signal to ride.

He set Johanna on the motorcycle, and she refused to let go of him. Her little ass slid off the seat, and he picked her back up and looked at her and then studied his Harley. She was too damn little to ride behind him.

"You're going to have to keep holding on to me, Johanna." He threw his leg over the seat. "Tuck yourself right against me."

As if she sat on a biker's lap every day, she scooted close, moved her hands, wrapping her arms around his chest underneath his vest and her legs around his waist. He started the engine and grunted in approval, knowing the only person who heard him was the young package plastered to the front of him.

Johanna's head hid under his beard. He motioned for D-Con to ride out and gather the others. Then, he lowered his mouth and in Johanna's ear said, "Let's get you home, bug."

Almost an hour later, he pulled through the gate and onto the property of Brikken Motorcycle Club. The members milling outside turned in his direction. Ignoring them, he backed into the first reserved spot in the line of black machines.

He toed the kickstand, and before he shut off the motorcycle, he touched Johanna's lower legs. Her skin still warm after the ride. Fifteen minutes into the forty-minute ride home, Johanna had fallen asleep.

Despite the warm day, once the sun went down, even the men changed out of their vests for their jackets. Johanna cuddled up against him, warm and content, oblivious to everything.

He shut off the engine, held Johanna to his chest, and exited the bike. Johanna continued to sleep in his arms. He lowered his chin and inhaled deeply. The stench of the apartment cleaned by the wind on the ride home, only the sweet aroma of warm vanilla sugar clung to the child.

Packer, ten months into his probationary period, met him at the door. "I'm here, Chief."

"Call Nene, tell her to get her ass over here." He walked past the pool table, the bar, and down the hallway.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he opened the first room upstairs in the modified pole building and walked inside. He laid the child on the bed and used the blanket at the foot of the mattress to cover her.

He stopped tucking the cover around her and held still when Johanna stirred and blinked awake. Prepared for cries and even a scream, he ran the tip of his finger down her forehead to the tip of her nose. "Go back to sleep."

Johanna pulled her skinny arm out from under the blanket and patted his beard, leaving her hand on his whiskers. The touch, so innocent and pure, left his chest vibrating.

"Close your eyes, bug," he said, his voice deeper and gruffer than normal.

She scooted under the blanket, turned to her side, and her eyelashes met her cheeks. He stepped away from the bed and sat in the lone chair in the room. Club rooms weren't a fit place for a child. Meant to be a quiet place for a member to lay his head, the room only had a full bed, wooden chest under the window, a dresser, and a chair. If the riders wanted to watch television, shoot pool, piss, or eat, they went downstairs.

The clubhouse served them well over the years. Before he'd become president, he lived here while his dad—the late Rollo Stanton, built the membership numbers from the ground up. Growing up with Rollo as his father, he'd never known anything different than his responsibilities to the club, to his men, to his family.

He leaned his head back against the wall and stared at the small lump in the bed. Tomorrow morning, he'd need to get Keeffe, his vice president, to find out what went wrong tonight. There was no excuse for the crew to have missed the child during their initial sweep.

Rubbing his hands over his face, he understood Brikken would pay for the mistake. If Johanna had a mother, he'd need to decide how to take care of the problem immediately. The last thing the club needed was the cops searching around for a missing child and the trail leading them straight to Brikken.

The click of high heels outside the room stopped. He rolled his head against the wall and held out his hand. "Ah, Nene..."

Nene stood in the doorway looking at the bed. "What have you done this time?"

At fifty-two years old, Nene still had it going on. She kept in shape and was old enough not to question his role as president. He kept her in one of the rentals for his personal use. Before him, Nene had been with Rollo before Chief's mom came into the picture, and for a short time after his mom died.

Because Nene had always been a part of his life in one form or another, it was easy for him to be with her. She gave him comfort from a hard life.

He went to her place on Tuesdays and Sundays and hit up Karla, the mother of his three sons, on Thursdays and Mondays. The other days, he stayed at the clubhouse and if he got an itch, he used one of the women who hung around looking for a good time.

His father had taught him well. From the time he'd turned thirteen years old, he lived a lifestyle fitting the leader of Brikken, knowing he'd step into being the president of Brikken when the time came.

The time came sooner than he'd wanted.

Rollo was taken out five years ago when a disloyal member decided to pull a gun on him. In his despair over losing his wife, Rollo let his emotions make him weak.

In retaliation, Chief had taken out Rollo's killer in his first job as president.

He stretched his legs, the ache in the back of his thighs making him feel older than his thirty-four years. "Turn out the light, and then come give me a kiss."

Nene flipped the switch and quietly walked to him. He patted his chest and helped her slide onto his lap. He kissed her deep and long, finally emitting a sigh as his muscles relaxed from the long day.

"Who is she?" asked Nene, smoothing the hair off his forehead.

"What's your last name?"

"You don't know?" Nene straightened.

"Tired, Nene," he muttered. He needed a rest. Johanna's presence had him overthinking everything.

"Smith."

"Then, her name is Johanna Smith." He slipped his hand under Nene's shirt and rubbed her back. "Give her a couple of weeks to get used to living with you, and then put her in school. Teach her who she belongs to, what's expected of her, and make sure she's happy."

"It's summertime, Chief. There's no school," whispered Nene. "I don't know what to do with a child."

"You'll learn."

"I don't want—"

"Shut your mouth," he said.

Nene would do as she's told and keep his business private. She knew the consequences.

Johanna had a chance at a new life away from the rundown apartment, away from the poverty, away from the rodents, away from the lowlife that had been responsible for her.

"Tonight, I want you to go home, call some of the Brikken women who have kids around eight years old, and get a few clothes that'll fit Johanna Smith." He lifted Nene from his lap. "I'll be around tomorrow and drop her off at your house. Make a list. I'll have the guys go out and buy everything else you'll need for her to live with you."

"Chief?" Nene shook her head. "I can't—"

"Don't argue with me. You want to keep your house and your lifestyle, you'll raise the girl as if she is your own." He stretched his legs out in front of him and slouched in the chair. "Now, get the hell out of here. I need to sleep."

He closed his eyes. It was several minutes before the sound of Nene's high heels faded into silence. A soft whimper came from across the room, and he opened his eyes.

Rest never came. He stayed awake in case Johanna needed him.