In Rides Trouble (Black Knights Inc. #2)
Julie Ann Walker
To my kick-ass agent, Nicole Resciniti. You gave me the chance to chase my dreams, and then you ran with me all along the way. There are no words to express my gratitude, so I’ll simply say this: You’re the best. This book is as much yours as it is mine.
Look into a soldier’s eyes and you can tell how much war he has seen.
—William Henry
Prologue
“We’re definitely changing the name.” Frank “Boss” Knight pulled the Hummer up in front of the sad little pre-fab building and glanced at the hand-painted wooden sign screwed over the front door: Becky’s Badass Bike Builds.
“Too much alliteration for you?” Bill Reichert snickered from the passenger seat while unbuckling his seat belt and throwing open the door. The frigid winter wind whipped into the interior of the vehicle, prompting Frank to grab his black stocking cap from the dashboard and tug it over his head and ears before zipping his parka up to his chin.
If this thing actually worked out, Chicago winters were definitely going to take some getting used to. Of course, freezing temps were a small price to pay for a good, solid cover for his new defense firm. And joining Bill’s kid sister in her custom Harley chopper business, posing as mechanics and motorcycle buffs, promised to be a freakin’ phenomenal cover for all the guys he’d recruited away from the various branches of the armed services. Especially considering most of them were bulky, tattooed, and—without regulation military haircuts—just scruffy enough to pass for their own chapter of Hell’s Angels.
He pushed out of the Hummer and had to lower his chin against the gust of wind that punched him in the face like an icy fist. Shoving his hands deep in his coat pockets, he trudged up to the front door through the path someone had shoveled in the thick blanket of snow.
Bill applied a gloved thumb to the buzzer, and five seconds later, a familiar noise sounded from the behind the metal door, making the hair on the back of Frank’s neck stand up.
How do you know you’ve been in the business too long? When you recognize the sound of a .45 caliber being chambered from three feet away, that’s how.
“Who is it?” a deep, wary voice inquired from within.
“I thought you said she knew we were coming,” Frank hissed over Bill’s shoulder.
“She does.” Bill grinned. “But she also knows she can never be too careful in this neighborhood.”
And that was no lie. The graffiti tagging every vertical surface for six blocks in each direction announced that they were smack dab in the middle of some very serious gang territory. The Vice Lords ruled the roost, and they wanted to make damned sure everyone knew it.
Raising his voice above the shrieking wind, Bill yelled, “Open the damned door, you big ape! We’re freezing our dicks off out here!”
And that was no lie either. Frank couldn’t even begin to explain to his family jewels why he hadn’t jumped into a pair of thermal underwear this morning and instead opted to go commando.
Big mistake. Huge.
One he sure as hell wouldn’t be making again.
The front door swung open with a resounding clang, and they were met by a giant, red-headed man who looked like he should be wearing a face mask and leotard while smashing a folding chair over some guy’s back.
Frank could almost hear Michael Buffer shouting, Arrrrre you ready to ruuumbllle?
“Manus,” Bill said, stepping over the threshold and motioning Frank through, “this is Boss. Boss, meet Manus. He and his brothers work security for my sister.”
Frank waited until Manus tucked the .45 into the waistband of his jeans before cautiously stepping into the small, tiled vestibule. The walls were covered in rusted motorcycle license plates, and as soon as the door closed behind him, the aroma of motor oil and burning metal assaulted his nostrils.
“You the guy who wants to partner with Becky? Invest some money and learn to build bikes?” Manus asked while pumping the hand he offered, a smile splitting the big man’s ruddy face and making all his freckles meld together.
Yeah, that was the story they were tossing around until he could get a look at the set-up…
“I haven’t decided yet,” he answered noncommittally, and Manus’s smile only widened.
“That’s only because you haven’t seen Becky’s bikes,” he boasted. “Once you do, you’re gonna want to give her all your savings and have her teach you everything she knows.”
Frank lifted a shoulder as if to say we’ll see and watched as Bill opened the second set of glass doors.
His ears were instantly assailed by a wall of sound.
The pounding beats of hard-driving rock music competed with the hellacious screech and whine of grinding metal. He resisted the urge to reach up and plug his ears as he followed Bill into the custom motorcycle shop, skirting a few pieces of high-tech machinery.
And then he wasn’t thinking about his bleeding eardrums at all.
Because his eyes zeroed in on the most beautiful, outlandish motorcycle he’d ever seen.
It was secured on a bike lift. The paint on the gas tank and fenders was bright, neon blue that sparkled iridescently in the harsh overhead lights. It sported a complex-looking dual exhaust, an outrageous stretch, and intricate, nearly whimsical front forks. It also had so much chrome it almost hurt to look at it.