Tin Queen

by Devney Perry

  My phone rang and I jumped, startled by the buzz.

  I picked it up, swallowing hard, and answered the call from a client.

  He prattled on about a change to the agreement I’d drafted and another few tweaks. I absently nodded, jotting it down on the back of an envelope because I knew I’d forget. My head was too busy replaying the call from Hacker.

  His nickname—because nearly everyone in Dad’s club went by something other than their actual name—was fairly indicative. But Dad had told me that the Warrior who’d done their hacking had been arrested. So who was this guy?

  The clock on my phone showed it was only nine. Waiting five hours to meet with Hacker was going to send me into a spiral.

  It did.

  By the time I heard an engine pull into the driveway, I was jittery and sick to my stomach. I ran to the front door, whipping it open as a lanky man with a shaved head stalked my way from an old, blue Honda Civic.

  “Hacker?”

  He nodded. “Hey.”

  I moved aside, waving him in. He smelled like cheap aftershave and cigarettes. The smoke was so potent it was like he marinated in it each night. I grimaced as he passed by. “Um . . . come on in and have a seat.”

  Leading him to the living room, I dropped to the edge of a chair while he plopped into the couch, his long arms stretching across the back.

  “Who are you?” I asked, cutting straight to the thick of it.

  “I used to do some work with the Warriors. Got word that you might need some assistance.”

  “Assistance with what?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “I dunno. You tell me.”

  “You’re a hacker.”

  “They told me not to tell you my real name. I’m not creative with nicknames and shit so . . . whatever.”

  “Ah.” I nodded. “How about you tell me exactly what they said?”

  “Listen, lady. I drove a long way to get here.”

  “From?”

  “They told me not to tell you that either.”

  I fought an eye roll. “What can you tell me?”

  “I’m good with breaking into computers and hacking systems. I was paid some cash up front to do whatever you needed. They said you’d tell me what that was. I just had to wait for you to call. And after, you’d pay me too.”

  Christ. My father never did things normally.

  I craved normal. Maybe that was why being with Emmett had been so refreshing. The moment I stepped into his home, life seemed normal.

  “You don’t know anything else?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Nope. So what do you have for me?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Seriously? I drove all the way here.”

  “By your choice, not by my request. You could have told me this”—a whole lot of nothing—“over the phone.”

  He frowned and made a move to stand but I held up a hand.

  “Wait.” Shit.

  I had the name of a hacker who I’d planned to contact once I found Emmett’s laptops. Finding him hadn’t been hard. I’d pulled records of criminal convictions, narrowed down the crime, and voila, a list of names of convicted hackers. I’d called three. The first two had been sure I was an undercover cop—both had hung up on me. But the third had agreed to meet me for coffee.

  We’d gone to a trendy place in Missoula and I’d asked him a series of vague what-ifs.

  What if I gave you a name? Could you find information about that person?

  What if I gave you a computer? Could you break in and tell me what was on it?

  What if I asked you to forget we ever spoke? Could you do that?

  He’d answered yes across the board.

  But if Dad had sent Hacker here, it meant either he knew I was stalling or he thought I didn’t have resources. My guess was the former. Dad might be in prison but he had his way of getting information. He had his influence. It was how he’d enlisted my cousin Doug to go after Leo Winter.

  Exactly how Dad communicated to the outside world was a mystery. I suspected a lot passed through Ira. That, and through family members of the Warriors on Saturday visitations.

  Whatever Dad knew, he clearly wasn’t satisfied. And if he’d sent Hacker here, it would be best to utilize him. So I asked Hacker my same what-if questions.

  “What if I brought you a computer? Could you break in and tell me what was on it? Maybe copy it for me to see?”

  Hacker nodded. “No sweat.”

  “How long would it take?”

  “Depends on what we’re dealing with. What kind of laptop?”

  “A Mac, I think. Two of them.” Both Emmett’s machines had been Macs, hadn’t they? “But the owner has some hacking skill of his own. Can you break into those?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Depends on his firewall and if he’s encrypted the hard drive.”

  “Let’s assume he has.”

  “You’ve got physical access, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Then like I said, no sweat. People are easier to hack than machines. We’ll just take physical control of his machines.”

  “I can’t exactly steal them. They’ll need to go back and he can’t know they were missing.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” He waved it off. “Software hackers are always thinking about program weaknesses. Breaking past protections. I’m going to actually crack into the machine.”

  “Explain that to me in more detail.”

  “The machines themselves are easy to break into. All you really need is a screwdriver. Once I have the machine, I’ll copy the hard drive. It’ll be encrypted and unreadable until I get the password.”

  “I don’t know the password.” How was I supposed to glean that from Emmett?

  “You don’t need to. After I make the copy, I’ll physically open the machine and splice in a tap on his webcam. It’ll transmit whatever he types to a receiver over an unused radio frequency. He’ll key in his password. We’ll capture it on video. Then we can log right into the copied hard drive.”

  My head was beginning to spin. “Okay. So all I need to do is bring you the laptops.”

  “Yes. I’ll take them and do my thing. Then you can put them right back along with the radio receiver. It’s about as big as this.” He drew out a little box in the air. “It needs to be placed within two hundred feet of his office. The widget in the laptop will send the video to the receiver. The receiver will transmit it to a function I have on my phone.”

  “And he won’t notice that you made the copy or opened his laptop?”

  “It’s not foolproof. The widget I’ll put into the machine steals power from the battery. If he notices the battery draining faster than normal, he might check. But the only way he’ll know is if he physically opens the laptop casing too.”

  This seemed much too simple. “That’s it?”

  “There’s no need to overthink this.” Hacker shrugged. “I doubt he’s expecting anyone to break into his house, right?”

  “He’s got a fairly sophisticated security system.”

  “Then there you go. You’ve got an in. Let’s exploit it.”

  Exploit it. My stomach churned. “Is the number I called the best one to reach you?”

  He nodded again. “Yeah. I don’t live here so I just need time.”

  “If I call you and arrange a time to make the exchange, how long will it take you to get here?”

  “Couple hours.”

  Which meant he probably lived in Bozeman.

  “And how long would you need to break into the machines?”

  “Couple hours. Tops.”

  “Okay.” I stood. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Without another word, he stood and walked out of the house.

  I waited in the living room, listening for the sound of his car to disappear, then I sank into the chair and buried my face in my hands.

  There was no way to stop this.

  I couldn’t stop.

  Dad had boxed me into a corner. Either I di
d this, or someone else would.

  “I can do this.” There was no conviction in my voice. None.

  How had it come to this? Just a month ago I’d been so determined. I’d been so sure. Now . . . now I wanted to crawl in bed and hide under the covers. Emmett’s bed, to be exact.

  The rest of my afternoon passed with little engagement in my work. I went through the motions until six o’clock, and then I climbed into my car and headed for Emmett’s.

  I knocked on his door, not waiting for him to let me inside. “Hey.”

  “Hey, baby.” He came striding toward the entryway wearing only a pair of athletic shorts. They were loose and the smooth black fabric clung to his bulky thighs with each of his long strides. The waistband sat low and my mouth watered at the delicious V of his hips. His washboard abs and strong arms glistened with sweat.

  “Working out, Ace?”

  “Yep.” He bent low to brush a kiss to my lips. I loved that he was so tall. Even in my heels, he towered over me.

  “Hope you saved some energy for me.”

  “I always have energy for you.” He chuckled. “Want a glass of wine before dinner?”

  “Sure.” I kicked off my heels and padded down the hallway.

  He went to the kitchen while I opened the door to the deck, escaping to my favorite spot in Montana.

  I settled into my chair, curling my legs beneath me. Then I breathed and breathed, like I did almost every night.

  I’d sit here, breathing in the clean air and scent of pine trees, and put the mental blocks in place. The ones that kept me from talking about my family and friends. The ones that might reveal my identity. Those blocks had slipped last night and maybe that was because I hadn’t taken a moment like this to assume the role.

  Emmett came outside carrying two glasses of red wine. He handed one over, then sat in his own chair. He hadn’t bothered finding a shirt and those glorious tattoos were on full display.

  He shifted, setting his glass on the deck boards on his other side. The movement turned him enough that I had no choice but to stare at the skull decorating the space between his shoulder blades.

  Their club patch.

  It was his largest piece. Unlike the queen and ace tattoo or the bird on his wrist or the other inked artwork on his skin, that skull was one I hadn’t asked about because I knew exactly what it was. My dad had something similar on his own back. TJ had too.

  Emmett’s skull was split in half. One side was decorated with a head wrap and bohemian embellishments. A gypsy. The intricate stitching around the eye and mouth was delicate. That half, feminine and beautiful.

  The other half of the skull was devoid of all elegance. Its harshness was beautiful in its own right. The tattoo was silver, made to resemble metal. Tin. Behind it was a symphony of orange, yellow and red flames. Their tips traced the top of Emmett’s shoulder and down over his ribs.

  Then at the base of his spine, the club’s motto.

  Live to Ride

  Wander Free

  “I was in a motorcycle club.”

  I snapped my eyes to his face. He’d caught me staring. “Huh?”

  He looked over his shoulder at the skull. “I was in a motorcycle club. This was our emblem. Our patch.”

  “You’re in a motorcycle club?” I widened my eyes, hoping I’d infused my voice with enough surprise. “Like Sons of Anarchy?”

  “I hate that damn show.” He shook his head. “But yes, I was. Not anymore. My club disbanded.”

  “Oh. Which club?”

  “The Tin Gypsies.”

  I sipped from my glass, needing the wine tonight to help tell the lies. “I haven’t heard of them. Should I have?”

  “Probably not. We disbanded about seven years ago.”

  “What got you into it? Your Harley?”

  “No, my dad.” He took a sip of his wine, his gaze shifting to the trees beyond his house. “The Clifton Forge Motorcycle Club was started ages ago by one of my best friends’ grandfathers. It was tied to the garage where I work, also started by my buddy’s grandfather. Back then, the club was small. Just a group of men, mostly veterans, who loved to ride on the weekends and escape their wives.”

  I took a drink, doing my best to keep my hands still and not let the wine slosh over the edges as they threatened to shake. He was confiding in me. Without prompting or digging, he was sharing about his club.

  Emmett trusted me.

  And it was a dagger to the heart.

  “After high school, my dad went to California for a while. This was before he met my mom. He rode a lot and got hooked up with a big club. Didn’t join them, but he saw enough. When he came home to Montana, he talked the guys in Clifton Forge into making some changes.”

  “What kind of changes?”

  “The name for one. The Clifton Forge Motorcycle Club became the Tin Gypsy Motorcycle Club. Then they turned it into a functioning club. They expanded the membership. Put some rules in place. Earned money. Did more than ride on the weekends.”

  “So it was like Sons of Anarchy.”

  The corner of Emmett’s mouth turned up. “You’re killin’ me.”

  “Sorry.” I laughed. “I won’t bring them up again.”

  “Anyway, they became a stronger club. Dad was the vice president. I was too, at one point.”

  “Interesting. How big was your club?”

  “About forty members at the peak.”

  “Wow. That’s a lot.” Not as many as the Warriors had grown to.

  I wondered if Dad realized he’d let too many join his club. He hadn’t trusted all of the members, hence the video footage to use for blackmail if one ever got out of line. Had the same happened to the Gypsies, or had they stayed small enough?

  “I don’t think my dad or the other leaders ever thought it would get so big,” Emmett said. “But you know how things go. When it’s good, other people want in. And for a while, things were really fucking good.”

  “Good how?”

  He took a sip. “Money. Power. Brotherhood. Fun. It was a lot of fun.”

  “But you disbanded?”

  “Circumstances changed. What was fun became dangerous. People who weren’t supposed to be involved got hurt. And my dad . . . he was murdered.”

  “Oh my God,” I gasped. “Ace . . .” I still couldn’t say I was sorry. For Emmett to lose his father, there was a twinge of sadness. But I wasn’t sorry.

  Emmett had a framed photo of Stone in the living room. Every time I pictured that face, his bald head and thick white beard, I felt a surge of anger.

  Because Stone had murdered my eighteen-year-old brother.

  “He was killed by a rival club,” Emmett said. “The motherfuckers hauled him out of a bar and shot him. Right between the eyes.”

  I flinched. Dad had ordered Stone killed—maybe he’d even pulled the trigger, I wasn’t sure. But hearing the pain in Emmett’s voice hurt more than I’d expected.

  It was clear he’d loved his father.

  Well, I loved mine too.

  We were on opposites sides of a battle started by our parents.

  “The guy behind it is rotting in prison. That’s enough vengeance for me. The son of a bitch can die in a gray room, all alone. I wouldn’t wish it any other way.”

  I took a huge gulp of my wine, unable to speak.

  The irony was stifling.

  Emmett’s preferred vengeance against my father was the same vengeance I’d planned for him.

  This was going to be a long night.

  Chapter Twelve

  Emmett

  “My friends are having a barbeque today,” I told Nova as we sat at the kitchen island, eating scrambled eggs and bacon. “Come with me.”

  Her fork froze midair. “Oh, I . . . can’t. I have to work.”

  “It’s a Saturday.”

  “I’m behind.” She shoved the bite in her mouth, chewing longer than necessary.

  I frowned and dove into my own food. The tension from last night hadn’t eased
in the slightest. If anything, it had only gotten worse.

  Nova had been eyeing the door all morning. She’d nearly passed on breakfast but when she’d come out of the shower and seen that I’d already set her a plate, she’d stayed.

  But the minute the dishes were in the dishwasher, I’d be watching her taillights streak down the lane.

  What the fuck had I been thinking last night? Telling her about the club had freaked her out. Probably because she’d watched that fucking show. Sons of Anarchy and Jax Teller could rot in hell.

  Not that the image they’d portrayed was significantly different than how the Tin Gypsies had lived. Maybe that was why it grated on me. That our lifestyle, something I’d cherished since birth, had been spun into sheer entertainment.

  We’d been criminals. Murderers. We’d lived beyond the law and that had come with costs. Namely, my father’s life. Draven’s life.

  When Nova had been staring at my tattoo last night, the story had just slipped out.

  What a damn mistake.

  If she ate any faster, she was going to choke.

  After we’d sat on the deck, she’d been quiet. Too quiet. There’d been a distance in her gaze.

  Even when we’d gone to bed and I’d stripped her out of her clothes and joined her, she hadn’t cried out when she’d come. She’d had her bottom lip clenched between her teeth and her eyes squeezed shut as her inner walls had clenched me.

  For only the briefest moment after I’d poured my release into her body did that withdrawn expression fade. But then she’d gone into the shower and when she’d climbed back into bed, her hair combed and wet, she’d turned her back on me. Normally she slept draped on my side, her head in the crook of my shoulder.

  I’d pulled her back into my chest and though she hadn’t squirmed free, her shoulders had been cold.

  All because I couldn’t keep my damn mouth shut. About the club. About Dad. I wanted her to know about me and my history. I wanted her to meet my friends. I wanted her to stop being a secret.

  That wasn’t happening today. Because she had to work.

  Yeah, right.

  Breakfast didn’t taste appealing anymore so I stood from my stool, dumping the rest and rinsing my plate.

  “Ace.”