Page 17 of Bad Luck, Hard Love
Unit 2B. Second floor, middle of the building. I take the stairs two at a time, my boots echoing against the metal grating. I knock on the door—three sharp raps that echo through the thin walls.
Shuffling sounds come from inside, followed by a muffled curse. The door cracks open, revealing the prospect's bloodshot eyes and disheveled appearance. Recognition flashes across his face, quickly replaced by panic.
“You—” he stammers, trying to slam the door shut.
I wedge my boot in the gap, pushing forward with enough force to send him stumbling backward. “Morning, prospect. Thought we could have a chat.”
The kid's apartment is exactly what I expected. Empty pizza boxes stacked on a coffee table, clothes strewn across a threadbare couch, and the distinct smell of weed hanging in the air. He backs away from me, his hand drifting toward his waistband.
“I wouldn't,” I warn. “You reach for whatever you're thinking about reaching for, and this conversation gets a lot more complicated.”
Marcus freezes, “What do you want?”
“Information.” I close the door behind me, the click echoing through the cramped space. “About your chapter's new business partners. The kind that drives expensive SUVs and makes grown men nervous.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.” The lie comes out too quick, too rehearsed. This kid's been coached on what to say if anyone comes asking questions.
“Sure you don't.” I move closer, watching him flinch with each step. “That's why you were stumbling out of the clubhouse this morning. That's why Striker was having heated discussions with his buddy before climbing into that black SUV.”
Marcus's face goes pale. “You were watching the clubhouse?”
“I was in the neighborhood,” I settle into the only chair in the room, making myself comfortable.
“Here's the thing, prospect. I've been around long enough to know when a chapter's getting in over its head. Whatever Ace has you guys mixed up in, it's big enough to risk cutting ties with the mother chapter. That tells me it's very profitable.”
“Look, man, I just do what I'm told. I don't ask questions.”
“Smart policy, but quit bullshitting me. Kid like you, I bet you overhear all kinds of shit.”
Marcus shifts. The kid's nervous energy fills the small space, making the air feel even more suffocating.
“You don't understand,” he finally says. “These aren't people you cross. They've got connections everywhere—cops, judges, politicians. Ace made it clear what happens to anyone who talks out of turn.”
“And what happens to people who don't talk when the mother chapter comes asking?” I lean forward. “You think Razeis going to be understanding when he finds out your chapter's been freelancing without permission?”
The prospect swallows hard. “Fuck,” he mutters, running shaky hands through his greasy hair. “I'm screwed either way.”
“Not necessarily. You tell me what I need to know, and you and Rebecca, who I am guessing is sleeping in your bedroom right now, will walk away scot-free. But you need to start talking. Now. Who was in that SUV?”
Would I use his girlfriend against him? No. But he doesn’t know that, and I’ll take every piece of leverage I can use to get the information I need.
“I don't know his name,” Marcus blurts out, the words tumbling over each other. “But he's got money. Real money.”
The prospect's eyes dart toward the bedroom door, confirming my suspicion about Rebecca. His shoulders slump in defeat.
“They call him Zephyr,” Marcus continues. “Never shows his face at the clubhouse except for these private meetings. Always rolls up in that SUV with his driver—some ex-military type who doesn't talk.”
“Zephyr,” I repeat, committing the name to memory. “What's his business with your chapter?”
Marcus wipes sweat from his upper lip. “I've only heard bits and pieces. Something about distribution channels through the Southwest. The Vegas chapter's territory is perfect—connections to California, Arizona, and Utah. They're using our network to move product.”
“What kind of product?”
“I don’t know. They never let me go with them. They leave me at the clubhouse to watch the place and the women.”
The bedroom door creaks open, and a petite brunette peers out. She's wearing one of Marcus's oversized t-shirts and clutching a cell phone like it's a lifeline.
“Marcus?”
