Chapter 1: The Wire
The heavy silence in the sweltering afternoon felt thicker than the motorcycle exhaust lingering in the air.
Bear stared down at the asphalt. The shattered black helmet lay upside down, its dark internal foam ripped open by the sheer force of his throw. Protruding from the split padding, right where Bear’s jaw would normally rest, was a small square of black plastic secured with electrical tape. A tiny, steady red light glowed in the shadows of the foam.
It wasn't a factory defect. It wasn't a piece of the visor mechanism.
It was a tracker. A wire. A piece of federal surveillance hardware embedded directly into his personal gear.
Bear’s massive chest rose and fell slowly. He had been the president of the Iron Hounds for twelve years. He knew what a federal bug looked like. He also knew that only three people had access to the private garage where his bike had been parked overnight.
He slowly turned his head back to Arthur. The frail, homeless veteran remained pinned against the brick wall, rubbing his bruised throat, his olive-green jacket trembling with every shallow breath.
“You didn’t try to steal it,” Bear said, his deep voice barely above a whisper. The anger had completely evaporated, replaced by a cold, calculating chill. “You put it on your head and tried to run because you saw someone tampering with it.”
Arthur nodded, his gray eyes darting nervously toward the crowd of bikers and mechanics gathered behind Bear. “I was sleepin’ behind the scrap bin out back,” the old man rasped. “I saw who did it. I didn't know what it was, but I knew it was meant to hurt you. I figured if I just took it and ran...”
“Step back!” Jax barked suddenly.
Bear’s vice president shoved his way to the front of the crowd, his boots crunching loudly on the gravel. Jax’s face was uncharacteristically pale. He reached toward his heavy leather cut, his eyes fixed aggressively on Arthur.
“The old junkie is lying, Bear,” Jax said, his voice tight. He pointed a thick finger at the homeless man. “He probably planted that thing himself to extort you. Let me handle him. I’ll take him around the back and beat the truth out of him.”
Bear did not move. He kept his broad back to Jax, watching Arthur’s reaction.
At the sound of Jax’s voice, Arthur violently flinched. The old man pressed himself flat against the brick wall, sheer terror washing over his weathered face. He wouldn't even look in Jax’s direction.
In the criminal world, body language was a native tongue. Bear had spent two decades reading men. He knew the difference between a man who was afraid of a beating and a man who was looking at a ghost. Arthur wasn't just scared of Jax’s threat. He was terrified of Jax himself.
The pieces fell into place with sickening speed.
Only three people had access to the garage last night. Bear. The head mechanic. And Jax.
Bear turned slowly to face his vice president. Jax stood with his shoulders squared, breathing a little too fast, his eyes darting quickly down to the smashed helmet on the pavement and then back up to Bear.
“You want to take him around the back?” Bear asked smoothly.
“Yeah,” Jax said, puffing out his chest. “Teach him what happens when you mess with the president's rig.”
“No,” Bear said, his voice dangerously calm.
He reached down and scooped up the shattered helmet, being careful not to touch the exposed device. He tucked it under his massive left arm.