My Iron Knight Read online

  “Mr. Cassidy,” he purred, the accent—Russian, Dash realized with a jolt—rippling through his flesh like rich whiskey. “So good of you to see me. I take it you know who I am?”

  Dash hoped it wasn’t noticeable that it took him a moment to find his voice. “I’m gonna guess…Iris Damaro’s bitch?”

  The man raised his fine, black eyebrows, the crystal-blue eyes glinting, making Dash want to crush him against the wall to turn that derision into something else…

  “And everyone told me Americans were so charming.”

  “Takes some balls,” Zara said, her gun aimed at the stranger’s face, “coming here after ventilating half our crew. Balls or epic stupidity, that is.”

  The needle-sharp gaze slid from Dash to Zara. “I had no choice, my dear. Damaro suspected you wouldn’t take a written warning seriously. She tasked me to communicate with you in a language you might understand. I take it my message…penetrated?”

  “Commie trash,” Reaper growled, lumbering forward, a bottle brandished in his hand. “I should smash this right through that pretty face.”

  “Quiet,” Dash ordered. The angry murmuring that had begun humming like a swarm of bees among the Knights quieted. The man continued to smile his curving, intriguing smile, revealing a hint of canine. “You came here to say something?” Dash said. “Say it. And make it quick, before I let my crew show you a real all-American welcome.”

  “This isn’t personal, Mr. Cassidy,” the man said with a smooth shrug. It pulled his shirt tight over his taut belly and Dash resisted looking down with a monumental effort. The man watched his reaction intently. “This is business.”

  “If Damaro wants to run through Salvation, she pays her cut. That’s business.”

  The man sighed theatrically. “So, your ambition really is as limited as your personal hygiene. How disappointing.”

  Dash pulled his gun and leveled it at the stranger’s forehead. The two heavies drew their weapons. Everyone else’s guns twitched, the clicks of safeties filling the air.

  “You’re gonna have to say something pretty damn convincing to stop me from doing to you what you did to Reaper’s butt.”

  The stranger raised his hand. Slowly, the two black-suited men holstered their weapons.

  “Stop road-blocking our shipments,” he murmured softly, “or Damaro will put a bullet in every last one of your heads, then light up this rat trap like the Fourth of July. How’s that for convincing?”

  “Filthy son of a whore.” Reaper raised his gun. There was a shout, a thud, a confused blur and Reaper’s whiskey bottle smashed on the ground. He was yelling and clawing at a knife that was buried hilt-deep in his shoulder, pinning him to the wall. Dash hadn’t even seen the Russian move. He stared, dumbfounded, as chairs were knocked over, people shouted and bikers surged forward.

  “Fucking quiet,” he roared. Everyone went still, breathing heavily. Glares fixed on the Russian. Reaper mewled in pain. “Harley… Get Reap outta here.”

  The old medic holstered his gun with an inventive curse, yanked the knife out the wall, eliciting a loud protest from Reaper, then he and Kitty hustled the biker, who was bellowing more threats and curses, out of the room.

  “You know my name,” Dash muttered. “I think it’s only fair I know yours.”

  The blue eyes studied him. “You can call me Vasiliev…if you can pronounce it.”

  “Vasiliev,” Dash repeated, deliberately butchering the inflections. “You should know you’re gonna pay for that.”

  “That,” the Russian said, gesturing at the bloody hole in the wall, “was the price for his insult. Do as we say,” he continued, stepping close to Dash and lowering his voice, “or I’ll be forced to make your club pay the remaining balance in blood.”

  “Not often someone with a mouth as pretty as that uses it to threaten me,” he murmured.

  “No?” The Russian lifted an eyebrow. “What would they usually do, Mr. Cassidy?”

  The heat in his eyes caused Dash’s blood to surge—and his anger with it. “Meet me alone sometime and I’ll show you.”

  For a split second something less controlled flashed through the stranger’s eyes.

  “Dash!”

  He turned. Kitty was in the doorway, her eyes wide. There was blood on her hands.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s Brett…”

  Zara stiffened. “What? What, girl?”

  “He’s gone. His bedroom window’s open. There’s blood…”

  “You slimy bastard.” Zara rushed Vasiliev before Dash could stop her. She slammed him against the wall and crushed the barrel of her gun into his temple. “Where is he?”

  “Hold,” Vasiliev snapped, and the two heavies paused, their hands outstretched to seize Zara. Zara leaned her whole weight into him, digging her fingers into his shoulder so hard that her knuckles were white.

  “Zara.” Dash took a tentative step closer.

  “The bastard distracted us while they took my son.”

  “I swear,” Vasiliev said, face solemn, “that no harm will come to him. He is simply…insurance.”

  “Zara, take a break.”

  She made a pained noise then allowed Dash to draw her away, though she didn’t lower her gun.

  “If we hurt him, they’ll take it out on Brett,” Dash said, holstering his own weapon as his blood burned in his veins.

  “The young man will be Damaro’s honored guest for two weeks,” Vasiliev said, straightening his clothing. “You have those two weeks, Mr. Cassidy, Miss Cassidy. Two weeks to consider our proposal—or get your affairs in order. Your choice.”

  The Russian swept toward the door but paused to send Dash a last, loaded look over his shoulder. “It was good to meet you, Mr. Cassidy. Perhaps, next time, it will be under more favorable circumstances.”

  He left and the two heavies followed. The second the door closed and all hell broke loose—people cursing, slamming glasses on tables, shouting at Dash, yelling at Zara.

  Dash threw his bourbon bottle against the wall. Silence fell.

  “Lance… Samson… Follow them. Quietly.”

  The startled bikers blinked, gathered themselves, nodded and left. Soon the growl of bike engines was heard from the parking lot. Once the noise had faded, Dash gestured to Zara and strode from the room.

  “I swear,” Zara said as soon as they were alone in the meeting room, “if they lay a finger on Brett, I’ll rip Damaro’s skin off.”

  “He said they wouldn’t hurt him so long as we cooperate.”

  “And you trust that, do you?” Zara demanded. “That slimy piece of work. Wouldn’t trust him as far as I could spit. We gotta get him back, Dash. They’ll kill him.”

  “Zar, take a load off a second.”

  “You don’t give me orders, little brother.”

  “It’s not an order. It’s a request.”

  Zara stood a moment longer, seething, her sharp-boned face, so like Brett’s, tight with anger. then she pulled out a chair, sat and put her head in her hands.

  “It’s all my fault,” she muttered.

  “It’s not.”

  “Yes, it is. If I’d done a better job, he wouldn’t have to be kicked out of meetings all the time, wouldn’t feel he needs to prove himself. He wouldn’t have been alone in his room—”

  “Brett’s a grown man.”

  “He’s twenty-one.”

  “Older than Dad was when he was calling the shots around here. And whatever a pissy ingrate he can be, he can look after himself.”

  “I don’t care if he’s a pissy ingrate. He’s still my kid. And we can’t just leave him with those psychos.”

  “We won’t. We’ll get him back.”

  “How?”

  Dash moved to the bar in the corner and knocked back another shot of bourbon. It was numbing the pain of his wound but wasn’t swamping the heat pooling under his belly when he remembered the way the Russian’s cool blue eyes knifed into him. He growled then slammed the glass do
wn.

  “I don’t know.”

  Zara drummed her fingers on the table. “We could put a call out. Rally the Angels, the Phantoms.”

  “No.”

  “They owe us,” Zara insisted, “from that Vegas job. Then we’ll have the numbers to take Brett back. And if we put enough bullets in skulls along the way, this Damaro will slink back into whatever hole she slid out from.”

  “Even if we could get those numbers, where does that leave us?”

  “We can’t let this stand, Dash.”

  “The ice was supposed to be the last job,” he murmured. “Clean and easy. Scare off Damaro and give us the capital to buy back Hank’s Market—to open our bar at last.”

  “I know all that.”

  “What happens to going legit if the last job we pull involves painting the town with white-collar brains?”

  Zara looked away. “The originals will never let us go legit, anyway.”

  “If Vince and Reaper don’t like it, they can take a hike. I’m not Dad. Times are changing. We adapt or we go under. Brett was right about that, too.”

  “We can’t go out like this,” Zara said, jabbing her finger on the table.

  “We can’t shoot them outta town.”

  She slammed her gun on the table. “So, what do we do?”

  “We play it smart,” Dash said. “Find out more about what we’re dealing with.”

  “You reckon you can think of something that don’t involve us selling out, being run out of town or shot in our beds?” She lifted her eyebrows. “If you can figure that out, I’ll finally understand why Dad put you in charge.”

  “Now? You wanna get into that now?”

  “I get to be fucking unreasonable. Those fuckers are doing God knows what to my boy while I sit here on my ass.”

  Dash suddenly couldn’t meet her eyes. “Go get Kitty, will you?”

  Zara slammed out of the meeting room. She came back with the petite biker a few minutes later. Kitty clutched her laptop to her chest, staring at the shining silver exhaust of Butch Cassidy’s Harley Davidson mounted on the wall, the photos of dead club members crowding the space around it.

  “Have a seat.”

  “I never been allowed in here before, Dash.”

  “Well, you’re allowed now,” Zara muttered, pulling out the seat next to hers. “Sit.”

  Kitty sat on the edge of the seat and set her laptop on the table. “Guessing you want to know what I’ve found?”

  “You guess right,” Dash muttered.

  She opened the computer with a grim expression. “Not much we didn’t already know. Damaro came out of basically nowhere. She’s bought a load of businesses in town for way more than they’re worth—just so the sales would go through fast.”

  “Why?”

  Kitty shook her head. “Your guess is as good as mine, boss. She’s shutting ‘em all down the second the papers are signed.” She pursed her lips. “The only new thing since I last looked is another bid for Hope View. It was filed this morning with all sorts of other official appeals and proposals I can’t even begin to untangle. I swear, their lawyers are nastier than that icy bastard they sent in here tonight.”

  “Anything about him?” Dash said, hoping nothing betrayed in his voice. “Vasiliev?”

  “There’s even less on him than on Damaro,” Kitty said softly, running a hand through her wild, bushy hair as a frown crinkled her brow. “The man’s a ghost. All I got’s the name—Nikita Vasiliev. Doubt it’s his real one.”

  Something shivered through Dash’s skin.

  “My guess? Ex-military,” Kitty went on. “And I bet she sent him here tonight on purpose. Wanted us to know she has a goddamn Russian hitman on her payroll.”

  “Might not be the only reason she sent him,” Zara said, her gaze fixed on Dash.

  “Wanna say something, Zar?” Dash said in a low voice.

  She shrugged. “Your preferences ain’t exactly a secret. Maybe she’s hoping to turn your head.”

  “I don’t make those kind of deals. You know that.”

  The mixed hazel of Zara’s eyes swirled with a potent mix of relief and shame. “I know you don’t, brother. Let’s just hope they know it, too.”

  “What’s going to happen to Brett?” Kitty asked quietly when the silence had begun to stretch on.

  “Nothing,” Dash said firmly. “I won’t let it.”

  Chapter Two

  The air was hot and close when Dash fired up Guinevere the next morning. His head was aching. He’d spent the long waking hours of the night rejecting plan after plan. He’d resisted putting a fist through the wall with an effort, reminding himself that what he’d told Zara was right. They needed to know what they were dealing with before they could plan to bring it down.

  But the weather wasn’t helping his headache. Summer was crawling in, smelling like dust and hot asphalt. Sweat stood out on his skin but he still zipped up his jacket. The worn leather, heavy with numerous club patches, felt weighty as armor. He glanced at the tear in the sleeve and scowled.

  The engine growling to life sent blood pumping around his body. He revved just to hear the sound, like a beast out for blood, then sped out of the yard.

  Old Zak Coondis, who was slouched in the shade of the barber shop awning, raised a hand as Dash went by. A woman with a stroller spotted him and ducked inside the hardware store. Another tugged her protesting toddler onto a bus, even though the boy was leaning back, trying to get a better look. She managed to pull him on, and the driver shut the door with a snap, his face wary behind the glass.

  The bus had grown small in Dash’s mirrors before they pulled out into the road.

  He pushed down the confused mix of feelings these reactions always brought on and took the turn for the main street. He parked outside Hank’s Market. Plywood boards, already streaked with graffiti, blocked the windows and door. Dash ground his teeth and strode into the diner next door.

  A couple of regulars sat in their usual booths, bent over steaming mugs and plates of eggs. The cranky fan in the ceiling was doing little to ease the clinging heat, but the air had the rich, comforting smell of coffee and grease. Rosie stood behind the counter, shouting an order through the kitchen hatch, but turned when the bell chimed.

  She took in Dash and her expression soured. She glanced at her regulars, who kept their heads down, then put her hands on her ample hips.

  “Cassidy… It’s been a while.”

  Dash’s leather jacket creaked as he took a stool at the counter. “Rosie. How’s business?”

  “You know. So-so.” She was eyeing him with a familiar mixture of wariness and annoyance. “My accountant told me we were settled up for the quarter?”

  “You know you don’t need to worry about that,” he said, sipping the coffee she’d poured for him. “I just have a couple of questions.”

  “What sorta questions?”

  “Iris Damaro. You know the name?”

  Rosie raised her eyebrows without meeting his look. “Yeah, I know it. The new player in town. Was her what shut down half the main street, I heard.”

  “Has she made moves on this place?”

  Rosie glanced nervously through the hatch where her husband, Big Bill, was frying bacon, his one good eye fixed on Dash.

  “I ain’t here to cause trouble. I just wanna know what’s going on in my town.”

  Rosie sighed, placed her elbows on the counter and leaned close. “This foreign guy came in here, about a week ago—pretty face, murderer’s eyes.” Dash drank more coffee, hoping his reaction didn’t show in his face. “He had a suitcase full o’ cash and a check for a whole lot more. Said this Ms. Damaro wanted to buy the diner.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told him to get fucked, didn’t I?” she said, straightening and folding her arms. “There’s here’s my momma’s place, and it’s gonna be Lil’ Rosie’s after me. I weren’t gonna let some smooth-talking French guy pay me to leave.”

  “Russian.” br />
  “What?”

  “Russian guy,” Dash said, setting the cup back in the saucer. “Not French.”

  “Whatever. I showed him his smooth talking and suitcases full of money don’t sway nothin’ with me.”

  “And what did he say to that?”

  The doorbell jangled and in stepped Nikita Vasiliev. He was perfect, not a speck of dust or gleam of sweat on him. He wore a tight black T-shirt and jeans, which did very little to stop Dash from picturing what might lay underneath. His bare arms were surprisingly toned, the muscles sliding under his pale skin as he moved. His smile was thin and his eyes, like white-hot needles, drove right into Dash’s belly. His suited shadows followed, their expressions hidden by sunglasses.

  “I told her the same thing I told you,” Vasiliev said smoothly. “I told her to think about it.”

  Dash stood, his hand on his gun. Furniture scraped as the diners stood and looked vainly at the exit, now blocked by the suited goons.

  “No, please,” Vasiliev said as he came forward, sinuous as a snake, his fine-boned hands held out, palms up. “Do not let us interrupt your meals.” The diners slowly lowered themselves back to their seats, and the Russian turned his smile on Dash. “Mr. Cassidy, let’s not ruin these fine people’s mornings.”

  “What do you want, Vasiliev?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Your pronunciation is improving. Did you look it up on YouTube?”

  “Gentlemen,” Rosie barked, “this here may be an old-fashioned business, but it’s still my business. Either you order something or take your business elsewhere.”

  “I’d say that’s fair,” the Russian said, perusing the menu on the wall. “My associates will take a coffee. I believe I would very much like to try your…blueberry pancakes?”

  “Comin’ up,” she said, nodding reassuringly at Big Bill through the hatch, as his face had grown stormy. “Cassidy?” she said, tilting her chin. “I don’t care who your daddy were. My place, my rules.”

  “Refill,” he said without moving.

  A wider smile spread over Vasiliev’s sculpted mouth. He drifted past Dash to a booth against the wall. “Shall we act like civilized adults?”

  Dash glanced at the heavies as they took stools at the end of the counter, between him and the door, and sat. Vasiliev lowered himself into the seat opposite, interweaving his long fingers on the scarred Formica tabletop. Dash realized for the first time that his fingers were slightly crooked, the skin webbed with scars as fine as silver thread.