Page 9 of Cold Bastard
I was a Bastard with no past and no future.
I was the hidden nanobyte in a cold machine, the persistent chill that no amount of whiskey or manufactured bravado could erase.
Nobody could hide from me.
Chapter Three
Nano
The ride to Rapid City was cold as fuck.
August in South Dakota didn’t give a shit about comfort as a north wind cut through my leather like it had a personal vendetta. The highway stretched out in front of us like a gray ribbon of misery. My Harley rumbled beneath me, the vibration traveling up through my spine, grounding me in the present even as my mind wanted to drift.
Cerberus led the pack, his Road King eating up the miles with the kind of authority that came naturally to a VP. Behind him, Firestride rode with that controlled aggression that made him perfect for his role as sergeant at arms. Scythe brought up the rear with me, his eyes constantly scanning, always watching. That was what made him a good enforcer. He never stopped looking for threats.
We weren’t wearing cuts today. This wasn’t club business in the official sense. This was the kind of business that required discretion, the kind that left bruises and broken bones but no paper trail.
The Prancing Pussycat sat on the outskirts of Rapid City like a festering wound, all neon and peeling paint and broken dreams. The sign out front flickered intermittently, the silhouette of a cartoon cat doing an eternal striptease in sputtering pink and purple light. The building itself was asquat, windowless concrete box that had probably started life as something more respectable. A warehouse, maybe, or a discount furniture store, before it descended into its current state of dignified decay.
The parking lot was mostly empty at two in the afternoon. Too early for the degenerates who frequented places like this, too late for the morning shift of dancers who probably hated their lives as much as I hated mine. A handful of pickup trucks and one sad-looking sedan were scattered across the cracked asphalt, parked at odd angles like their drivers had been too drunk or too desperate to care about the faded yellow lines. A tumbleweed of fast-food wrappers and cigarette butts had collected against the curb, trapped there by the relentless South Dakota wind as we pulled into the lot, engines cutting one by one until there was nothing but the wind and the distant hum of traffic on the interstate.
“Nano, you’re on tech,” Cerberus said, swinging off his bike. His voice was gravel and whiskey, the kind of voice that didn’t need to be raised to command respect. “Find his laptop, his phone, whatever the fuck he’s using to hide our money. Firestride and Scythe, you’re with me. We’re gonna have a conversation with Mr. Birch about financial responsibility.”
The way he said it made it sound like a business seminar. But I knew it wouldn’t be anything close to civilized.
We walked in through the back entrance, moving quietly but deliberately through the dimly lit corridor. The door was unlocked because Cade Birch was either stupid or too coked out to remember basic security. Probably both, if I were being honest. The guy had a reputation for burning through his money on powder and parties, and his judgment had clearly deteriorated along with his bank account. It was almost too easy. No alarm system, no cameras we could see, not even a decent deadbolt. Just a flimsy door handle that turned withoutresistance, practically inviting us inside like we were expected guests.
The interior smelled of stale beer, cheap perfume, and desperation. A narrow hallway led past what looked like dressing rooms—empty now, thank fuck—and into the main floor of the club. The stage sat dark and lifeless, a brass pole catching the dim light filtering through the blacked-out windows. Tables were scattered around as if someone had thrown them and forgotten to arrange them properly.
And there, behind the bar, was Cade Birch.
He was rail-thin, all sharp angles and twitchy energy, his eyes too wide and too bright, pupils dilated like black saucers swallowing up the color of his irises. His jaw worked constantly, grinding back and forth in that telltale motion, the muscles flexing rhythmically beneath sallow skin stretched tight over his cheekbones. His fingers drummed an erratic, manic rhythm on the bar top, tapping out some frenzied beat that only he could hear, never still for even a moment. White powder dusted the edge of his nostril, a carelessly obvious residue that he hadn’t bothered to wipe away. His nostrils flared with each rapid breath, and a thin sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead despite the cool air in the bar.
Coked out of his fucking gourd. Absolutely wired beyond any semblance of control.
“Gentlemen!” he said, his voice too loud, too enthusiastic. “What can I do for you fine—” His eyes landed on Cerberus, and whatever chemical courage he’d snorted evaporated. “Oh shit. Listen, I can explain.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Cerberus said calmly.
Firestride moved with the kind of speed that belied his size. His massive frame crossed the distance between them in a heartbeat. One moment he was standing casually next to Cerberus, his arms crossed over his broad chest, and the next hehad Cade by the throat, his enormous hand wrapped around the smaller man’s neck like a vise. He slammed him back against the mirrored wall behind the bar with enough force to rattle every bottle on the shelves. The impact sent vibrations through the entire structure. Bottles rattled and clinked against each other, threatening to topple. Glass cracked in a spiderweb pattern where Cade’s shoulders made contact, tiny fractures spreading outward from the point of impact.
“Where’s our money, Cade?” Firestride’s voice was almost conversational, disturbingly calm given the violence of his actions. He could have been asking about the weather or what time the bar closed.
“I-I don’t—it’s complicated.” Cade’s words tumbled out in a panicked rush, barely coherent, his hands clawing desperately at Firestride’s iron grip around his throat. His fingers scraped uselessly against the enforcer’s thick forearm, leaving red marks but accomplishing nothing.
Scythe moved around the bar with deliberate, calculated steps, his boots barely making a sound against the worn wooden floorboards. He positioned himself on Cade’s other side, effectively cutting off any chance of escape. The air grew thick with tension as Scythe stood there, silent and menacing. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Words would have been redundant at this point. The knife that appeared in his hand, seemingly out of nowhere, as if conjured by some dark magic—said everything that needed to be said. The blade caught the dim light from the overhead fixture, glinting with a cold, unmistakable promise of violence.
I left them to it.
My job wasn’t physical persuasion. My job was the digital autopsy, finding the electronic trail that would lead us to the seventy-five million Cade had skimmed from the club’s protection racket. He had been running girls and drugs outof this shithole, paying the Brotherhood for the privilege of operating in our territory. Then he got greedy. Thought he could take what didn’t belong to him.
Thought we wouldn’t notice.
Morpheus noticed everything.
I moved through the club, my eyes scanning the obvious places first. Office. There had to be an office somewhere in this dump.
Behind me, I heard the first meaty thud of fist meeting flesh, followed by Cade’s high-pitched yelp.
