Chapter 2: The Mechanic Arrives

I stare at my phone screen for five straight minutes. My fingers feel frozen against the cold glass casing. The photo of my studio exterior from five minutes ago looks clear, crisp, and personal.

I look up at the front display window. The street outside is dark and quiet. Nobody is standing on the sidewalk. No parked cars sit under the streetlights.

I look down at the text again. Delete the photo, or we erase the artist.

“Screw this,” I mutter to myself.

My thumbs move fast over the screen. I log into my studio account, open the post I uploaded twenty minutes ago, and tap the delete button. The image of Julian’s fresh tattoo disappears from my page. I lock my phone, toss it into my leather bag, and grab my jacket. I want to lock up and walk upstairs to my apartment before someone decides to make good on that threat.

Before I can take two steps toward the front door, my phone screen lights up again. It isn’t a text this time. It is a news alert pop-up from a national news app on my phone.

The headline reads: Federal Agents Issue Nationwide Alert for Syndicate Leader Julian Mercer.

I stop in my tracks. My heart hammers against my ribs as I tap the notification.

An article opens up, complete with a massive cover image. The image is a cropped screenshot of the exact tattoo photo I posted twenty minutes ago. My studio watermark sits right in the bottom corner of the image for the entire world to see.

The article states that the intricate geometric crest in the center of the wolf design is the official mark of the Apex Syndicate, a violent criminal organization wanted for federal extortion, arms trafficking, and murder. The article explicitly mentions that law enforcement is tracking down the local tattoo artist whose watermark appears on the viral photo.

“What the hell did you do, Julian?” I whisper, my voice cracking in the quiet room.

Comments are flooding the post under the news article by the thousands. People are calling me a syndicate member, an accomplice, and a criminal artist.

Suddenly, a deep, heavy roar vibrates through the floorboards beneath my boots.

It sounds like a high-powered motorcycle engine. The sound grows louder, echoing down the empty street until it stops directly outside my shop. Through the glass window, I see the bright glare of a single motorcycle headlight shining straight into my studio.

The engine cuts off. The street goes dead silent again.

A tall figure steps off the heavy black motorcycle. He pulls off his dark helmet, revealing messy dark hair and a sharp, hard jawline covered in stubble. He wears a heavy black leather jacket with the sleeves pushed up slightly, showing thick forearms covered in faint grease stains.

He pushes open my front door. The bell above the door frame rings once, loud and clear.

He walks into my shop like he owns the place. He stands six feet two inches tall, built like a brick wall, and smells like gasoline, expensive leather, and cold night air. His dark eyes scan my studio, sweeping over the flash sheets on the walls before locking directly onto my face.

“Sienna Cole,” he says. His voice is a low, rough rumble that fills the entire room.

I stand behind my glass counter, holding a heavy metal roll of paper towels in my right hand like a weapon. “The shop is closed. Get out before I call the police.”

He doesn’t budge. He closes the distance between us, his heavy boots thudding against the hardwood floor. “Calling the cops won’t save your ass tonight, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart,” I snap, narrowing my eyes at him. “Who the hell are you, and what do you want in my shop?”

“The name is Jaxson Vance,” he says, pulling a pair of work gloves out of his jacket pocket and tossing them onto my counter. “And I’m here because you were dumb enough to put a syndicate crest on Julian Mercer’s back and post it on the internet.”

I stare at him, taking in his grease-stained hands and his expensive leather jacket. “I don’t know who Julian really is. He was a regular client. He paid cash for a geometric wolf. I don’t run background checks on people who sit in my chair.”

Jaxson lets out a cold, sharp laugh. “Well, you should start. Because every federal agent in the state is looking for you, and Julian’s enemies are looking for you too. They think you know where he is.”

“I don’t know shit about his personal life,” I say, my chest heaving as anger replaces my initial fear. “He paid me, I inked him, he left. That is it. Now get your big ass out of my studio before I throw this heavy metal dispenser at your face.”

Jaxson steps right up to the edge of the glass counter. He leans forward, resting his palms on the clean glass surface. Up close, I can see the amber specks in his dark eyes and the small scar right above his left eyebrow.

“You’ve got a sharp mouth for a girl who is about to get shot,” he says softly, his tone completely calm and dangerous.

“I can take care of myself,” I tell him.

“No, you can’t,” Jaxson replies, reaching over the counter.

Before I can pull back, his large, calloused hand wraps tightly around my wrist. His grip is firm, warm, and impossible to shake off. He pulls me a few inches closer across the counter, leaning his head down right next to my ear. His hot breath brushes against my skin as he lowers his voice to a dark whisper.

“Listen to me very carefully, Sienna,” Jaxson whispers. “You’re coming with me right fucking now, or you’re dying in this room.”

I open my mouth to curse at him, but my words freeze in my throat.

Over Jaxson’s shoulder, through the glass front door of my shop, the streetlamp illuminates a dark silhouette standing on the sidewalk.

The shadow of a tall man steps up to the door glass. In his raised hand, he holds a black handgun equipped with a long, thick silencer, aiming it straight at the back of my head.