Chapter One

June Twenty Five

10:00 P.M.

Malone’s Bar and Grill squatted near the interstate on the fringes of an industrial park. It was a converted warehouse clad with corrugated steel and painted a hideous shade of purple. The front wall was embossed with dents left by departing patrons who could no longer find reverse. A gravel parking lot surrounded it, bordered by weeds and filled with rusty pickups parked haphazardly. The cluster of Harleys huddled near the rear door appeared thrown together and hard used, almost piratical. Even standing outside, Corrie could feel the throb of rock and roll played badly.

This is the place to be, she thought,if you are looking for a fight on a Saturday night.

When she opened the door, noise and smoke assaulted her. Far to the rear, an all girl band was screaming incoherent lyrics. Someone had painted graffiti over the black wall behind them. The message was proclaimed in florescent red block letters that had dripped down the wall like glowing blood.

“Biker Gurls Rule!!”

The place was packed with women dressed in leather and denim, studded arm bands and cabalistic jewelry; women with barbaric piercings and tattoos; women with spiked hair dyed unnatural colors, crew cut women, and women shorn. They shouted endearments, bellowed laughter, and snarled challenges. They leaned together to whisper obscenities while they danced. They groped each other in dim corners. Corrie stood in the doorway wearing a pastel pantsuit and clutching her purse like a missionary amid savages.

A Eurasian girl sat alone in a booth watching Corrie with wry amusement. She raised a beer bottle in greeting and crooked a talon. Corrie looked left and right to be sure that the summons was not for someone else. The girl frowned with irritation, snapped her fingers and beckoned more urgently.

Yes! You!

As Corrie made her way hesitantly across the floor, the band finished its set. A smatter of catcalls and shrill whistles applauded them. In the moment of relative quiet that followed, Corrie stopped in front of the booth and just stood there while the two women sized each other up.

The Eurasian was petite and fine featured. Her mass of black hair had been braided into a thick rope that draped over the collar of her biker jacket, which had been unzipped just enough to reveal a bit of bare golden cleavage. Impudence and cunning glittered in her dark almond eyes.

“Are you the one who called me?” asked Corrie.

How will I know you? Corrie had asked the voice on the phone.

The woman had laughed at that.

Don’t worry. I will know you.

“Have a seat,” said the girl in leather. “Take a load off.”

Corrie thought of refusing, or at least demanding an answer to her question first, but irritating this woman might be a bad negotiating tactic at best, and physically hazardous at worst.

She sat down. “I think that you have something that belongs to me.”

The girl nodded, looking almost regretful, and took a