Circle of Death (4 page)

With my nerves as in check as they’re likely to get, I push open the heavy metal door and ride an industrial-looking elevator to the top floor of the warehouse. When the doors slide open again, I step out into the single coolest office I’ve ever set eyes on. The entire floor has been gutted and repurposed as an open workspace. Unfinished surfaces like exposed brick and untreated wood lend the place an edgy vibe, but the state-of-the-art laptops lined up along the community desk are anything but dated.

Even more impressive are the dozen people toiling away at those laptops. Each
FootSoldier
staff member is young, attractive, and hip as can be. I doubt if a single one of them is older than thirty. And even more remarkable is the fact that all but three of them are women who appear to be around my age. I knew that
FootSoldier
was a forward-thinking publication, but I had no idea their business practices were so progressive.

“You must be Logan,” says a voice from over my shoulder.

I turn around to find a tall, svelte woman standing behind me. She’s rocking an impeccably tailored blazer, wavy ombre hair, and thick-rimmed black glasses.

“That’s me,” I reply, tucking my portfolio under one arm and extending my free hand. “I’m here for an interview with Elliot Simmons.”

“Well, what luck,” the woman smiles, giving my outstretched hand a firm shake, “I happen to be Elliot Simmons.”

“You’re...?” I begin, before I can stop myself.

“A chick. Yeah,” Elliot laughs, “Relax, you’re not the first person who’s come in here expecting to see a dude behind the editor’s desk. It’s a symptom of the sick times we live in, my friend. I don’t hold people’s socially-conditioned sexism against them.”

“Oh. Well. Cool,” I say lamely, hoping that my embarrassment hasn’t painted my cheeks fire engine red.

“Let’s get cracking, shall we?” Elliot says, leading me into her office, a glass-walled cube apart from the group workspace.

I settle into a chair before Elliot’s sleek, midcentury modern desk. She’s got three computer screens arranged around her workspace, each one crowded with articles-in-progress, news sites, and complex lines of code. Elliot must be one fiercely competent editor to keep track of all this, or else a computer genius. She sinks down into her plush leather chair and gives me a long, hard once-over. I lift my chin, bracing myself for the grilling she’s surely about to give me. But instead of firing off her first round of questions, she just nods.

“I like what you’re about, Logan,” Elliot says thoughtfully.

Again, her words take me by surprise. “Oh, thanks,” I reply, at a loss. Maybe my outfit’s doing more work than I would have guessed?

“I’m not a huge fan of the standard interview,” she goes on, “I prefer a more research-oriented approach to hiring.”

She turns one of the computer screens my way. My eyes go wide as I see the content of the information displayed there: every single bit of my life that exists on the internet. Photos, videos, articles, comments, Elliot’s rounded up everything. I suffer a brief moment of panic, trying to recall if I have any embarrassing party photos or unfortunate teenage love poems posted on the Web. But I guess I wouldn’t be here if she’d found anything too atrocious.

“Wow,” I breathe, “Thorough.”

“Thorough, sure. And very informative,” she says, looking at me over steepled fingers. “You’ve got a great voice, Logan. Very straightforward. Very measured. Level-headed but unwaveringly inquisitive. I think you’re exactly what we need around here.”

“Really?” I ask, my hopes rising like mercury on a 100 degree day.

“Really,” she confirms, “Plus, you don’t have any obnoxious social media habits. Or a tumblr about your cat. Or an online porn addiction, from what I can tell.”

“Would you be able to know that?” I ask, eyes wide.

“Oh, absolutely,” she smiles, “But like I said, you’ve passed the pre-interview-Google with flying colors. I’d like to jump right in and give you your first trial assignment. See what you’re made of, so to speak. If I like your first article, you’re hired. If not...Well. You can deduce the rest.”

“Sure,” I nod excitedly, “Thank you so much for—”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she insists, leaning back in her chair, “I haven’t told you what the assignment is.”

“If it’s anything like the material you tend to publish, I’m all in,” I say enthusiastically, “I’m a longtime reader of
FootSolider
, and I really—”

“Oh, it’s quite in line with our usual focus,” Elliot cuts me off. “But the assignment I have in mind for you comes with a bit of an...exponent.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Well, usually our writers rely on online research to gather evidence and anecdotes about their stories,” Elliot tells me. “Most of the people and corporations we investigate here are woefully ill-equipped to keep tech-savvy investigators out of their business. There will be a component of that in what I’m asking you to do, at first. But most of your research will be a bit more...analog.”

“All right,” I say slowly, “I’m still with you.”

“Super,” Elliot says, training her intent gaze on me, “Here’s what I have in mind for your first assignment, Logan. Unless you’ve been living under a rock for the last five years, you know that the country’s collective curiosity has swung toward what I like to call ‘fringe lifestyles’. Communes. Cults. And, more specifically for our purposes, outlaws.”

“...Outlaws,” I repeat blankly. Like in the Wild West or something? Where could she possibly be going with this?

“Outlaws, yes. Outlaw biker gangs in particular. Motorcycle clubs, as they’re called to those in the know,” Elliot says excitedly, “Blame it on Sons of Anarchy, I guess, but everyone seems totally fascinated by the outlaw MC culture these days.”

I swallow down a surge of apprehension. My standing impression of bikers is not exactly flattering to them. “Sounds...interesting,” I manage to say.

“Very interesting. To us and our readership,” she goes on, “I’ve become particularly fascinated by a local MC—sorry, that’s short for motorcycle club—that operates all along the East Coast. They’re exactly the kind of group our readers will be interested in—slightly amoral, very secretive. The members call themselves the Circle of Death.”

The office swings wildly around me as my mind is thrown for a Grade A loop. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Or rather, I can’t believe what I’m hearing again. That name, the Circle of Death, is seared into my memory as if with a white-hot brand. That’s the name of the biker gang Juliet ran off with when I was sixteen. That’s the so-called “family” she left her real family behind for. That’s who she left me behind for.

“You OK, Logan?” Elliot ask, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“What? Oh. No, I’m fine,” I say quickly, “I’ve just...heard of that gang before, is all.”

“I’m not surprised. They’re downright famous around here,” Elliot replies, “The Circle of Death MC is part of the largest organized crime syndicate on the East Coast. They’ve been involved in all manner of wildly illegal activity throughout the years. But the most intriguing thing about them, to me, is that no one’s ever tried to stop them.”

“You don’t want me to try—?” I burst out, bewildered.

“Oh, god no,” Elliot laughs, “I’m not sending you in to bust them up or snitch on them or anything like that. I wouldn’t send you on a suicide mission. Not for your first assignment, at least. No, what I have in mind is more editorial. A lifestyle expose, if you will. A look inside the world of the hardened, tough-as-nails men of the Circle of Death MC. See where I’m going with this angle?”

“Yeah, I think so,” I say hesitantly.

“You sound concerned,” Elliot observes.

You have no freaking idea, lady, I think to myself. But out loud I say, “I’ve just...never taken on a project like this before. I wouldn’t know where to begin, getting access to those biker types.” Except directly through my big sister, but Elliot doesn’t need to know about that. I get the feeling she’d pounce on that connection in a heartbeat.

“That’s the thing,” she says, waving my apprehensions aside, “I know exactly how to get you access. Or rather, I know exactly how you might go about getting access. You’d have to make it happen for yourself.”

“Do tell?” I say, trying to keep the dread from my voice.

“Rumor has it that the Circle of Death has been spending some serious time lately at a place called The Club,” Elliot tells me.

“Is that, like, a bar or something...?” I ask.

“Not exactly,” Elliot says, “It’s more like...bear with me, here...a resort for the depraved. A remote destination for all things Dionysian. Booze, drugs, sex, you name it. Some genius bought up this secluded island off the coast—there’s a Revolutionary fort out there, used to be some kind of lookout—and turned it into this hotbed of debauchery. Crazy, huh?”

“Insane,” I agree wholeheartedly.

“I haven’t even told you the best part yet,” Elliot rushes on, “Word is, boatloads of young women head out to The Club, looking for the bad boy experience. This place caters exclusively to MC and Mob types these days, so all these chicks jump on a yacht and sail out there to go wild for a night. These girls get to live out their biker boy fantasies, and the bikers get boatloads of pretty young things to play with. It’s like a double-edged escapist Valhalla.”

“Holy crap...” I breathe, my memory jogged by Elliot’s enthusiasm, “Holy crap, I’ve heard people talking about this at my school.”

“I’m not surprised,” Elliot nods, “Most of the girls who head out to The Club are college-aged. Mostly affluent types from the better schools, looking to slum it hard. I bet you even know a few girls who have already been out there.”

A dozen overheard whispers flit through my memory. Snatches of conversation traded between girlfriends in-between classes and in the back rows of lecture halls. I never paid much attention when girls would go on about their wild weekends at The Club. But the more I think about it, the more their stories seem to match up with Elliot’s description of this biker haven.

“If you could get yourself to that island,” Elliot says earnestly, “See for yourself what goes on there, just imagine the kind of story you could write. It would be the first of its kind, and you’re exactly the person to write it.”

“You really want me to take this assignment?” I ask, swallowing hard. “I’m not exactly what you would call...wild, or—”

“But that’s perfect. I wouldn’t want to send in an actual party girl, just someone who can play the role,” Elliot insists. “I want you to infiltrate The Club, and the Circle of Death MC. I want you to introduce our readers to the
real
outlaw biker culture. But more importantly, I want you to target one man in particular. The president of the Circle of Death: Devlin Vile.”

Devlin Vile. The name blazes through my mind like a lick of flame. A shudder trickles down my spine, vertebra by vertebra, as I imagine what this man must be like. What he must be capable of.

“He’s the youngest club president on record, just shy of thirty,” Elliot goes on, “Came up from absolutely nothing. And the best part is, he’s the sexiest motherfucker you’re likely to ever lay eyes on.”

“That seems like a cruel combination...” I trail off as Elliot pulls up a full-body picture of our proposed target on her computer screen.

I’m surprised my jaw doesn’t hit Elliot’s desk. Holy shit. She was not exaggerating. The man is the picture is tall, built, and utterly gorgeous. His dark, brooding features are just as sharply cut as his every defined muscle. His towering form is perfectly balanced, and every inch of skin from his neck down seems to be inked with intricate tattoos. He’s the epitome of the sexy bad boy. Unlike any man I’ve ever met in my life.

“This is the guy you want me to...investigate, then?” I say slowly.

“That’s right,” Elliot says, “You bring me a story about Devlin Vile’s sexy, illicit, depraved lifestyle, and you’ve got yourself a job. Not to mention a $10K starting bonus.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard that correctly,” I start. “Did you say—?”

“Ten thousand dollars, yes,” Elliot confirms, amused by my gobsmacked expression.

I try and fail to wrap my head around the very idea ten thousand dollars. That amount of money would be game changing for me. Life changing. I could clear myself of student loan payments for the next couple years with a single assignment. The prospect of actually being able to make it on my own so soon after graduating is enough to make my mouth water.

But even if there weren’t a small fortune to be had for writing this story, I knew the second Elliot brought up the Circle of Death that I was going to end up taking the assignment. As betrayed and hurt as I still feel by my sister’s desertion, I can’t pass up this opportunity to find her again. The possibility of seeing her again would have given me more than enough reason to take the job. And as my eyes dart back to the picture of Devlin Vile, smoldering on Elliot’s computer screen...Well, it seems all of a sudden that this decision is a no-brainer.

“So what do you say, Logan?” Elliot asks, “Can I count you in?”

“Could I just...have a day to think about it?” I ask nervously, unable to take the plunge just yet. “It’s a pretty big decision for me, you know?”

“Of course,” she smiles, “Sleep on it, think it over, and get back to me as soon as you can. All right?”

She rises from her desk and extends her hand to me. I pull myself to standing and clasp hands with her. I can feel, in this moment, that my whole life is about to change. But the question is, how? And am I really ready for it?

Chapter Four