Chapter 4 - The Ghost in the Photograph
His name was Mason Vale.
Once, he had been my best friend.
Later, he became the worst mistake of my life.
Tessa stared at the photograph.
“Dad?”
Rourke looked at me.
“You have to tell her now.”
I wanted to argue.
But he was right.
Eleven years earlier, Black Ridge had nearly collapsed because Mason believed the club should become something it had never been.
Powerful.
Feared.
Profitable.
I disagreed.
The disagreement split us.
Before it became something worse, Mason disappeared after a motorcycle crash in northern Idaho.
His bike was recovered from a ravine.
His body wasn’t.
Authorities presumed him dead.
I accepted that.
Maybe because I wanted to.
Now somebody was using his photograph to frighten me.
Tessa listened.
“So you think he’s alive?”
“No.”
Rourke answered differently.
“I think somebody wants Jack to wonder.”
The next morning, the town woke to another surprise.
Every billboard Roland Kessler had purchased to promote Travis’s upcoming exhibition match had been covered with temporary notices.
The match was canceled.
Sponsors were withdrawing.
Travis blamed me.
He drove to my shop at noon.
This time he came alone.
No gloves.
No friends.
No cameras.
He stood outside.
“You ruined everything.”
I continued adjusting a carburetor.
“You did that yourself.”
“My father says you’re blackmailing sponsors.”
“Your father lies.”
Travis slammed his hand against my workbench.
I looked at it.
He slowly removed it.
“You think you’re better than me?”
“No.”
“You embarrassed me.”
“You attacked me.”
“You could have fought.”
“I did everything possible not to.”
“That’s worse.”
I finally understood him.
Travis didn’t want victory.
He wanted submission.
There was a difference.
“You need help, kid.”
His face twisted.
“Don’t call me kid.”
“You’re twenty-three years old and your father has spent your whole life removing consequences. Someday he won’t be able to.”
Travis stepped forward.
Then stopped.
For once, he didn’t attack.
Maybe he was learning.
Then his phone rang.
He answered.
His face went pale.
“What?”
He listened.
Then looked at me.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
He ran outside.
We learned why ten minutes later.
Police vehicles were arriving at the Kessler estate.
Officer Ramirez called me.
Wade Pritchard, Roland’s security contractor, had been detained for questioning after surveillance footage placed his vehicle near my shop the night it was vandalized.
But that wasn’t the biggest discovery.
Inside Wade’s vehicle, officers had reportedly found photographs.
Dozens.
Me.
Tessa.
Rourke.
Black Ridge members.
Some recent.
Some old.
Someone had been researching my past for weeks.
Roland denied ordering it.
Wade refused to speak.
Then Ramirez asked me a strange question.
“Does the name Mason Vale mean anything to you?”
My blood went cold.
“Yes.”
“We found it written inside Pritchard’s notebook.”
Rourke heard the conversation.
He stood.
“We need to move Tessa.”
“No.”
“Jack—”
“I’m not running.”
“This isn’t Travis anymore.”
I knew.
That was the problem.
By evening, Black Ridge members had begun arriving in Cedar Ridge.
Not as soldiers.
Not as vigilantes.
As friends.
They stayed at hotels.
Ate at local restaurants.
Helped replace my shop windows.
By sunset, seventeen motorcycles were parked outside Mercer Cycle & Repair.
Tessa sat on the curb listening to stories about Sarah.
For the first time, she was meeting people who remembered her mother before illness.
I watched her laugh.
And something inside me loosened.
Maybe I had protected Tessa from too much.
Maybe hiding love along with danger had been another kind of mistake.
At nine that night, a final motorcycle rolled into the lot.
Old Harley.
Black paint.
No chrome.
The rider wore no club colors.
He stopped beneath the streetlight.
Removed his helmet.
Rourke went completely still.
I felt eleven years disappear.
Gray had entered the man’s beard.
A scar crossed his forehead.
But I knew him.
“Mason.”
Tessa looked between us.
Mason Vale climbed off his motorcycle.
“I heard somebody was using my name.”
Rourke moved toward him.
“You’re supposed to be dead.”
Mason gave a tired smile.
“I’ve had better decades.”
I didn’t smile.
“Why are you here?”
His expression changed.
“Because Roland Kessler didn’t hire Wade Pritchard to investigate you.”
“Then who did?”
Mason looked toward Tessa.
Then back at me.
“Someone inside Black Ridge.”
Silence fell over the parking lot.
Mason reached into his jacket and produced a flash drive.
“I’ve spent three years finding out who.”
Rourke stared at him.
“You expect us to trust you?”
“No.”
Mason held the drive toward me.
“But you should probably trust what’s on this.”
I took it.
“What is it?”
Mason’s answer made every rider around us stop talking.
“A list.”
“Of what?”
“Everyone who’s been selling information about Black Ridge.”
He looked directly at me.
“And Jack…”
His voice lowered.
May you like
“Your name is at the top.”
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