Death Layer (The Depraved Club) (20 page)

Chapter Two

The powers that be at Advance Media waste no time, that’s
for sure. Mere hours after I respond to their first email, they schedule me for
a meeting with
FootSolider’s
managing editor, Elliot Simmons, to take
place the very next day. My stomach does a triple axel when I read my
appointment time, and I hardly sleep a wink that night. I know that I have to
walk into
FootSoldier’s
Boston offices with all the confidence I can
muster, but I can’t help but be nervous. There’s so much riding on this
interview going well, far more than I’d care to admit. But while I’m busy
worrying about the impending meeting, the fitful night passes. Time to rise
and—hopefully—shine.

“You’re going to kill it,” Emma assures me that morning,
thrusting a cup of coffee into my hands. I raise the mug gratefully to my lips,
running through all the typical interview questions in my head.

What are my strengths and weaknesses? Where do I see myself
in five years? What made me apply to Advance Media in particular?

The only problem is, my answers seem pretty thin all of a
sudden.

I’m great at stonewalling affection and terrible at
emotional availability. Hopefully not sleeping on a bean bag chair in my
parent’s basement. Because I really really really need a job please just hire
me.

Yeah. This thing should go great.

I run my fingers through my artfully tousled hair.
FootSoldier
is an edgy, ballsy publication. Its stories are always one step ahead of public
opinion and awareness. The writers who do well there are mostly millennial and
slightly hipster, but also very often female, which is a huge deal for any
popular site. I tried to dress accordingly, in black skinny jeans, a white
slouchy tee, and charcoal cardigan. And of course, a swipe of my favorite red
lipstick—the one thing I never leave home without. I’ll just have to hope that
I blend in with the natives.

“OK. Time to face the music,” I say, plunking my drained
coffee mug in the sink.

“That’s the spirit. I think,” Emma replies, giving me a
swift hug. “Don’t come back here until you’ve got yourself a nice, cushy job.”

“But no pressure, right?” I mutter, setting off to face the
day.

By the time I arrive at the interview, my mind is racing a
mile a minute. I’ve made the mistake of pinning too much on this one interview.
I can’t psych myself out like this—if I do, it’s game over. Standing outside
the unassuming refurbished warehouse that houses the
FootSolider
offices, I force myself to pause and take a breath. You can do this, I coach
myself. Remember, they called you in for a reason.

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 lives 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 work space.

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 unequipped 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 every night of the
week, looking for the bad boy experience. This place caters exclusively to MC
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 a new boatload of pretty young things every damn night of the
week. It’s like a double-sided 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 whole 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.