‘Lord, I hope so,’ Leon said with a deep breath. ‘She was back here about a month or so ago. The social services took her brother and sister not long after Christmas, and she was trying her best to get them back. Got herself a job, checked her mum into rehab. All to prove she could provide a steady environment.’

‘That’s brilliant. Where does she work?’

‘The High Five Bar in Laconia. It ain’t far from here. Couple of miles.’

‘She working now?’ Sam headed to the door.

‘That’s the thing. I ain’t seen her or heard her for over a week.’

Sam stopped in his place. Something didn’t feel right. Alex was a desperate woman, doing whatever she could to get her siblings back. But he had a lead, and that was enough. As he pulled open the door, he turned back to the worried old man who looked at him with hope.

‘Thank you, Leon.’ Sam offered him a smile. ‘You’re a good man.’

‘One last thing.’ Leon stepped towards Sam and extended his hand. ‘The High Five, it’s a biker bar. Not the nicest place in the world. You keep your wits about you.’

Sam took the man’s hand, shook it firmly, and nodded.

‘I always do.’

With that, Sam stepped out of the apartment and headed to the exit, following the next bread crumb.

Chapter Four

The High Five bar sat on the corner of Fenton Avenue, just off Gun Hill Road that ran through Laconia. The small district of the Bronx was on the rise, with the gentrification making it look considerably different to its surrounding parts. With the investment of money numerous businessmen had seen the opportunity to jump in with classy establishments and eateries popping up throughout the streets.

The High Five bar was not one of those.

With the rise in footfall and profits, other more nefarious projects had thrown their hat into the ring. The Death Riders, a notorious biker gang from the east coast had begun to venture further out and the High Five bar was seen as a hub within the city that never slept. The large bar didn’t lack the polish of its competitors. The front had been decorated with faux wood panels, with a trendy sign affixed above the door. The front drinking space had been levelled off, replaced with parking spaces for the few welcome travellers to leave their bikes.

They were in no danger of being stolen.

Even in New York, the petty street criminals knew better than to tamper with Death Rider property.