“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.