Chapter 1
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— Holden —
Ispread the map across the table in Dutch’s office, tracing US-20 with my finger while the afternoon sun slanted through the blinds. The route looked perfect on paper—secondary roads through the foothills, minimal state patrol coverage, three backup detours if anything went sideways. I’d ridden it twice already, clocking the distance between gas stations, noting the cell dead zones, and memorizing every curve.
On the corner of the table, under my coffee cup, was the Louisville folder. Updated scope documents for the second and third facilities, follow-up questions from the site managers, notes on what had changed since Colt’s last visit. Ongoing work — the kind that kept coming back because we’d done it right the first time. The Louisville contracts were the future, the legitimate side of things, what all of this was funding. Colt would handle the assessments; I’d get everyone there and back again. That was my part of it, what I was good at.
I’d get back to Louisville after the run. Right now, the run was all there was. But something felt off. A twitch in my gut that had nothing to do with the stale coffee I’d been living on for the past three days.
“You’re overthinking it again.”
I looked up to find Dutch leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. Our president had the kind of presence that filleda room without trying. He’d inherited the gavel from his father. But what he’d built since — the way he’d reshaped the Venom Riders MC in his own image — that was different. That was his.
“I’m being thorough,” I corrected. “There’s a difference.”
“You’ve been staring at that map for six hours.” He pushed off the doorframe and walked over, looking down at my carefully marked routes. “The run’s not for another week. Chill.”
“Enough time for things to change.” I tapped the section of road where 20 crossed into Idaho. “Sheriff rotation happens on the fifteenth. New guy could change patrol patterns. And there’s construction on the backup route through Grangeville. They just announced it yesterday.”
Dutch shook his head, but there was respect in his expression. “This is why you’re Road Captain, brother. You see problems before they exist.”
“My job is to make sure everyone comes home.” I straightened up, rolling the tension out of my shoulders. “Can’t do that if I’m not prepared for every scenario.”
The words came out automatic, practiced. The same thing I’d told myself a thousand times since I’d patched into the MC twelve years ago. The same mantra that had gotten me through every run, every close call, every moment when the variables started stacking up faster than I could plan for them.
My father hadn’t seen the semi drifting into his lane until it was too late. Another long-haul driver, thirty-six hours behind the wheel because his dispatcher had promised a load could make Boise by morning when anyone who’d looked at a map and a clock would’ve known it couldn’t. Bad planning. Somebody else’s bad planning, and my father had paid for it with his life.
I’d been sixteen when the highway patrol showed up at our door. My mother had collapsed right there in the entryway, and I’d stood frozen, watching her fall, watching our whole life shatter into pieces on the tile floor.
I’d sworn that day that I’d never let that happen to anyone else. Never let someone die because nobody bothered to run the numbers.
“The shipment’s worth three months of operating funds,” Dutch said, pulling me back to the present. “We can’t afford to lose it.”
“We won’t.” I turned back to the map, pointing to the series of markers I’d placed. “Primary route gets us there in four hours, minimal exposure. Secondary route adds ninety minutes but keeps us off the main highways entirely. Tertiary is emergency only—bad roads, but untraceable.”
“And backup?”
“Handful and three prospects in the follow van, fifteen minutes behind. If anything goes sideways, they’re close enough to help but far enough to stay clear if we’re compromised.” I met his eyes. “I’ve run the numbers, Dutch. This route is solid.”
“Then stop second-guessing yourself and go home.” Dutch clapped me on the shoulder. “Your woman’s probably wondering if you’ve forgotten what she looks like.”
Bea.
She was probably at her apartment right now, curled up on the couch with a book and a glass of wine, waiting for me to remember that there was more to life than maps and contingency plans.
“I’ll head out in an hour. Just want to—”
“Now, brother. That’s an order from your president. Go see your woman. The route will still be here tomorrow.”
I wanted to argue. The itch in my brain that demanded perfection, that whispered about all the things that could go wrong, didn’t quiet down just because someone told it to.
But Dutch was right. Bea was waiting. And after three days of living inside my own head, I needed her more than I needed another hour with the map. “Fine.” I started rolling up thepapers. “But I’m coming in early tomorrow to run through the prospect assignments.”
“Wouldn’t expect anything less.” Dutch was already heading for the door. “Church at two. We’ll finalize everything then.”
I finished packing up my maps and headed out to the main room, where Handful was holding court at the pool table. He was in the middle of some story that had Glitch groaning and the prospects laughing nervously — Reyes loudest among them, leaning in like he was already patched. Probably something inappropriate. A couple of the club girls had claimed the nearest couch, drinks in hand, half-watching the show. One of them laughed at something Reyes said. Normal Tuesday.
