“Questions?” Dutch looked around the circle of faces. “No? Then let’s ride.”
I watched Colt check his phone one more time before he mounted up. He’d done it twice already. Lilac, I assumed — she’d made him promise to check in before we left, and he was the kind of man who kept that kind of promise.
Glitch came down the line with a duffel after that, collecting phones. Nothing on us that could trace back — standard protocol. I dropped mine in without looking. I hadn’t texted Bea. I’d said what I needed to say this morning in bed, careful not to use the word goodbye. Bad luck. I’d told her I’d see her tonight. That was enough.
The engines around me roared to life, the sound vibrating through my chest. I swung onto my Softail and pulled out first,Danny falling into position behind me, the rest of the formation spreading out in our wake.
The first two hours were perfect.
The route unfolded exactly as I’d planned, every turn and straightaway matching the maps I’d memorized. Traffic was light, weather held, and the brothers rode in tight formation behind me. Danny was doing exactly what I’d told him—staying close, staying alert, not trying to show off.
We stopped for fuel at the halfway point, a small station I’d scouted three weeks ago. The owner was on our payroll, the security cameras conveniently malfunctioning whenever Venom Riders rolled through.
“So far so good,” Colt said, pulling up beside me at the pumps. “You called this one perfectly.”
“We’re not there yet.” My eyes kept cutting to the treeline — everything was running exactly according to plan — but the numbers all checking out didn’t make them stop.
“Relax, brother.” Colt clapped me on the shoulder. “We’ve got this.”
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to let myself feel the satisfaction of a well-executed plan, the pride of a route that was working flawlessly. But I couldn’t. Because when everything looks right is exactly when you stop checking.
?
The ambush came out of nowhere. One moment we were cruising through a stretch of empty highway, mountains rising on either side, the road clear for miles. The next, gunfire erupted from the treeline, bullets pinging off asphalt and metal, and everything dissolved into chaos.
“Ambush! Break formation!”
I don’t know who shouted it—maybe me, maybe Dutch, maybe all of us at once. The brothers scattered, bikes swerving to avoid the kill zone, engines screaming as we tried to find cover.
More shots. Glass shattering. Someone cursing over the roar of engines.
I spotted the shooters—four, maybe five, positioned on a ridge above the road. Professional setup. Military precision. This wasn’t random highway robbery. This was planned.
Someone had known our route.
“Cover!” I shouted, pulling my bike behind a rocky outcrop and drawing my weapon. Danny skidded to a stop beside me, his face pale but his hands steady as he pulled his own gun.
“Who are they?” he asked, voice tight.
“Doesn’t matter. Stay down.”
Return fire erupted from our side. Dutch was barking orders. I heard Glitch trying to raise Handful on the emergency channel — nothing back, just static. The follow van should have been fifteen minutes behind us. The cargo van had pulled off the road, the driver taking cover behind the engine block.
I scanned the ridge, tracking the shooters’ positions, calculating angles. If we could flank them—
“Holden!”
Danny’s voice, sharp with terror.
I turned just in time to see the shooter on the far left swing his rifle toward me. I saw the barrel. Saw the finger on the trigger.
And then Danny was there.
He moved faster than I could process, throwing himself between me and the shooter, his body slamming into mine just as the gun went off. The sound was deafening—and then Danny was falling, falling, and I was catching him, and there was so much red, so much fucking red—
I pulled him behind the rocks, my hands already pressing against the wound in his chest. Too much blood. Too fast. The bullet had hit him center mass, and even as I tried to apply pressure, I knew.
I knew.
