No music. No calls. No communication. Just tires on asphalt and a thousand things I couldn’t fix clawing at the back of my brain.
Jack sat stiff beside me; eyes locked on the road ahead like he could will the road to move beneath us faster. He hadn’t spoken since we left, and I hadn’t pushed.
What could I say to ease his mind?
No updates. No pings. Not from Gray. Not from Remi. Not even from Clutch.
It was as if the line went dead the moment, we made the call to pursue her.
I gripped the wheel tighter. “Still nothing?”
Jack shook his head. “Tried Kane again. Straight to voicemail. Even the satellite relay’s quiet.”
“They’ve either gone dark on purpose,” I muttered, “or something’s wrong.”
Neither of us said the second part out loud.
What if we were too late?
My mind spiralled back to the cabin, the encrypted chatter, the way Remi’s phone blinked off like someone had reached in and cut the cord. We’d gotten used to worrying about her. That was life with Remi. But this felt different. This felt like the moment right before everything changes.
I thought back to the first time I saw her. Not on paper. In person.
She was younger, sharper tongued. Still carved from the same stubborn stone. She’d been brought in after defending Ava from a threat she shouldn’t have had to face, and even with blood on her hands and bruises on her ribs, she’d stood taller than most men I knew.
I remembered thinking she reminded me of wildfire, untamed, dangerous, and sometimes... absolutely necessary.
Now I just prayed that fire hadn’t been snuffed out.
Jack pointed. “That’s it. The gates.”
A pair of towering wrought-iron gates loomed ahead, chained open but guarded. A man with a cut stood beside a hulking dog, eyeing our SUV with practiced suspicion. I slowed to a crawl and rolled down the window.
“Name and reason,” the man barked.
“Harlan Gray. I’m here to see Remi. She's staying with Clutch.”
The man didn’t move. Just stared.
Then he called over his shoulder, “Patch check!”
Another man jogged over, peered in at Jack, and squinted. “Shit... That the suit?”
Jack blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, he’s the one,” the guy chuckled darkly. “Yeah, let ’em in. Let’s see what happens.”
The gates groaned open.
That wasn’t comforting.
The clubhouse itself sat low and wide against the mountain, a sprawl of wood and steel that looked like it could survive a war. Bikes lined the gravel lot. Men and women moved between them, laughing, smoking, tinkering, watching us roll in with the kind of wariness that said we didn’t belong.
That didn't feel right... if there was an attack wouldn’t it look like it… or did they never make it this far?
The inside of the clubhouse looked nothing like I expected.
Rougher, louder, sure. But not chaotic. Not dangerous. It was... settled. Almost warm in its own weird, leather-and-cigarettes way. No guns drawn. No threats echoing from the walls. Just men and women spread out in mismatched chairs and couches, nursing beers andwatching something at the front of the room with a strange kind of reverence.
