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Chapter One
Cross gritted his teeth as blood oozed from the gunshot wound on his shoulder, but he refused to waver. His gaze remained locked onto the handlebars of his Harley, determined not to let his pain show. Fainting was not an option, not on these desolate back roads. He knew that a blackout would be the end of him.
Sergeant-at-Arms for the notorious Death Seekers MC, Cross had been through his fair share of scrapes. He understood that if they caught him, the enemy wouldn’t grant him a fast death. These bastards would prolong his suffering, squeezing every ounce of information from him before they let him go.
The last thing Cross would ever do was betray his MC brothers—his family. That knowledge kept him going, kept him focused.
Behind him, the growl of three other motorcycle engines reverberated through the night air. The odds were far from fair—three against one—but Cross refused to let fear consume him.
He couldn’t call on his brothers from the Death Seekers for backup this time. He’d unwittingly blundered into the territory of the Crimson Crows, and there was no escape from this trap. Cross thought of the little bastard who put him in this mess—Jimmy Bailey, one of the MC’s newest informants, had either fed Cross false information or had intentionally betrayed him to the Crows.
Cross normally didn’t trust new informants but Jimmy had been Sean “Mad Dog” Bailey’s younger brother. Mad Dog was loyal to the bone, but he got himself killed during a territory war with another rival MC. Did Jimmy betray Cross because he knew Cross was the last person to speak to Sean? Either way, Cross could question Jimmy himself … if he survived this chase. With every passing moment, the noose drew tighter.
Cross’s heart raced as he rode, aware that the Crimson Crows behind him were merely biding their time before firing at him again. They were toying with him, prolonging the chase for their amusement, and he hated every moment of it.
As the tension in his chest mounted, Cross’s instincts heightened. He had a bad feeling about this chase, a gut-deep certainty that things were about to take a deadly turn.
He scanned the distance and finally saw what his enemies had planned. Another biker, a Crow, rode toward him, shotgun in hand, murder in his eyes. Cross had only seconds to react. He yanked the handlebars of his Harley to the side, the shooter’s first bullet tearing through his left leg as he swerved.
The second shot whizzed past, narrowly missing him. Agony ripped up his leg, but Cross fought to keep control of his motorcycle. With a final burst of adrenaline, Cross veered into a side road, the cursing of the Crows fading behind him. He had no idea where he was headed and his phone was dead, a rookie’s mistake in his line of work.
The road led him to a quiet town. The locals were probably still asleep at this hour. Desperation clawed at him. Cross scanned the town for a place to lay low. His eyes landed on a strip of shops, most still locked up tight for the night, except one. A garage, its lights flickering to life. Without a second thought, Cross steered his Harley toward it.
Cross managed to slip inside the wide garage sliding door, the growl of his Harley muffled as he pulled it in after him. He glanced over his shoulder, searching for any telltale tire tracks that might lead the Crimson Crows straight to his hideout. To his relief, there were none. It seemed like Lady Luck had deigned to smile upon him this time. Still, he couldn’t afford to be complacent. With every passing second, the garage’s sanctuary seemed more like a beacon in the night.
Cross hoped beyond hope that he hadn’t already drawn the attention of the garage’s mechanic or owner.
His wounded arm and leg throbbed, and the pain gnawed at him, but he knew he had to keep moving. Despite his injuries, Cross dismounted his Harley and managed to push it behind a blue Cadillac. The adrenaline that had kept him going during the chase was fast fading, leaving exhaustion and pain in its wake. He slumped against the car, the rough exterior of his leather jacket leaving smears of blood on its polished surface. His vision blurred at the edges, and his eyelids grew heavy, but he couldn’t allow himself the luxury of losing consciousness. Not here, not now.
Cross leaned against the cool metal of the blue Cadillac, his thoughts racing as he tried to piece together what he knew about Elmwood, the small town where he was currently stranded.
This was Crimson Crows territory, that much was certain. These bikers likely kept the local population loyal through intimidation and fear, a standard tactic in such places. But Cross also understood that there might also be locals who weren’t afraid of the Crows. The question that nagged him now was how to identify these individuals, especially in his wounded and vulnerable state.
He knew logic dictated that anyone who stumbled upon a bloodied, battered biker hiding in their garage would immediately scream for help. And if they did, if they dared to pick up the phone and call the cops, it could spell the end for him. After all, the Crows might be lining the pockets of local law enforcement, the same way his own motorcycle club had done in their territory. Cross couldn’t afford to take chances. Every moment that passed, the danger loomed closer.
His breaths came in shallow gasps, pain radiating from his injured leg. He needed a plan, allies, but he also knew that his first order of business was to tend to his injuries and find a way to lay low until he could make a move.
The distant rumble of motorcycle engines grew louder, closing in on the garage. His instincts told him the Crimson Crows were approaching, and they’d finally come for him.
Cross reached for the weapons concealed in his jacket, fingers curling around the grip of his handgun. The magazine was nearly empty, save for one remaining bullet—a desperate reminder of his previous standoff with the bikers. It had been a costly move, but it had bought him time.
Cross’s other weapon, a knife strapped securely to his side, offered a small glimmer of hope. Yet, the odds were against him in a face-off with armed adversaries. The Crows had shown little regard for fairness or honor in the past, and he had no reason to believe they would change their approach now.
As if things weren’t complicated enough, Cross strained his ears to pick up more from inside the shop. He caught the sound of a woman’s voice, chatting away on the phone. So, the shop had a female mechanic or maybe she was the shop owner. He didn’t relish the idea of dragging an innocent bystander into his mess, but Cross had never claimed to be a gentleman. Survival was his game, and he’d do whatever it took to make it out of this alive.
“You can have your car back this Thursday afternoon, Mr. Graham,” the woman was saying.
Her voice was sweet yet firm. Cross’s mind briefly wandered as he debated what she might look like, but he quickly chastised himself for such thoughts. Now wasn’t the time to be thinking about women.
Mercifully, the rumble of motorcycle engines outside began to fade. The Crows had passed by the garage without incident, but Cross knew better than to dismiss them entirely. He understood their way of thinking. They would retrace their steps, and they would return. Cross would do the same in their shoes. For now, Cross could breathe easy, or so he thought.
“Now, what do we have here?” came the same wonderful voice he’d heard on the phone.
Cross finally laid eyes on the female mechanic, and he quickly realized his earlier musings were on the mark. She was a looker. She was in her mid or late twenties and had short red hair, enchanting green eyes, and a curvy figure that simply couldn’t be concealed by the mechanic coveralls she wore. Cross had always had a particular weakness for curvy women, and this one was no exception.
With one hand planted firmly on her hip, she seemed unruffled by the sight of a bleeding biker in her garage—a sight that would send most average people running for cover.
Cross decided it wasn’t proper to remain seated when introducing himself to a lady. He mustered the strength to push himself upright, the effort costing him dearly. After what felt like an eternity, he finally stood on his own two feet. Cross had always found it easy to charm women, but the fiery red-haired mechanic didn’t seem to be impressed by his smile.
