The bike growled to life, rear tire spit water as they rolled off the ridge. The thunder followed them a few miles, then faded, swallowed by the open road.
By the time they hit the highway, the rain’s eased. The world smelled of wet earth and ash.
Tater didn’t look back.
He knew the others would come for her bike, for the body, for the pieces.
It’s just them—two ghosts riding out of the fire together.
CHAPTER 21
The Long Ride Home
They didn’t rush.
Tater kept the pace slow, steady—one hand on the throttle, the other sometimes reached back, needing the reassurance of her hand still gripping his side. The rain came and went, it turned the highway slick and shiny beneath the fading moonlight.
By the time they hit the valley, the fire on the ridge was just a faint orange glow behind them. Ren leaned into him, silent, her warmth the only thing that felt alive in the cold night air.
They stopped once beneath a gas station awning on the edge of nowhere. No words. Just the smell of wet asphalt and burnt rubber. She stared out at the horizon, eyes distant, until the black began to soften into gray.
When the first hint of daylight cut through the clouds, he kicked the bike over again. She climbed on without a sound.
The road home felt endless, but neither of them hurried.
CHAPTER 22
After the Fire
The club house sat quiet under a gray morning sky, the kind of stillness that only comes after a long night of bad weather and worse choices.
Mud streaked the drive, puddles reflecting the twisted shape of the club’s sign. The flag still hung from the post out front, soaked but standing.
Tater rolled through the gate slow. The sound of his Harley broke the silence, deep and even.
When he cut the engine, the quiet came rushing back.
Ren slid off before he could help her, one hand pressed to her side. She moved stiff, but she was moving—and that was more than he’d dared hope for when he’d seen her standing over Shadow’s body in the rain.
Eagle was the first one out. He stopped dead on the porch, eyes going from Tater to Ren to the mud-splattered chain hanging from Tater’s belt loop.
He didn’t ask what happened. Didn’t have to.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “You two look like hell.”
“Feels about right,” Tater said, voice low.
He took Ren’s arm gently, guiding her toward the clubhouse. She didn’t resist, just leaned into Tater like he was the only thing keeping her upright. The others inside—Patch, Brick, and the rest—looked up when they walked in. Conversations died mid-sentence.
The smell of coffee and whiskey hit hard. The familiar creak of the old wood floor under their boots. Home, or at least close enough to pretend.
Tater nodded once at the room. “It’s done.”
Eagle followed them in. “Shadow?”
“Gone,” Tater said.
That one word hung heavy in the air. Nobody cheered. Nobody spoke. Just that shared silence, the kind that only comes when the cost’s too high to count.
