I listen to them discuss routes, checkpoints, and contingency plans, realizing this isn't just a motorcycle club. It's a military operation with Knight clearly in command despite being only a prospect. The others defer to him, even the full members.
Viper notices my expression. "Former Ranger," he explains quietly. "We know when to recognize expertise."
Soon we're loading our bags into vehicles. Knight does a final sweep of the cabin while Blade hands out burner phones pre-programmed with each other's numbers. Dice entertains me with a story about his first motorcycle that seems designed to distract me from my nerves. It works, somewhat.
"Time to move," Knight announces, emerging from the cabin with our remaining supplies.
I climb into the passenger seat of the Jeep, watching as the three bikers mount their motorcycles. Knight starts the engine, hisface settling into the focused expression I've come to recognize as his operational mode.
"Ready?" he asks me.
"As I'll ever be."
He reaches across to squeeze my hand briefly. "We'll get you there safely. Trust me."
The convoy pulls out, Dice's Sportster taking point, Blade and Viper falling in behind us as we leave the secluded cabin behind. I watch the mountains recede in the side mirror, wondering if I'll ever see them again.
We drive in comfortable silence for the first hour, Knight's eyes constantly checking mirrors, scanning the road ahead. Occasionally he speaks into the burner phone, terse check-ins with the others.
"How far to Denver?" I ask during a lull.
"About four hours," Knight replies. "We're taking an indirect route to avoid main highways. Harder to set up roadblocks or intercepts that way."
I nod, watching the landscape change as we wind through less-traveled roads. "They seem competent," I observe. "Your brothers."
A smirk touches his lips. "They are.”
"And you trust them completely?"
He glances at me. "With my life. With yours."
The certainty in his voice is reassuring. After what we shared this morning, after learning about his background and principles, I find myself trusting his judgment more than I probably should given how little time we've known each other.
"Tell me about the trial," Knight says. "What exactly will happen when we get there?"
I gather my thoughts, organizing the information as I would for a court transcript. "I'll meet with the federal prosecutor, review my testimony. The trial is in its second week. I'm not the only witness, just the one with the recording that proves conspiracy. I'll testify, they'll enter the recording as evidence, and I'll be cross-examined by the defense."
"How long will you be on the stand?"
"A day, maybe two with cross-examination. After that..." I shrug. "I don't know. Normally witness protection would relocate me permanently, but given what happened..."
"We'll figure that out," Knight promises. "One step at a time."
The miles pass beneath us, every hour bringing me closer to the moment of truth. We stop once for gas and a quick meal at a roadside diner, timing our breaks to avoid creating patterns. The bikers remain vigilant, one always watching while the others eat or use the restroom.
It's mid-afternoon when the Denver skyline appears on the horizon. Knight makes another call, confirming our approach with the others. I feel my anxiety rising with each mile, my fingers drumming nervously on my thigh.
Knight notices, covering my hand with his. "Almost there. You're doing great."
"I don't feel great," I admit. "I feel like I'm going to throw up."
"That's normal. Fear keeps you sharp."
"Is that what they taught you in the Rangers?"
"That and always know where the exits are." He offers a reassuring smile. "We have a plan, Beth. You're not alone in this."
As we enter the city outskirts, Knight directs us to a motel on the eastern edge of Denver. The kind of place that accepts cash and doesn't ask questions. The bikers arrive minutes after we do, parking their motorcycles in different spots to avoid drawing attention.
