“You ever think about not getting your head caved in to help?”
Throttle shrugs. “You offering something that pays quicker?”
“I’m offering you something that lasts,” I say. “Ride with me tomorrow. Watch how I handle things.”
He blinks at me. “This isn’t a charity case.”
“Damn right it’s not,” I say. “It’s a war. And I’d rather have a fighter like you beside me than bleeding out in a ring for rent money.”
He sits still for a beat. “What’s the catch?”
“You keep your hands clean from this point forward. You fight for the club, not for crowds. Not for cash. For the name on your back.”
Throttle frowns, wiping sweat and blood off his chin. “That a test?”
“It’s an invitation,” I tell him. “You’ve already got the fight. I’m trying to give it direction.”
He’s quiet. When I start to think I lost him, he mutters, “You trust me for that?”
“I’m trusting you not to bleed out by morning.”
He snorts, then winces. “You got jokes.”
“I got eyes,” I say. “You swing hard. You don’t fold. But the club needs you on your feet, not face down on concrete.” He doesn’t answer. Not with words.
The next morning, when I roll out for business, Throttle’s already outside with his helmet in hand, knuckles still taped, but with real tape this time. He follows my lead on drops and pickups without saying a word or questioning what I’m doing with shady as shit paperwork. And maybe, for the first time, believing in something that doesn’t hit back.
A week later, we’re all lined up outside the Clubhouse to finish off the leak and Las Estrellas Negras. The engines growl beneath us like a pack of wolves ready to tear through flesh.
We’re rolling twenty deep, but it feels heavier than that, like ghosts are riding with us. Old patches. Dead brothers. Buried grudges.
My dad, The General, rides at the front, helmet low, his black Road King still painted with faded war stripes from the last time shit got bloody. I’m beside him, riding steel on steel. My father hasn’t let go of the reins, but I’m not just along for the ride anymore.
Throttle pulls in behind me. Still bruised from the last fight, but sharper now. Lean, mean, and dead quiet. He rides like the devil’s chasing him.
Rock’s on The General’s flank, knuckles bruised, jaw locked tight. He hasn’t said much since the betrayal came to light, like if he opens his mouth, someone might die before we even get there.
Jordyn and City ride in the rear stagger. City’s got a backpack full of burner phones and a fire in his eyes he can’t mask, no matter how much black he wears. Jordyn’s riding smoother than a kid his age should. He’s got the books locked down, but tonight he’s wearing Kevlar like the rest of us.
We head toward the docks, where the intel says the cartel’s using an abandoned seafood distributor as a front. Forty-five minutes of dark roads and nerves so sharp they buzz.
Throttle pulls up beside me at a red light. “You sure this isn’t a suicide run?”
I glance at The General, then back at him. “If it is, we’re making it worth it.” He nods once. No more questions. The light changes, and we roar into war.
We cut the engines two blocks out. Dad raises a fist, and silence falls.
Rock and I take point, weapons drawn. He’s got the shotgun, I’ve got a suppressed nine. We flank left while Throttle, Jordyn,and two patched members from Tama’s day, Crow and Ridge, go right through the alley.
City and another prospect stay behind to jam signals and sweep for security cams. I catch the flash of City’s hoodie vanishing behind a dumpster, then nothing.
The front looks dead. Too dead.
Dad’s voice buzzes in my earpiece. “Gas line’s behind the freezer truck. Stack up. Quick and clean.”
We breach the side door. Three men are inside. One is packing, two are talking. They don’t hear us enter. Rock moves like thunder. One round to the chest of the armed guy, the others I drop fast with zip ties.
We clear the warehouse room by room. Someone spots us and panics, pulling a fire alarm.
