"Just Reaper, Blade, and Maddie?" I question, not liking this arrangement. "I should be there too."
"You're too personally invested," Ghost counters. "We need cool heads in there."
"She's personally invested too," I point out, gesturing to Maddie.
"She's the one Walsh wants," Reaper explains. "Having her there, protected but defiant, sends a message. You, on the other hand, are a wild card."
"I'm going in," I insist, meeting Reaper's gaze directly. It's a risky move, challenging the President this way, but I can't back down. "She's under my protection. I need to be there."
"Fine. But you follow my lead, understand? One word out of line, and there will be consequences."
I nod, accepting the warning. "Understood."
"We leave in twenty minutes," Reaper announces. "Gear up."
As the meeting breaks up, I pull Maddie aside. "You okay with this?"
"More than okay," she says, a determined glint in her eye. "I want to see his face when he realizes he's lost."
"Just stay close to me," I tell her. "No heroics."
She raises an eyebrow. "That's rich, coming from you."
I can't help but grin. "Do as I say, not as I do."
"Not how this works," she says, but she's smiling too.
Twenty minutes later, we're mounted up and ready to go. Maddie rides behind me, her arms wrapped around my waist. The roar of multiple bikes fills the air as we pull out of the clubhouse lot in formation, Reaper leading the procession.
The ride to Walsh's rental takes about fifteen minutes, out past the town limits to a secluded property set back from the main road. It's a modern house, all glass, surrounded by trees. Two black SUVs are parked in the circular drive.
We pull up in a perfect V formation, engines rumbling in unison before cutting out simultaneously. The effect is intimidating as hell, which is exactly the point.
The front door opens before we even dismount. A man in a suit steps out, hand inside his jacket, reaching for a weapon, no doubt.
"That's not Walsh," Maddie murmurs behind me. "Security."
Reaper dismounts first, followed by Blade. I help Maddie off the bike, then join them as they approach the house. The rest of the club remains with their bikes, a wall of leather-clad intimidation.
"We're here to see Walsh," Reaper calls out. "Tell him the Outlaw Order is paying a social call."
The security man speaks into a wrist mic, never taking his eyes off us. After a moment, he nods. "Three of you. The rest stay put."
"Four," I correct him, stepping forward. "These three, plus me."
The man hesitates, then confers with someone via his earpiece. "Fine," he says finally. "Follow me."
The interior of the house is minimalist, expensive, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a view of the surrounding forest. We're led to a large living room where a man sits in a leather armchair, a drink in hand.
Tiernan Walsh is not what I expected. He's in his late forties, slim, with salt-and-pepper hair and the kind of tan that comes from regular vacations on private beaches. He's dressed casuallyin slacks and a button-down shirt, but his watch and shoes probably cost more than everything I own combined.
"The infamous Outlaw Order," he says, his Irish accent soft but distinct. "I was wondering when you'd come calling."
His eyes drift to Maddie, standing between Blade and me. "And Ms. Brooks. How lovely to see you again, despite the circumstances."
"Walsh," she acknowledges, her voice cool.
"I understand you've been looking for Ms. Brooks," Reaper says, getting straight to business. "That stops now."
