The energy in the room shifts from chaotic humor to cold, hard focus as we stand from the couches. We’re heading for the door, grabbing our cuts, when the clubhouse’s front door opens without a sound.
Arden Thorne.
Of course he’s here, I think, my lip curling in a half-smirk. It’s well after midnight. Prime vampire hours. Did he even use the door, or just materialize from a puff of expensive, brooding smoke?
He moves with that unnerving, unnatural silence that always makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. He’s dressed in his usual impeccable dark suit, looking more like a CEO than an ally. His eyes, which always seem to see too much, land on Malachi.
“Frankie said you were trying to get my attention,” he says in a smooth monotone voice that cuts right through the clubhouse noise.
“We have a bank job,” Malachi says, all business. “Tight window. Seventeen seconds. We could use your… skillset… as backup if it goes south.”
Arden’s gaze flicks to the blueprints Knox is now folding up, his expression unreadable. “Seventeen seconds.” He doesn’t look impressed. He looks bored. “Fine. I’ll come.”
I look at Knox, who just murmurs under his breath, “Freaky vampire speed.” Having him as backup feels like bringing a nuclear warhead to a knife fight. The odds just tipped heavily in our favor.
Malachi nods once. “Good. Let’s go.”
The ride to the bank in the dead of night is a silent, grim procession. The air is cool, but sweat prickles at the back of my neck under my cut. We cut our engines a mile out, coasting the last stretch. The bank is a dark, sleeping fortress of old money and secrets.
We take our positions. Rider is on a rooftop across the street, his sniper rifle a long, deadly shadow in the moonlight. James and Kyle are in a blacked-out van a block away as our exit strategy. Arden has vanished into the shadows, a ghost providing his own separate overwatch. Nash and I are at the entry point, a maintenance access panel Darla told us about, hidden behind a decorative hedge.
My comms crackle to life. It’s Knox, from his own mobile command center. “System reboot sequence has initiated. Youhave a seventeen-second window. On my mark. Three… two… one… Mark.”
We move. Nash pries the panel open. I slide through, landing in a crouch on the cold marble floor inside. The air is stale and smells like old paper and money. Nash is right behind me. We’re moving before the panel is even closed.
We’re a blur of silent, efficient motion. I reach the portrait in the west hallway and get to work on the bypass panel behind it as Knox counts down in my ear.
“Five seconds, East.”
The final wire clicks. The small green light on the lobby door alarm blinks off. We’re in. Clean.
We use the keys—Darla’s and the one Ruby procured—and the small metal door to her deposit box clicks open. Inside, nestled on a bed of black velvet, is a single, unassuming cell phone. The weapon that will destroy Winston Graves.
Chapter 39
East
Theridebacktothe clubhouse is triumphant. We have it. By the time we roll into the clubhouse, the sky is starting to gray at the edges of the world. Exhaustion and adrenaline buzz under my skin, but the second I see Darla relief swallows everything else. I just give her a look, a quiet, wordlesswe made it, before Malachi pulls us into the war room to debrief.
When we walk into the common room later that morning, the mood is electric. The entire club is there, a unified sea of leather and denim. Darla is on the couch with the girls, and her eyes find mine immediately. I give her a single, sharp nod. We got it. Relief, so potent it’s a physical thing, washes over her face.
Malachi calls for attention, his voice booming through the room. Rider is called to the front, his expression a mixture of pride and nervous energy.
“Today,” Malachi says, his voice full of gravitas, “we recognize a brother who has proven his loyalty, his courage, and his heart. He did his job, he protected his brothers, and he earned hisplace.” He holds up a new, pristine cut, the full Outsiders patch gleaming on the back. “Rider. Step forward.”
The room erupts in cheers and applause as Rider is officially patched in. I feel a surge of pride so fierce it makes my chest ache. This is what it’s all about. Family.
Frankie is there, her tattoo gun already buzzing. It’s a sacred moment as she sets to work, the needle carving the club’s crest into Rider’s skin, a permanent mark of his place in our world.
The formal moment breaks, and the celebration begins. Someone kills the lights inside as two prospects open the doors to the yard, and the pulse of music and grilling food calls us out into the morning air. The celebration spills out onto the patio, warm air thick with laughter and the smell of burgers on the grill. My brothers knock shoulders and crack jokes, the stress of the last week finally loosening its grip on the club.
Then Nash bumps up the volume on the speakers. The opening notes of steel drums chime through the yard. Tropical, sunny, and absolutely not AC/DC. Conversations stall. Heads pivot.
Darla’s eyes narrow like she’s zeroing in on a sniper target. I try to keep a straight face. I fail instantly.
The clubhouse doors open again, and Kyle walks out with an armful of rainbow-bright leis, looking like he’s accepted his fate. Behind him, Knox rolls a thatched skirt around the bar while Malachi plants a giant inflatable palm tree by the taps, stone-faced except for the smirk he’s clearly fighting back.
Candace freezes mid-step. “Oh, hell no.”
