“Well, what only a few know is that Massacre was dead. Like, really dead. Ravage found him hanging in a warehouse, beaten and left for dead. Ravage found him first. All I can think is that when he saw him, he believed Massacre was really dead, and I guess he was right, because when the rest of us arrived, Valhalla was administering CPR and Ravage was long gone.”
“He left him hanging there?”
“Ravage differs from the rest of us, Karlyn. He’s not had an easy life. None of us have really, but the shit Ravage survived left a stain on his soul and made him the man he is today. Ravage sees only in black and white, but when those two mix... well, let’s just say I’d hate to be on the receiving end. But to answer your question, Ravage is hunting the man responsible for Massacre’s death.”
“But he didn’t die.”
“Ravage doesn’t know that. All he knows is what he saw. He was gone before Massacre’s heart started beating again.”
“There has to be a way to contact him. To tell him Massacre is alive.”
“We’ve all tried. Sypher is scouring the internet for any signs of him. I’ve notified all our allied clubs to be on the lookout, butnot to approach. But when Ravage takes off like this, he won’t stop until he’s found the guy and killed him.”
“Is the man really that bad?”
Reaper nodded but said nothing more.
Sighing, I looked at everyone laughing, enjoying themselves while kids ran around playing, as if their worlds were filled with light and joy, and it occurred to me that we were all here enjoying this beautiful day and good food because of men like Jackson and the brothers of the Golden Skulls. They weren’t perfect. Hell, they weren’t even half perfect, but they believed in something greater than themselves, and that was something I could understand.
Reaper’s silence was heavier than words; his reputation alone spoke volumes.
I glanced at him, uneasy. “So, what do we do now?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
The uncertainty hung in the air. I was torn between protecting myself and chasing the truth, but I knew one thing was certain: until Ravage learned the truth, nobody was safe from the storm he was about to unleash.
“We wait for the fallout.”
Chapter Five
Ravage
Somewhere in Denver, Colorado...
The relentless downpour was a curtain of icy needles against my skin; each drop a stinging reminder of my vulnerability. The rhythmic thrum of the engine beneath me was a frantic heartbeat against the chaos of the gridlocked city. I pushed my motorcycle harder, the worn tires fighting for a grip on the slick asphalt, my focus narrowed to the sliver of space between vehicles. The car behind me, a hulking shadow against the murky twilight, was a persistent, menacing presence.
Then, the muzzle flash, a violent bloom of orange in my periphery. The report was a sharp crack, swallowed almost immediately by the storm. A searing pain, new and sharp, blossomed in my side, a brutal counterpoint to the old, dull ache. I’d felt the earlier impact, a deep, tearing sensation that had sent a jolt of pure shock through me, but my adrenaline had held it at bay. Now it pulsed with a vengeance, a constant, throbbing reminder of my failing grip.
I twisted the throttle, leaning into a desperate weave, as my metal beast responded with a guttural roar. The world was a smear of red taillights and rain-streaked glass. Each car became an obstacle, a wall I had to circumvent. There was no thought of surrender, no consideration of a different path. Only the raw, primal instinct to move, to escape, to survive. The rain plastered my hair to my temples and ran in rivulets downmy face, blurring the already indistinct lines of the city. My vision, already compromised by the rain, swam with the effort of maintaining control, the throbbing in my side an insistent, undeniable presence. There was only the next lane, the next gap, the desperate hope that the storm and the traffic would offer an illusion of sanctuary, however fleeting.
The pursuit escalated. Another shot rang out, this time closer; the bullet ricocheted off the asphalt with a violent whine. I hunched lower. The pain in my side was a fiery brand, but my resolve hardened. Karlyn’s face, her vulnerable eyes, flashed in my mind.
I couldn’t be caught.
Not now. Not when she needed me, even if she didn’t know it.
The roar of my engine became a desperate plea, a battle cry against the encroaching darkness and my relentless pursuers. I swerved sharply, catching a glimpse of a police cruiser in my mirror, its siren a wailing lament that was quickly drowned out by the storm and the pounding of my own blood in my ears. They were relentless, these ghosts from my past, their shadows stretching long and distorted in the downpour. The thought of them reaching Karlyn, of them disturbing the fragile peace I’d fought so hard to maintain for her, fueled a surge of raw power through me. I was a phantom, a memory they couldn’t quite catch, and I intended to keep it that way.
The city lights blurred into an indistinguishable haze, the rain a constant, stinging adversary. I risked a glance back, the muzzle flash again, a stark white light against the oppressive gloom. The pain in my side intensified, a hot, agonizing ache that threatened to pull me under. But beneath my agony, a fierce protectiveness ignited. For Karlyn, for the fragile light she represented in my own fractured world, I would ride through Hell itself. And right now, Hell was this rain-slicked, unforgiving city.
My pain was a white-hot brand, a brutal symphony of agony that threatened to shatter the fragile dam of my control. I gritted my teeth as the taste of blood flooded my mouth. I fought to stay conscious as the city, a relentless, uncaring beast, pressed in, its gridlocked arteries choking me.
I saw another muzzle flash, closer this time, and a guttural scream tore from my throat as my motorcycle bucked violently beneath me. I knew with a chilling certainty that this was it.
The end of the line.
The rain, which had seemed like a suffocating shroud, now felt like a cleansing balm, as it washed over me and my world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of pain and darkness when I saw the angel of death himself coming for me, his face a mask of rage as he roared toward me, firing at will at the car behind me, and I closed my eyes and laid down my bike.
A sensation that was both jarring and strangely familiar stirred me. The smell of pine and damp earth, the whisper of wind through leaves. My eyes snapped open, the harsh reality of the city replaced by the soft, dappled light filtered through a canopy of trees.
