It almost makes me smile. Almost.
But the smile doesn’t last long.
Because we’re heading to the north pass. An ambush on a cartel convoy that our intel says is transporting girls.
We’ve stopped shipments like this before. Every time, it costs something. A piece of your soul. Your sleep. Your sanity.
But if it saves even one life, it’s worth it.
The ride is cold and sharp, the kind of October morning that cuts right through your layers. Six of us roll deep into the hills, headlights off, night vision in place. The mountain air is thin, heavy with tension.
Every bump in the road rattles my leg. The old injury throbs, nerves spiking with each shift of the clutch. I push through. Pain is just another thing you learn to ride with.
We set the spike strip and take cover behind the boulders flanking the road. Then we wait.
Two black SUVs. One box truck.
Right on time.
Viper launches the flare.
It rips through the dark sky like a firework from hell, casting blood-red light across the pass.
The lead SUV hits the spikes and screeches sideways. Doors fly open. Men pour out, guns drawn. Chaos erupts.
I fire twice. One drops. Another lunges at me, and I take him down with my blade. Clean, fast, brutal. My brothers are ghosts in the shadows, moving with practiced efficiency. Controlled fury.
Havoc yells, “Truck! Get the damn truck!”
We rip open the rear doors.
Inside: six girls. Teens. Maybe younger. Terrified. Wide-eyed.
My stomach turns. One of them’s shaking so hard her teeth are chattering. Another clutches the hand of a smaller one. No more than nine.
Rage floods me. It roars in my blood. I want to go back in time and make sure none of these bastards even made it to the border.
But there’s no time for that.
We get the girls out. Havoc called the sheriff anonymously before we left. Sirens wail in the distance, cutting through the dawn. We disappear into the dark before they arrive.
By the time we make it back to the clubhouse, the sky’s starting to lighten. My body aches. My hands are still shaking. My jeans are stiff with blood. Some mine, most not.
All I want is her.
I head upstairs and push open my door.
Nya’s still asleep.
Curled beneath the blanket, one leg kicked out, hair tangled across the pillow. Her face is soft, her lips slightly parted, cheeks pink from sleep. She looks like everything I never believed I’d have.
Relief hits so hard I nearly stumble.
I kneel beside the bed, brushing her hair back, and press a kiss to her brow.
She stirs. Blinks up at me.
“Hey,” she whispers, voice hoarse with sleep. “You’re okay.”
