His taillights come into view as he weaves through the sparse traffic ahead. He’s headed for the road leading out of Pulsboro. He’s trying to escape. Disappear into the ether like the coward he is.
Not on my fucking watch.
I push the gas harder, the speedometer climbing.
Fifty. Sixty. Seventy.
I cut off a sedan, swerve around a pickup, my focus laser-locked on the Road Rebel. The dusty streets of Pulsboro whiz past us—storefronts, streetlights, the old water tower—all of it blending into streaks of color as I close the distance.
“Silver—” Solana murmurs out of fear. She’s placed a hand on the dash like she’s bracing for a crash.
“Stay down,” I bark, not taking my eyes off the road. “This is about to get rough.”
I ram the truck into the back of the bike.
The impact jolts through our vehicle while up ahead the biker wobbles, fighting for control. He struggles to stay in his lane, his hand reaching for his hip.
His gun.
I shove Solana down again a split second before he twists and fires blindly behind him. The shots go wide, punching holes in the afternoon air as I swerve the truck left, then right.
I ram him again. Harder this time. More forcefully.
The bike careens sideways, the rider’s arms pinwheeling as he loses any last control. He hits the ditch at the side of the road and goes flying, the motorcycle flipping end over end before crashing into the grass with a sickening crunch of metal. The wheels are still spinning when I throw the truck into park and grab my Glock from the center console.
“Lock the door,” I order Solana. “Don’t get out. You understand me?”
She nods, completely mute as she sits tucked into the corner of the passenger seat. Her ear’s still bleeding, the sight of it making my trigger finger itch.
I get out of the truck and stride toward the wreckage.
The masked biker is collapsed in the grass next to his smoking bike, groaning and fumbling for his gun. He senses me approaching and wants his piece.
I’m quicker. Much quicker.
I cock the hammer and shoot him in the kneecap.
No words. No preamble necessary. Just a bullet to blow out his kneecap and illustrate how fucking serious this moment is.
His scream is raw and throaty, ringing out for seemingly miles. His entire body spasms as blood spurts from the ruined joint. He writhes on the ground like a fish on a hook, his gloved hands clutching at his leg.
I watch on with cold detachment, then crouch down and rip the bandana off his face.
He’s young.
Some punk-faced kid who can’t be older than twenty. Maybe twenty-one. Patchy stubble, acne scars, terror swimming in his pale blue eyes.
A prospect, probably. Some dumb kid sent out on a mission to earn his place in the Road Rebels.
I remember what that was like—back in the day, the old prez, Walter “Skull” Hurst, sent me and Tom to vandalize the Road Rebels clubhouse. It was supposed to be our final test to prove we deserved to be Steel Kings.
That was the night Tom murdered one of their elder members and stirred up shit we’re still dealing with thirty years later.
“Who are you?” I ask, my tone flat. “Who sent you?”
His teeth are chattering, sweat gleaming on his pallid face, but he doesn’t answer. He simply shakes his head, trying to be brave. Trying to be loyal.
I don’t have time for fucking loyalty.
