“I was on the phone with Logan,” she chokes out. “He was riding out from the meeting. Everything seemed fine, he said they’d worked it out, and then… then I heard this huge explosion. Like a bomb or something going off. And the call just... it dropped. Something’s wrong. Really, really wrong.”
32
SILVER
The world explodesin fiery chaos.
One second Tom’s bike is rumbling ahead of us, the next it’s a fireball—twisted metal and flames erupting into the gray winter sky. The shockwave slams into our truck like residual effects from an earthquake, cracking the windshield and sending us lurching sideways.
The entire road vibrates beneath us, asphalt splitting and crumbling from the force of the blast.
“Shit!” Mace fights the wheel as the truck fishtails, tires screeching against broken pavement.
For a heart-stopping second I think we’re going to flip. Then he corrects at the last moment, wrenching us onto the shoulder and slamming the brakes hard enough to throw me against my seatbelt.
Through the haze of smoke and dust, I see Logan’s bike veer wildly off the road, crashing into a tangle of shrubbery. He goes down hard but rolls clear, scrambling to his feet with his gun already drawn.
Tom’s bike is gone. Just... gone.
Nothing but a skeleton of burning metal where it used to be. His fate remains unknown.
The flames crackle and climb higher, sending plumes of black smoke spiraling into the sky like a declaration of war.
I knew it.
I fucking knew it.
Everything I anticipated has come to fruition. Wheels couldn’t resist. He was never going to let Tom walk away from their alliance—not after Tom agreed to my deal. Not after Tom chose self-preservation over revenge.
Luckily, I’m prepared.
I pull out my phone and dial Cash. He answers on the first ring.
“Code red,” I say. “Now.”
“Already on it, Prez.”
I hang up and look over at Mace. His jaw is tight, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, but his eyes are focused.
“You good?” I ask.
“Since the day I was born,” he answers.
We climb out of the truck, boots crunching on shattered asphalt. Logan joins us, limping slightly but moving with purpose, his face a mask of cold fury. Blood trickles from a gash on his forehead, but he doesn’t seem to notice or give a fuck.
As some of the smoke clears, they materialize.
A horde of motorcycles push through the haze like demons riding out of hell. The rumble of their engines fills the air, drowning out the crackle of flames and the pounding of my own heart. They’re riding in formation, a wall of chrome and leather.
At the front, like a general leading his army into battle, is a man with an aged, scarred face and a thick gray beard.
Nathaniel “Wheels” Rollins.
He and his Road Rebels think they’re about to ambush us. They think they’ve caught us off guard, trapped between the flames and their wall of bikes and this’ll be an easy win.
But they’re wrong.
I start walking toward them, Mace and Logan flanking me. My boots crunch on debris, my hand resting on the gun at my hip. I walk with purpose, the same confident gait I’ve always had, because I know something Wheels doesn’t.
