Gunfire rings out across the road.
I dive for cover as bullets tear through the air, pinging off metal and thudding into dirt.
The landscape descends into pure anarchy—muzzle flashes and rumbling engines and the sharp crack of gunshots echoing off the trees.
Mace rolls behind the truck, returning fire before he’s ever struck himself. I see a Rebel go down, clutching his shoulder. Logan’s found cover behind a concrete barrier, picking off targets as ruthlessly as his younger brother. Cash has dismounted and is using his bike as a shield, his massive assault rifle spraying bullets at the enemy.
Ozzie’s moving through the chaos like a man possessed, flanking left with Tate covering him. They work together seamlessly, years of brotherhood forged between us.
The flames from Tom’s bike still crackle and roar behind us, bathing the scene in hellish orange light. Smoke stings my eyes and burns my lungs, but I push through it.
I’ve spotted Wheels.
He’s retreating toward the tree line, trying to slip away while his men die for him.
Fucking coward.
But not today.
I break from cover and sprint after him, bullets whizzing past my head. He sees me coming and runs faster, crashing through the underbrush. I’m much faster and in better shape than he is, quickly closing the gap.
I tackle him as he reaches the trees. We go down hard in the tall grass. We grapple on the ground, rolling over each other, each fighting to be on top. His fist connects with my jaw, and pain reverberates through my skull. I answer with a head butt that crunches his nose, blood splattering in thick drops.
He’s strong. Stronger than I expected for his age. Years of hatred from behind bars have kept him sharp and hungry.
We trade brutal, desperate blows. Punches that split skin and crack bone. Every hit I take sends shockwaves through my body, but I don’t stop.
I won’t ever fucking stop.
There’s no stopping the Steel Kings. We always come out on top.
We live forever.
Wheels gets the upper hand, rolling on top of me and pinning my arms with his knees. His weight crushes down on my chest as he reaches into his boot and pulls out a pocket knife. He presses it to my throat.
Blood drips from his mouth onto my face as he grins down at me, his eyes wild with triumph.
“Doesn’t matter if the Road Rebels lose to the Steel Kings,” he snarls. “At least I’ll kill you. Which is all I’ve ever wanted.”
I wrestle his weight, searching for my opening to flip him on his ass. If he’s expecting me to go out easily, then he’s more delusional than Tom ever was.
“You mean sorta like how you killed me, Nate?”
Wheels freezes.
We both turn our heads toward the sound.
Tom’s standing a few feet away. He looks like hell, and that’s putting it lightly—bloodied and swollen face and burned and blistered flesh. He must’ve been thrown clear of the explosion and crawled through the grass to make it to us.
He’s swaying on his feet, barely upright, as if he’s hanging onto life by a thread.
But he’s got his own final task to complete, which explains the gun that trembles in his unsteady grip.
And it’s pointed directly at Wheels and me.
33
SILVER
