The saloon door bangs open and Big Eddie and Johnny finally appear. Eddie’s laughing while Johnny looks pissed, his greasy brown hair hanging limp around his shoulders.
“Sorry we’re late,” Eddie calls out. “Johnny fell in.”
“I KNEW IT!” Ozzie whoops, pumping his fist in the air. “Called it! You piss sitting down, Flanagan? Like a chick?”
“Shut the fuck up!” Johnny growls, swinging his leg over his bike. “Big Ed’s lying. More like he was blowing up the toilet with that massive shit he took. Sounded like World War III in there.”
“Alright, enough,” I cut in before things devolve further. “Everybody ready to roll out? The transport truck should be coming through soon. Tom wants this clean and fast.”
Engines roar to life around me, drowning out the crickets and the doubt gnawing at my gut.
This is a bad idea. Hitting the Peñas directly by destroying their product—it’s an act of war. But Tom’s calling the shots now, and we follow orders. That’s what we do.
As vice president, it’s my job to keep the guys in line. To make sure they follow what Tom wants. Even if I don’t agree myself, which is the hardest pill to fucking swallow.
We rev up and roll out, sliding into formation like we’ve done a thousand times before. As vice, I take lead while Cash falls back to ride Tail Gunner, watching our six. Eddie and Johnny flank me, Ozzie riding between us and Cash.
The lights of Pulsboro fade behind us as we hit the open highway. Texas stretches out ahead, flat and endless under a moonless sky. Nothing but asphalt and darkness and the occasional semi-truck barreling past with headlights bright enough to burn your retinas.
The wind blows through my hair, silver strands whipping back. This is where I truly thrive—the moments when it’s just me, the bike, and the road.
No Tom, no club politics, no inappropriate feelings for girls I shouldn’t want. Just the rumble of the engine between my legs and thoughts that finally have room to breathe.
Riding clears my head like nothing else. Always has.
The afternoon I caught Rachel with Fred, I didn’t kill him right then. Though if I gave into the blinding rage consumingme, I would’ve. I found the strength to walk out calm as could be, got on my bike, and rode for four hours straight.
The road took care of my rage, the wind processing it ’til I could think clearly. I could make sense of it.
Then… then I followed the bastard home from his office the next day. I beat him so bad he needed reconstructive surgery on his left orbital bone. As far as I’m concerned, he got off lucky—he’s still alive because I let the road talk me down enough to leave him breathing.
We pull off into the speed trap cops love to use when they need to up their ticket quota for the month.
Hidden by a cluster of mesquite trees and tall grass, we wait in the darkness.
“Should be passing through any minute now,” Ozzie says, checking his phone.
Five minutes crawl by. Then ten at an even slower, more tedious pace. Finally headlights appear in the distance, belonging to a box truck that bumbles down the road at exactly the speed limit.
The El Coyote Cargo logo is painted on the side, just like our intel said. A Mexican American courier company the Peñas often use for their transports.
“That’s them,” I say. “Let’s move.”
We roar onto the highway behind the truck, engines thundering, high beams flashing. The universal signal to pull over. The truck keeps going, even speeding up.
“Stubborn bastards,” Ozzie mutters, then draws his pistol and puts a round through the left rear tire.
The truck immediately lurches, fishtailing before veering hard to the right. The driver overcorrects and slams into the steel barrier with a grinding screech of metal on metal. Sparks fly as the truck slides to a stop.
We’re on them as soon as it happens, weapons drawn, coming up both sides.
“Out of the truck! Hands where we can see them!”
The cab doors open slowly. Two Mexican men climb out with hands raised. They look like regular drivers—no cartel tats on their necks or forearms, and they’re not wearing any gang colors. Just working stiffs in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“On the ground!” Cash barks. “Face down, hands behind your head!”
They start to comply, dropping to their knees. Then the one on the left moves faster than we anticipate. His hand whips to his waistband and comes up with a Glock.
