Then a fourth.
My mouth goes dry.
It’s fine,I murmur, more to myself than the empty car. Ava said Ghost would keep an eye out. Maybe this is him.
Except the colors on their leather cuts are wrong.
I’ve seen the photo Ava sent me, Viper in his vest, the Damned Saints patch clear as day. A skull with a halo. A symbol you didn’t forget once you’d seen it.
These men wear something else.
A snarling wolf over crossed guns.
Not Saints.
Cold adrenaline spills through me. I flick on my signal for the next exit when I spot a sign promising gas and food, not because I’m calm, but because I want lights. People.Witnesses.
The ramp drops me onto a narrow two-lane road flanked by pines, the kind of stretch where the trees lean in and swallow sound.
The bikes follow.
One slides ahead and eases off the throttle, forcing me to drop speed. Another drifts up beside my driver’s side, matching my pace so perfectly it feels practiced. I glance over despite myself.
Full-face helmet. Visor up. Dark eyes. A greasy goatee visible beneath the chin bar.
He grins and makes a rolling motion with his hand, a command without words.
My grip tightens. Ava’s warning echoes in my head, but this isn’t Ghost. This isn’t protection.
I keep my window up and stare straight ahead.
His gloved hand slaps the glass, loud in the tight space.
My stomach flips.
Forest on both sides. No cars. No driveways. No houses. Just trees and the thin strip of asphalt that suddenly feels like a trap.
The bike in front brakes again, sharper this time, and jabs a finger toward the shoulder like it’s an order.
I take the first widening of gravel and ease to a stop, tires crunching.
The bikes fan out around my car, four of them, hemming me in like they’ve done this before.
One dismounts and strolls up to my window like he’s knocking on a neighbor’s door for sugar.
This time his knuckles tap the glass, slow and almost polite.
“We just wanna talk,” he says, voice muffled but still audible.
Sure. And I’m the Queen of England.
I hit the lock again anyway, even though I’m pretty sure it’s already locked. My fingers shake so badly I miss the button the first time.
My thoughts trip over each other.
Phone. 911. Whisper. Keep it hidden.
My stepfather’s voice crawls up from old memory, oily and certain.
