My vision goes dark at the edges.
Then nothing.
The last thing I hear before I lose consciousness is Siren screaming my name.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Shadow
It's 9:15 PM, and the Copperhead Kings still haven't shown.
I'm sitting in the truck, engine idling, hands gripping the steering wheel tight enough that my knuckles are white.
Banshee's in the passenger seat, checking his phone, checking his gun, doing everything except saying what we're both thinking.
This doesn't feel right.
Through the windshield, I can see the abandoned lot stretched out in front of us.
Industrial wasteland—rusted equipment, broken concrete, weeds growing through the cracks.
The kind of place nobody comes to unless they're looking for trouble.
Perfect for a meet.
Perfect for an ambush.
Phantom's bike is parked twenty feet ahead, Damon beside him.
The rest of the brothers are spread out in a semicircle—twenty-three armed men on motorcycles, waiting.
Thunder and Blaze are on the left flank.
Dixon and some Reapers brothers are on the right.
Shiver and Rogue are watching our backs.
An army.
And we're waiting for an enemy that isn't coming.
"They're late," Banshee says, breaking the silence.
"Yeah."
"How late?"
I check my phone. "Fifteen minutes."
Banshee shifts in his seat, and I hear the leather of his cut creak. "Could be tactical. Make us wait. Make us nervous. Get us on edge."
"Or it's a trap."
"That too."
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Text from Grace, sent twenty minutes ago, right after we left the compound.
