Damon's at the head of the main table, Phantom beside him.
Both Prezs united in purpose, their usual territorial bullshit set aside completely.
This is bigger than club politics.
This is about Grace.
I move to the table, and brothers make space for me without a word.
They know. They understand.
She's my wife.
"Highway 95 West," Damon says, pointing at the map with one tattooed finger. "That's the most direct route out of Vegas toward California. Could be heading to LA. Could be a safe house in the desert between here and there. Could be anywhere along that corridor."
"We need eyes," Thunder says, his arms crossed, face grim. "Someone who saw them. Gas station attendant. Cop. Someone."
Rogue's already on his laptop at a side table, fingers flying across the keyboard. "I'm pulling traffic cam footage now. Hacked into the Vegas Metro system. Give me five minutes and I'll have every camera along 95."
Shiver's on his phone, pacing. "Calling every allied club between here and the California border. Barstow, Victorville, San Bernardino. Someone must've seen ten bikes rolling through with a woman."
Blaze is coordinating with Shotgun Saints contacts back in Texas and in California, his voice low and urgent.
Everyone working. Everyone searching. Everyone ready to ride the second we have a direction.
And I'm standing here, useless, watching, and I want to scream.
I want to put my fist through a wall.
I want to be doing something, anything, other than staring at maps while Grace is out there with Flint.
Scared. Hurt. Alone.
My wife. My Grace. The woman who chose me over everything. Who marked herself permanently with my name. Who trusted me to keep her safe.
And I failed.
"Got something," Rogue says suddenly, his voice cutting through the noise. "Traffic cam on 95, timestamp 9:23 PM. Ten bikes, Copperhead Kings cuts clearly visible on three of them. Heading west at high speed toward the California state line."
"How fast?" Phantom asks, leaning over to look at the laptop screen.
"Eighty, maybe ninety miles per hour. They're not being subtle. Looks like she’s strapped to one of them too."
I go around and take a peek at his laptop. They have her fucking ratchet strapped to one of the members.
"How far to the California border from that camera's location?" I ask, my mind already calculating.
"Forty-five minutes at that speed. They'd be across the state line by now."
Damon's phone rings. He answers, listens for thirty seconds, his expression darkening with each word. "Understood. We're on our way. Twenty minutes."
He hangs up, looks around the table at all of us. "That was Ghost. Prez of a friend’s chapter in Barstow, California. Says a group of Copperhead Kings rolled through town about forty-five minutes ago. Stopped for gas at the truck stop on the eastside. One of his brothers was there, saw them. Said there was a woman on the back of one of the bikes. Unconscious. Slumped forward."
Grace.
My vision tunnels. The room goes quiet except for the rushing in my ears.
"Where were they headed?" My voice is barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the silence like a knife.
