Who's carried that guilt for years.
Who just got his daughter back only to have her taken again.
And I understand what he needs.
But I need it more.
"With respect, Prez—he's mine." My voice is just as quiet, just as deadly. "He threatened to cage my wife. Called her on the phone to terrorize her. Took her from safety while I was stupid enough to leave her there. That's my kill. Mine."
Phantom's jaw tightens, his hands clenching into fists. "She's my daughter."
"She's mywife." My voice is absolute. Steel wrapped in ice. "And I'm going to make him suffer foreverysecond she's been scared. For every second she's been in his hands. For every thought he had about putting her in that cage. For every time he looked at her and saw property instead of a person."
We stare at each other.
Two men who love the same woman.
Two men who want the same man dead.
Two men who have both failed to protect her and need to make it right.
The tension stretches between us, taut and dangerous.
Then Phantom's expression shifts. Not softer, but accepting. Understanding.
"Then we kill him together," he says.
He extends his hand.
I take it.
Shake once. Firm. United.
For Grace.
The drive to Barstow is two and a half hours of pure hell.
I'm pushing the truck as fast as it'll go, the engine whining in protest, the speedometer buried past anything reasonable.
Banshee's beside me, one hand braced on the dashboard, the other gripping the handle above the door.
But he doesn't complain. Doesn't tell me to slow down.
Behind us, a convoy of bikes—twenty-five brothers riding in formation.
Headlights cutting through the darkness.
The sound of that many Harleys is like thunder, like a promise of bloodshed.
The desert flies by outside the windows, dark and empty and endless.
Nothing but highway and stars and sagebrush and the knowledge that Grace is somewhere out here.
Somewhere ahead of us.
Hurt. Scared. Caged.
Waiting for me to find her.
