She takes my hand. "More than ready."
We say goodbye to the Reapers Rejects brothers in the compound parking lot.
The morning sun is already heating up the desert, promising another scorching day.
Pope shakes my hand, then pulls me into a brief hug—that MC brotherhood grip. "You need anything, you call."
"We're not done yet," I say. "Venom's still out there."
"Then finish it." Pope's expression is serious. "And if you need backup, we're a phone call away."
"Appreciate it, brother."
Pope turns to Grace, his expression softening. "You take care of yourself. And if this one—" he jerks his thumb at me "—gives you any trouble, you let me know."
Grace actually smiles. "I will."
We load up—Grace and me in my truck, Banshee sliding into the driver's seat because I want to be able to sit with Grace in the back seat, touch her, confirm she's real for the next however many hours.
Charlie's riding shotgun, still wearing that damn cone, but her tail starts wagging the second she sees Grace.
"Hi, baby girl," Grace murmurs, reaching back to pet her. "We're going home."
Charlie whines happily, settling down with her head on the console next to the driver’s seat.
Phantom and the other Shotgun Saints brothers mount their bikes.
Damon, Dixon, Shiver, and a handful of Reapers Rejects brothers are coming with us in case we need it.
The convoy forms, and we pull out of the compound.
Heading home.
To Texas.
The first hour passes in relative silence.
Banshee's driving, hands steady on the wheel, eyes on the road.
Grace has her hand in mine, her head resting against my shoulder.
Charlie's snoring softly in the front seat.
The desert flies by outside the windows.
Nevada giving way to Arizona, endless stretches of sand and scrub brush and sky.
"You know," Banshee finally says, breaking the silence, "when I signed up to be Shadow's wingman, I didn't realize it included cross-country road trips and shootouts with rival MCs."
Grace laughs harder than I’ve heard her in days.
The sound makes my chest tight.
"You complaining?" I ask.
"Nah. Just saying—my job description was vague." Banshee grins in the rearview mirror. "Road Captain duties: organize runs, manage routes, occasionally rescue my brother’s wife from cages. You know, the usual shit."
"You weren't officially Road Captain when we left," I point out.
