And this one?
This one I'll take to my grave.
CHAPTER ONE
Shadow
Present Day…
The main house smells like mesquite smoke and Phantom's famous barbecue sauce.
I park my bike next to the row of Harleys already lined up in front of the wraparound porch—Banshee's custom Road King with the death's head painted on the tank, Spur's blacked-out Dyna still warm from whatever run he just finished, Rogue's sleek Street Glide that cost more than most cars.
The late afternoon sun glints off chrome and steel, and the sound of engines cooling fills the air with that particular tick-tick-tick that every biker knows.
Sunday dinner at Sharp Shooter Ranch.
A tradition older than half the members patched into the Shotgun Saints.
Family time, Phantom calls it.
No club business. No talk of runs or shipments or the legitimate fronts we use to wash money.
Just food, beers, brotherhood, and pretending we're something other than what we are.
Outlaws playing at being cowboys.
Though in our case, we're both.
The ranch came first—Phantom's family legacy, a hundred thousand acres of Texas scrubland and cattle that's been in his bloodline for generations.
The club came later, built on the bones of his grandfather's MC and the kind of business you don't discuss at Sunday dinner.
We're as comfortable on horseback as we are on bikes.
Rope cattle in the morning, run guns at night.
Wear Stetsons and spurs right alongside our cuts and patches.
It's what makes the Shotgun Saints different from every other MC in Texas.
It's also what makes us the most dangerous.
I swing off my bike, boots hitting gravel, and spot Phantom on the porch.
He's manning the massive grill—a custom-built smoker that could feed a small army.
Smoke billows up from the mesquite chips, and the smell of brisket makes my stomach growl despite the knot sitting heavy in my gut.
He's got his apron on over his jeans, a beer sweating in one hand, tongs in the other.
No cut—he never wears it at family dinners.
It makes him look almost normal.
Almost.
"Shadow." Phantom nods without looking up from the meat. "You're late."
