Torque pushed to his feet and walked out into the hallway, the low hum of generators and distant snoring of patched brothers filling the space. He moved through the clubhouse like a ghost, nodding to the overnight guard before heading into the main room.
The long table bore fresh coffee rings and half-empty bottles. Church last night had gone late—voices were raised, fists were slammed against that same table, and brothers stood dividedon how to handle what came next. Torque had shut down their arguments before they turned ugly, but he hadn’t missed the looks exchanged when they thought he wasn’t watching. Leadership wasn’t about being liked. It was about making the calls that no one else wanted to make.
He poured himself a cup of coffee and took a slow sip, his eyes scanning the room. His phone buzzed on the table, the vibration sharp and loud in the quiet room. Torque didn’t look at it right away—he didn’t need to. He already knew it wouldn’t be good news.
When he finally picked it up, the message from his Enforcer, Ghost, was short and brutal.
Ghost: We’ve got a problem
Torque exhaled through his nose, the weight settling in his chest like a familiar ache. He typed a single response.
Torque: Where?
The reply came almost instantly. That was one of the things he liked most about Ghost—the guy didn’t waste his time.
Ghost: Your past just showed up—and it’s not alone.
Torque closed his eyes for half a second. He set the phone down, grabbed his cut, and shrugged it on, the Iron Vipers patch heavy across his shoulders. Whatever was coming—old ghosts, new enemies, or the fallout from choices he’d already made—he’d face it the only way he knew how. Head on with no mercy and no fucking retreat. Because Torque wasn’t just fighting forterritory anymore. This time, he had a feeling that he was fighting for everything that mattered to him.
Torque letthe familiar burn of unfinished business play through his mind over and over. It was the kind that sat heavy in his chest and whispered you didn’t finish it every time he closed his eyes. He sped through town to the Iron Viper’s compound to meet with Ghost. If he had news, his Enforcer would want to meet him there.
Dawn had just broken, but he was wide awake already. Ghost’s message had taken care of clearing any brain fog that remained from his shitty night’s sleep. The Saints should’ve been dealt with by now. That had been the plan after they had taken out half of their men the night that they killed Salis. But the Saints hadn’t been wiped out—not completely, and they were becoming the thorn in the Iron Viper’s side.
He found Ghost standing outside the old shed—the same one that they killed Salis in just months earlier. If his hunch was correct, this had everything to do with the Saints’ Prez, and he was also pretty sure that he wasn’t going to like any of it.
He jumped off his bike, put his helmet on the back seat, and walked over to his Enforcer. Ghost’s grim expression told him everything he already knew to be true—he wasn’t going to like the news that he was about to give him.
“Okay, give it to me straight,” Torque ordered. “Who from my past has shown up, and how pissed am I going to be about it?” he asked.
“Pretty pissed,” Ghost admitted. “Salis isn’t dead. He was wounded, and well, I’m guessing that one of our guys either fucked up or betrayed us.” Either way, that wasn’t good for theIron Vipers. If they had a traitor in their midst, they’d have to weed him out, and if one of the guys just fucked up, they’d have to pay a price.
“And wounded enemies were the most dangerous kind,” Torque whispered more to himself than to Ghost.” He dragged a hand over his face, the scars on his knuckles pulling tight. The Saints’ Prez should’ve died that night. Torque had watched him bleed. He watched him crawl across the dirt floor in the shed, and he watched him swear vengeance with his last breath. But Salis hadn’t taken his last breath.
If Salis was still alive, why had it been so easy to dismantle the Saints? Had he been lying low, waiting for the right time to show his face again? The Saints’ colors had been burned. Their pipeline was cut. Their territory was stripped inch by inch. On paper, they were finished, but on the streets, they were regrouping.
“One of our guys was found on the south side, just on the edge of our territory, and he had Salis’s calling card attached to his cut,” Ghost said. Torque closed his eyes. That hit couldn’t have been random. It was clear to him that Salis wasn’t licking his wounds. He was sending a message, and Torque had received it loud and clear.
Torque nodded, “Where exactly?” he asked.
Ghost swallowed. “East of Viper territory, over by the old slaughterhouse.” Of course, it was there. The Saints loved theatrics—they always had.
Torque grabbed his helmet from the back of his bike and turned back to Ghost. “Wake church. I want my VP, Road Captain, and the rest of the guys ready in ten.”
“Yes, Prez,” Ghost said.
He jumped on his bike as his phone buzzed in his jeans. “Shit,” he grumbled, pulling it out. It was a message from a number that he didn’t recognize. There was no name, just apicture of a familiar cut—Iron Vipers—draped over a body that had been beaten beyond recognition. Blood soaked the concrete beneath him, smeared into a crude symbol Torque recognized instantly. The Saints’ mark.
Below it was a single line of text:
You should’ve finished it
Torque stared at the screen, as something cold and lethal settled in his chest. This wasn’t a warning. It was a declaration of war. Salis wasn’t hiding anymore. He was stepping back into the light and daring Torque to do something about it. And this time, Torque wouldn’t stop at winning the war. He’d end the Saints so completely there wouldn’t be a single patch left to remember they’d ever existed.
Because the Saints had crossed the one-line, Torque never forgave. They’d touched one of his brothers, and that meant there would be no mercy, no negotiations, and no fucking survivors.
ROWAN
Rowan had learnedto tell the difference between good quiet and bad quiet. This morning just felt like bad quiet. She felt as though she was waiting for a storm to blow in, and that made her nervous. The Iron Vipers’ clubhouse usually woke like it was a living thing—boots on concrete, engines coughing to life, brothers calling out half-insults and half-greetings. Even on tense days, there was chatter. She liked to think of it as proof that the world was still turning. But today, things were quiet.
