“So either you scared your shrink off or you were really fucking with some poor guy who just wanted to sell you a Motorola?” Reaper says.
Mayhem nods. “It’s possible. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
That gets a snort from Reaper. Even Tank cracks half a grin. For a second, the tension eases.
Then my phone buzzes.
I glance down. Unknown number. Normally I’d ignore it, but something about the area code digs at memory. I swipe it open.
Heard you’re in Ironwood Falls. You still breathing, brother? — Colt
I stare at the name for a second. It’s been years since I’ve seen it. Since the Marines. Since everything went sideways overseas.
I text him back.Yeah, I’m alive. Barely. You?
The reply comes fast.
Passing through. Got a job nearby. Could use a favor. Meet me at The Logger’s Tap in an hour?
My gut tightens. Colt was one of the good ones — until the end, when good stopped being enough. The last time I saw him, he was walking away from a burning convoy and laughing like a man already half-dead.
Reaper’s watching me. “Something wrong?”
I pocket the phone. “Old Marine buddy. Says he’s in town.”
Tank frowns. “You gonna see him?”
“Yeah.” I finish the beer and stand, doing everything I can to keep my eyes away from Riley, who is doing her very best to do the same to me. I know that if I look too long at her, there’s not a damn thing anyone could do to get me away from this place. “Don’t wait up.”
The rain’s let up when I hit the road, but the air’s still heavy and damp. My Harley roars to life under me, the vibration rumbling up through my chest like a heartbeat I can actually trust. It’s a quick ride — out past the lumber mill, down the old highway that smells like pine and wet dirt, to a dive called The Logger’s Tap.
Colt’s already there, sitting at a corner table with a beer and that same crooked grin that used to drive our sergeant insane. His hair’s shorter, his eyes harder; there’s a fresh scar on his cheek, but it’s him.
“Conrad Breaker James,” he says, standing to clasp my shoulder. And hearing my real name after all these years feels strange. Almost like it belongs to someone else. “Thought you were buried somewhere in the desert.”
“Almost was.” I sit across from him. “What’re you doing here, Colt?”
He laughs. “Same thing I’ve always done, brother. Getting into trouble.”
I study him. “That’s not an answer.”
He leans back, all casual confidence and the weariness you only earn in the dark. “Need a hand with something. Figured if anyone knew how to handle it, it’d be you.”
I arch a brow. “Handle what?”
His smile fades.
“I’m in town hunting someone.”
My hand tightens on my beer. The first thought that hits me: Riley. Her smashed car window. Her terror.
“Who?”
Chapter Thirteen
Riley
The Noble Fir smells like spilled beer, fried onions, and motorcycle grease—the strange perfume of my new life. For once, I don't hate it.
