I keep my face neutral. “Route?”
“Through your territory,” he says. “In pieces. Quiet. No big convoys.”
“Who’s buying?” I ask.
Wrath’s eyes sharpen. “You asking like a treasurer or like a cop?”
I smile without warmth. “Like a man who doesn’t want heat on his books. And I’m asking as a Hellion who has boundaries and don’t work with or for just anyone.”
Wrath nods once, approving. “Buyer’s solid. Payment’s clean. We use you because your roads are tight and your men aren’t sloppy. Tripp’s been given the information on the buyer to approve the transport. I wanted you because you get in and get out with my money without a trace.”
That’s almost a compliment.
“Terms?” I ask.
He lays it out—numbers, timing, drop points. It’s all business. It’s all risk. I do the math in my head, weighing profit against trouble, deciding what I’ll take back to Country Boy and the table since he’s wanting our club specifically. Most private transports like this go through Tripp or Rex, the Catawba Hellions President, and they get whatever charter Tripp decides is on rotation. Obviously, we made an impression on Wrath with the previous shipments for him to request me personally.
When we’re done, Wrath leans back in his chair. “Saint’s Outlaws have nothing but respect for the Hellions,” he shares. “This can be good for both of us.”
“Depends on the money,” I answer.
Wrath grins. “Always does.”
We shake again. He leaves first, slipping out the side door like he was never there. I wait a minute, then follow. Different exits. Different directions. Old habits.
Outside, the air’s cooler, the sky bruised with evening. My bike sits where I left it, gleaming under the parking lot light.
I take three steps toward it. That’s when the world tilts. Something feels off. A shadow moves fast to my left, too fast.
Pain slams into my side, sharp and immediate, and for a second my brain refuses to label it. Like if I don’t name it, it won’t be real. The searing burn hits instantly. Then I feel the warmth. The liquid pooling in my hand.
Blood.
I twist, hand going back instinctively, but another hit comes, harder, driving the blade deeper.
“Son of a—” My breath cuts off as someone grabs my cut and yanks me back.
There are more of them. I register patches, different colors, wrong insignia. A different motorcycle club, not Saint’s Outlaws, not Hellions. My vision blurs, but I focus on the men moving trying to take in their cut details. The reaper insignia. The Nameless Ones MC.
They didn’t want Wrath.
They wanted the Hellion who came alone.
A fist connects with my mouth. Stars burst behind my eyes. I spit blood and swing anyway, knuckles cracking against someone’s cheek. He staggers. Another one laughs.
“Look at him,” a voice says. “Thought he could walk in here like he owned the place.”
I try to reach my gun. My hand comes up slick and empty because I can’t get a grip. Something heavy smashes into the back of my head. The sound is like a bat hitting meat.
Light explodes. My knees buckle. I hit the ground, gravel cutting into my cheek. My vision swims, edges going dark.
Boots circle me.
I hear them talking, voices muffled like I’m underwater.
“Should we finish it?” someone asks.
A pause. Then the voice I’ll remember forever, casual as an order at the diner. “Leave him here,” he states. “Let him bleed out.”
