I key the radio. "Prospect is rolling. Target is Main Street."
"Copy that," Logan’s voice crackles in the cab. "Let’s go protect our town."
The convoy rolls out of the compound, tires crunching on the gravel before hitting the asphalt of the mountain road. The descent is fast. I drive with one hand on the wheel and one hand on the gear shift, my eyes scanning the tree line, my brain processing tactical scenarios at a thousand miles an hour.
Beside me, Tiffany remains silent. I reach over, taking her hand in mine. Her fingers are cold, but she squeezes back with a strength that surprises me.
"He thinks he's winning," I say, keeping my eyes on the road as the switchbacks blur past. "He thinks because he has a hostage and a bomb, he has the power. But he made a mistake."
"What mistake?" she asks softly.
"He came to the mountain," I say darkly. "He thinks he's fighting a man. He doesn't know he's fighting a pack."
We hit the edge of town. The transition from the wild, rugged wilderness of Grizzly Peak to the civilized streets of Pine Valley usually feels like stepping into a different world. Today, the town feels like a battlefield.
The streets are eerily empty. The Sheriff has done his job; the perimeter was established two blocks back. But we don't stop at the police barricade. Logan doesn't even tap his brakes. The deputy manning the sawhorse barrier takes one look at the phalanx of bikers bearing down on him and scrambles to drag the wood out of the way.
We own this town. We protect this town. And nobody stops the Gunnars when they are on a warpath.
We turn onto Main Street. There it is. Sweet Pine Bakery.
The building gapes like a wound. Smoke drifts out of the door—not the black smoke of a raging inferno yet, but the gray, lazy smoke of a warning fire. My heart hammered against my ribs, a war drum calling for blood.
Ramon’s black Mercedes sedan is parked right out front, blocking the handicap ramp. Two men in dark suits stand bythe car, holding submachine guns openly. They aren't hiding anymore.
Logan raises a fist, and the column grinds to a halt fifty yards out. We form a blockade, the bikes and trucks spanning the width of the road. I put the truck in park but left the engine running.
"Stay here," I say to Tiffany. "Lock the doors."
"Blake—"
"Lock. The. Doors."
I don't wait for an answer. I bail out of the truck, the heavy thud of my boots hitting the pavement signaling the beginning of the end. The air on Main Street holds a silence, suspended in that breathless second before violence erupts. I walk to the front of the truck, standing shoulder to shoulder with Logan and Austin. Shane flanks us, his shotgun resting casually across his shoulder.
The two men by the sedan raise their weapons, nervous energy radiating off them. They are hired guns. Mercenaries. They do this for a paycheck. We do this for blood.
"Ramon!" I roar, my voice carrying down the empty street, bouncing off the brick facades of the library and the general store. "Come out and die like a man!"
Movement in the doorway of the bakery. Ramon steps out. He still holds that half-eaten muffin. He looks impeccable in his suit, not a hair out of place, contrasting sharply with the destruction behind him. He smiles, wiping crumbs from his lip.
"Mr. Gunnar," he calls out, his voice smooth, oily. "And the whole biker trash family. I'm touched."
He tosses the muffin into the gutter.
"I assume you brought my wife?" he asks. "Or do I need to light the fuse?"
I take a step forward, my hand hovering over the Glock. "The only thing you're leaving here with is a body bag."
Ramon chuckles. He pulls a small remote from his pocket. A detonator.
"Tut tut," he chides. "One step closer, and your little mountain town loses its best bakery. And possibly the hardware store. That old man inside seemed very stubborn about leaving."
My vision blurs at the edges. He has Frank.
"Where is she?" Ramon demands, his smile dropping. "Bring her out. I want to see her crawl to me."
The truck door vibrates as it opens behind me. My lungs freeze. "No," I whisper.
