But sloppy could still kill you.
"What do you see?" Tyler's voice was steady, but I could hear the tension beneath it. He'd moved closer, peering over my shoulder, and I felt the warmth of his body at my back.
"Fuel line's been cut." I leaned closer, my eyes following the line of the frame, and that's when I saw the second thing—a shape that didn't belong, tucked up against the engine block where it would be invisible unless you were underneath the bike or knew exactly where to look.
The world narrowed to a single point of focus.
The device was small, maybe the size of a paperback book, wrapped in black electrical tape that made it almost invisible against the dark metal of the frame. Wires ran from it in three directions—to the fuel line, to the ignition system, to something I couldn't see beneath the engine block. The tape was applied hastily, bubbles of air trapped beneath it, the edges already starting to peel in the morning warmth.
Not professional work. Cross was good at strategy, good at intimidation, good at the psychological warfare he'd been waging since he arrived. But he wasn't a mechanic. He didn't understand bikes the way someone who'd spent their life around them would.
That sloppiness was the only reason Tyler wasn't already dead.
"Tyler." My voice came out calm. Distant. Like it belonged to someone else, someone who wasn't staring at a bomb wired to explode the moment Tyler started the engine. "Walk away from the bike. Don't run. Just walk. Get to the clubhouse and tell Hawk we need the lot cleared. Now."
"Is that what I think it is?"
"Go. Now."
He didn't argue. I heard his footsteps moving away, measured and controlled despite the fear that had to be flooding his system, and I stayed where I was, crouched beside the Sportster, my mind racing through possibilities.
The wiring was amateur, which meant the trigger might be unstable. Motion sensor? Timer? Ignition-based seemed most likely—the wires running to the starter circuit suggested it was designed to detonate when someone turned the key. But there could be secondary triggers, failsafes, redundancies built in by someone paranoid enough to want insurance.
I should move. Should retreat to a safe distance and let the professionals handle it. But I couldn't stop staring at the device, at the wires, at the crude mechanism that had been designed to turn Tyler into a fireball the moment he started the engine.
Cross had walked into our garage three days ago. Smiled at Irish. Left his business card. And sometime between then and now, he or one of his people had crept onto our lot in the darkness and turned Tyler's bike into a death trap.
I heard footsteps behind me—multiple sets, moving fast. Hawk's voice cut through the morning air, sharp with command.
"Everyone back. Clear the lot. Ghost, get the prospects away from the gate. Irish, call the disposal guy—tell him it's urgent."
"Tank." Axel's voice, closer. "Come on, brother. Step away."
I should have moved. Should have retreated to a safe distance and let the club handle it. Butsomething kept me rooted—the need to understand, to identify every component, to know exactly how close Tyler had come to dying.
"Tank." Tyler's voice. Close—too close. I turned and found him standing five feet away, his face pale but set with determination.
"I told you to go to the clubhouse."
"I did. Hawk's clearing the lot. But I'm not leaving you crouched next to a bomb like some kind of?—"
"Tyler, get back?—"
A sound. High-pitched, electronic. Coming from the device.
Time stretched. Expanded. I saw everything with perfect clarity—the thin trail of fuel glistening on the asphalt, the shape of the bomb against the dark frame, the fear in Tyler's eyes as he realized what the sound meant.
Timer. The device had a timer. Cross's insurance policy. If Tyler didn't blow himself up by starting the bike, the bomb would do the job on its own.
I moved.
My legs uncoiled, every ounce of strength I had driving me forward, across the five feet that separated us. I hit Tyler at full speed, my arms wrapping around his body, my momentum carrying us both off our feet as the world behind us turned to light and heat and thunder.
The shockwave hit us mid-air.
It felt like being struck by a giant hand—an invisible wall of pressure that lifted us higher, sent us tumbling, stole the air from our lungs and replaced it with fire. We hit the ground hard, rolling, asphalt tearing at my jacket and jeans, my shoulder screaming as it took the impact, Tyler's weight solid and real against my chest.
I kept rolling, kept moving, kept my body between him and the blast. Heat washed over my back, intense enough to feel through the leather, and something struck my shoulder blade—sharp, hot, a piece of the Sportster that had been whole seconds ago and was now shrapnel seeking flesh.
