"Anything. Tell me about that Ironhead you've been rebuilding. The one in the back bay."
"The '72?" Ghost's face flickered with something that wasn't pain. "She's—she's got this crack in the primary case, man. I've been trying to weld it but the metal's so thin, and the carb's shot too, but I found this guy online who's got the original Bendix, and I?—"
He kept talking. I kept listening. The blood kept flowing, but slower now, the tourniquet doing its work.
Tyler appeared at my side, his hands already reaching for the wound.
"I've got field training. Let me see."
I shifted to give him access. He examined the injury with quick, sure movements—checking the tourniquet tension, probing the wound's edges with fingers that didn't flinch at the gore.
"You're lucky." Tyler's voice was calm, clinical. "Missed the femoral by about an inch. Tore up some muscle, maybe nicked the lesser saphenous, but nothing that won't heal. You're going to have a hell of a scar, but you'll walk."
Ghost laughed again—stronger this time, relief mixing with lingering fear. "Chicks dig scars, right?"
"So I hear."
The SUV arrived four minutes later—two of Rosa's infirmary workers, young guys she'd trained to handle field extractions. Rosa herself was too valuable to risk outside the compound walls; Hawk'sstanding orders. They moved with the efficiency of people who'd drilled this scenario a dozen times, loading Ghost onto a stretcher with quick, sure hands.
"Irish, ride with him," I ordered. "Keep pressure on the wound, keep him talking. Rosa will handle the rest once you're back."
Irish climbed into the back without argument, his hand finding Ghost's shoulder, already starting to talk about nothing—bikes, beer, anything to keep the kid's mind off the blood soaking through his jeans. The SUV disappeared down the mountain, taillights swallowed by the darkness, and we turned our attention to the van.
The cargo was pharmaceuticals.
Cases of them, packed in foam, labeled with batch numbers and lot codes that meant nothing to me but clearly meant something to Tyler. He crouched in the wreckage of the van, pulling containers into the moonlight, his expression growing darker with each one he examined.
"OxyContin." He held up a bottle. The label was crisp, official, the kind of packaging you'd see in a pharmacy. "Fentanyl patches. Hydrocodone. All Schedule II." He checked another case, then another, lining them up on the asphalt like evidence at a crime scene. "These batch numbers—they're federalseizure codes. This product was supposed to be destroyed."
"Supposed to be?" Hawk crouched beside him.
"When the DEA confiscates controlled substances, they're supposed to be incinerated under supervision. Logged, witnessed, documented. Chain of custody from seizure to destruction, every step recorded." Tyler set the bottle down, his jaw tight. "Someone's been pulling product before destruction and recycling it back into circulation. Millions of dollars worth. Maybe tens of millions."
"The Wolves are drug runners." Blade's voice was flat. "That's not news."
"This isn't street-level distribution." Tyler stood, gesturing at the cases. "This is institutional. Federal seizures, redirected through official channels before they reach the incinerator. You'd need people inside the DEA, or working with them. People with clearance, access, the ability to falsify destruction records." He picked up another bottle, turned it in the moonlight. "These pills should have been ash six months ago. Instead, they're on their way to dealers who'll cut them with God knows what and sell them to addicts who won't know what they're putting in their bodies."
"The same people backing Cross."
"Yeah." Tyler's voice was flat. "The same people backing Cross. This is why they need the Wolves. This is why they're willing to back an MC with federal resources. They're not expanding territory—they're building infrastructure. Distribution networks, protection routes, a whole shadow supplychain operating under the cover of legitimate law enforcement."
The scope of it hit me then. This wasn't just Cross hunting Tyler. This wasn't just a turf war. This was something bigger, something that reached into the institutions that were supposed to protect people.
And Phoenix had just stolen a piece of it.
We loaded what we could carry into our saddlebags and the storage compartments of our bikes. The pharmaceuticals were worth a fortune on the street, but that wasn't why we took them—they were evidence, proof of what the Wolves were moving, what the network was doing. The rest we photographed, documented, and left for the authorities to find—along with the wounded Wolves, zip-tied and disarmed. An anonymous tip to the highway patrol would bring them running within the hour.
Evidence. Witnesses. The beginning of something larger.
Hawk surveyed the scene one last time—the overturned van, the scattered cargo, the groaning men who'd thought they were untouchable an hour ago. "We got what we came for. Let's move."
The clubhouse was quiet when we returned.
Most of the club was still out—Axel in the medical bay with Ghost while Rosa worked on his leg, Irish getting his arm stitched, Hawk and Bladedebriefing with our contacts about what we'd found. The main building was dark except for the security lights, the lot empty except for our bikes and the prospect on gate duty who nodded as we passed.
I parked near the garage and killed my engine. The silence after hours of riding felt thick, heavy, pressing against my ears like a physical weight. My body was starting to register the aftermath—sore muscles, bruised ribs where I'd hit the tank during a hard maneuver, the dull ache of exhaustion settling into my bones.
Tyler pulled in beside me.
