Tank moved. Fast, brutal, the enforcer training kicking in.
But the prospect was faster. He was through the door before Tank was halfway across the room, boots pounding on concrete, the crash of something overturning in the hallway. Shouts erupted behind me—Hawk bellowing orders, chairs scraping back, the chaos of the entire room realizing the enemy had been among them all along.
I was already running. The night air hit me as I burst through the clubhouse door, cold and sharp after the warmth of the church room. The compound was lit by security lights, harsh white circles against the darkness, and I could see the prospect sprinting toward the row of bikes, his head start giving him precious seconds.
"Stop him!" Someone shouting behind me—Axel, maybe, or Blade. "Don't let him reach the bikes!"
But it was too late. The prospect reached his motorcycle, threw his leg over the seat, and kicked the engine to life in one smooth motion. The bike roared, tearing toward the gate.
The gate that was already open. He'd left it that way. Before church, before any of this—he must have known his time was short the moment Sarah arrived at the compound. She knew too much, and it was only a matter of time before someone connected the dots. So he'd prepared. Left himself an escape route.
Gravel sprayed behind his bike as he shot through the gap, and then he was gone—a single taillight disappearing into the desert darkness.
The compound went silent. Hawk stood in the middle of the lot, chest heaving, his face a mask of fury that I'd never seen before. The other members clustered behind him—dozens of them, shock and rage and disbelief playing across their faces.
"Vince." Ghost's voice was quiet, hollow. "His name is Vince. He's been prospecting for four months."
Four months. Long enough to learn every secret. Long enough to betray everything. Hawk turned to face the assembled club, and when he spoke, his voice carried like thunder.
"Everyone on bikes. NOW." The words rang across the compound, sharp with command. "I want that traitorous piece of shit found and brought back alive. He has a two-minute head start. Fan out, cover every road, every trail. We ride in sixty seconds or we don't come back at all."
The compound exploded into motion. Men running for their bikes, engines roaring to life, the controlled chaos of a hunt beginning. Tank grabbed my arm, pulling me toward his Harley. "You with me?"
I pulled free. I Crossed to the replacement Sportster I'd been learning on—the bike they'd given me after the bomb destroyed my first one. The engine caught on the first try, the vibration familiar now, settling into my bones like it belonged there.
Tank raised an eyebrow, surprise flickering across his face.
"Separate bikes." I revved the engine, feeling something settle in my chest. Something that felt like freedom. "I'm done riding passenger."
The grin that spread across his face was savage and proud—the look of a man watching someone he cared about become exactly who they were meant to be.
"Then let's hunt."
14
THE CHASE
TANK
The desert swallowed us whole. Bikes scattered in every direction the moment we cleared the compound gates—pairs and trios of headlights fanning out across the network of roads that crisscrossed the Nevada scrubland. Hawk had assigned sectors, barking orders over the roar of engines, and now the night was alive with the sound of Harleys hunting.
Tyler rode beside me. Not behind me. Not on the back of my bike, arms wrapped around my waist like he'd been for weeks. He was on his own machine now, the replacement Sportster that had been gathering dust since the bomb destroyed his first one. The way he handled it—confident, controlled, leaning into turns with a fluidity that looked almostnatural—made something fierce and proud bloom in my chest. Three hours ago, I'd been inside him. Now we were hunting a traitor together.
The radio crackled with check-ins. Blade and Axel clearing the eastern roads. Ghost coordinating from the compound despite his frustration at being benched. Cruz and Diesel sweeping the highway approach. Nothing. No sign of Vince.
I twisted the throttle, pushing my Harley harder, and Tyler matched my speed without hesitation. We were taking the northern sector—rougher terrain, less traveled, the kind of back roads that a man running for his life might choose if he wanted to disappear.
"He's got at least a five-minute head start," Tyler's voice came through the comm unit. "If he hit the highway, he's gone."
"He won't hit the highway." I scanned the darkness ahead, watching for any flicker of taillight, any disturbance in the desert stillness. "Too exposed. Cross taught him to run—that means back roads, unpredictable routes, somewhere he can disappear."
"You think Cross gave him an extraction point?"
"I think Cross planned for every contingency. Including this one."
We rode in silence for another ten minutes, the desert scrolling past in shades of gray and black. The moon was half-full, providing just enough light to see the road but not much else. Anything could be hiding in the shadows beyond our headlights.
Tyler's Sportster drifted closer to mine, and I sawhim gesture—cutting the radio, switching to direct communication only. Smart. If Vince had a scanner, he'd been listening to everything we said.
