But there was no heat in my voice, and Ghost knew it. He just grinned, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. None of us were really joking tonight. The humor was armor, thin and brittle, barely holding back the fear underneath.
"Watch your six out there." Irish's voice had gone serious. "Both of you. I don't want to be learning new names because you got careless."
"We'll be careful."
"Careful gets you killed. Be smart. Be fast. And come the fuck home."
I looked at him—at both of them, these men who'd become my brothers in every way that mattered. Irish, who'd nearly bled out on a desert road a week ago and was already chomping at the bit to get back in the fight. Ghost, barely out of his prospect year, young and eager and too brave for his own good.
"Hold the compound," I told them. "That's your job. Anyone comes through those gates that isn't us, you put them in the ground."
"With pleasure." Irish's smile was sharp, dangerous. "Now go. Eat something. Or don't. Just stop standing there looking like you're already at your own funeral."
I pushed off the railing, but before I could head inside, a hand caught my shoulder.
Blade. He looked different in the fading light—the hard angles of his face softened slightly, the permanent scowl eased into something almosthuman. We'd never been close, Blade and I. He ran with the officers, I worked the jobs, and our paths crossed mainly in church or on runs. But he'd been patched longer than almost anyone except Hawk, and that earned its own kind of respect.
"Walk with me."
It wasn't a request. I fell into step beside him as he headed toward the row of vans being prepped for tomorrow. The armored panels glinted dully in the sunset, patchwork shields against whatever Cross had waiting.
"You and the fed." Blade's voice was low, pitched for my ears only. "It's real? Not just blowing off steam?"
"It's real."
He nodded slowly, processing that. "Cross is going to use it. You know that. He'll try to get to you through him, or him through you. He'll find the crack and drive a wedge into it."
"Let him try."
"I'm serious, Tank." Blade stopped, turned to face me. Up close, I could see the lines around his eyes, the gray threading through his beard. He'd seen more fights than I could count, lost brothers, buried friends. He knew exactly what we were walking into. "Whatever happens tomorrow, whatever Cross throws at us—don't let him get in your head. Don't let Tyler become a weakness."
"He's not a weakness."
"No." Blade's expression shifted—something almost like approval flickering through. "He's not. I've seen him fight. Seen him ride. Seen the way theclub's taken to him." He paused. "But Cross sees it differently. Cross sees a lever he can pull. Don't give him the satisfaction."
I held his gaze, let him see the steel underneath my words. "I won't."
"Good." He clapped a hand on my shoulder, the gesture surprisingly warm. "Watch your six in that drain. It's tight quarters down there. Things go wrong, they go wrong fast."
"Watch yours out front. You're the ones who'll be taking fire."
"That's the idea." His smile was grim. "We make a lot of noise, draw a lot of attention. Give you and your team time to get in position. When Hawk gives the signal..." He trailed off, shook his head. "Just be ready. Once it starts, there's no stopping it."
"We'll be ready."
Blade looked at me for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then he nodded once, turned, and walked back toward the vans. I watched him go—watched him bark orders at the prospects, check the armor plates with his own hands, move with the easy authority of a man who'd been doing this his whole life.
We weren't friends. But tomorrow we'd be brothers in the truest sense. Bleeding for the same cause. Fighting for the same home.
The garage was dark when I pushed through the door, lit only by the work lights I'd strung up months ago. The smell hit me first—motor oil and metal, grease and old leather. The smells of my childhood, of Danny teaching me to change a tire when I was barely tall enough to reach the lug nuts, of late nights wrenching on bikes that should have been scrapped years ago.
The Shovelhead sat in the center of the space, chrome gleaming dully, the cherry red paint I'd finally applied catching the light like fresh blood.
Danny's bike. Danny's dream. The project that had kept me sane through six years of grief, and that I'd nearly abandoned more times than I could count.
I grabbed a wrench and started checking bolts I'd already checked twice. The repetitive motion was soothing—turn, test, move on. Turn, test, move on. My hands knew what to do even when my mind was elsewhere, finding the familiar rhythm that had carried me through countless sleepless nights.
And my mind was definitely elsewhere. Tomorrow we'd roll out before dawn, hit the warehouse while Cross thought we were still planning. Blade would take the front with the vans, draw fire, give them something to shoot at. Hawk would be on the ridge, watching through a scope, putting down anyone who got too close. And Tyler, Axel, and I would crawl through a drainage pipe that might lead nowhere, gambling everything on a hunch and a hand-drawn map.
