Rowen
The flight from Albin, Wyoming, to Cape Hatteras, North Carolina, stretched on with a relentless drone, punctuated by the occasional rattle of turbulence and the low hum of emotionally charged conversations. Harsh fluorescent lights cast a sterile glow over the cramped cabin, highlighting the exhaustion etched on every face. The stale, recycled air clung to my skin, mingling with the scent of spilled coffee and the faint tang of jet fuel.
Danika scowled from her seat, arms folded tightly as she glared out the window at the endless night sky. Dante, seated beside her, was tense—his knee bouncing, fingers drumming absently against the armrest. Years ago, I’d taught Dante how to tie his shoes, how to ride a bike, how to face down a bully. Now, he’d grown into a man whose loyalty was equal parts fierce and reckless. Our history was written in shared scars and late-night confessions, and tonight, the old bond felt stretched thin by fatigue.
Across the aisle, Melissa and Roxy exchanged heated glances at Sinclair, their voices rising above the muted whir of the engines as they debated the man’s sincerity. Sinclair himself remained a tightly wound coil, his suit pristine despite the chaos. Only Ghost seemed impervious to it all, sprawled in his seat, snoring softly beneath the rumble of flight.
When the plane finally shuddered to a halt and the engines wound down to silence, I felt the tension break like a snapped wire as Sinclair rose, smoothing his lapels with calculated precision. His voice, crisp and formal, sliced through thelingering exhaustion: “As always, it has been a—” He paused, lips thinning. “—pleasure. If you would be so kind, please follow me. Transportation has been arranged for your immediate departure.”
Sinclair didn’t break stride as he strode off the plane and straight toward the cars waiting for us. In all the years I’d known him, I’d never seen cracks in his composure—until now, when frazzled nerves bled through his polished exterior.
Carrying his daughter in his arms, Dante leaned in close, his voice pitched low and casual, colored by years of shared secrets. “Dude, he’s really pissed. Way worse than when I trashed that hideous lamp on his desk.”
“That lamp was a gift from someone he actually respected,” I replied, shaking my head.
“Seriously? Sinclair had a friend?” Dante smirked, his disbelief laced with genuine curiosity.
I fixed Dante with a look—equal parts exasperation and affection, remembering the boy he once was and the man he’d become. “Just grab your shit and get moving before I make you walk the rest of the way.”
Standing near the stairwell, I stayed quiet, listening as Roxy and Melissa grumbled under their breaths as they trailed behind Dante, each step sending a faint echo through the dimly lit corridor. Ghost shuffled after them with a lazy grin, his boot heels shuffling against the carpet of the plane. The air hung heavy with a mix of fatigue and anticipation, tension lingering from the flight. “Gotta say, man, I thought he was toast up there. Once Mellie gets rolling, she’s like a hurricane—unstoppable,” Ghost drawled, his voice warm with amusement.
“Sinclair’s good at diplomacy,” I replied stiffly. “He could negotiate peace with a brick wall if he had to.”
Ghost let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Yeah, but he’s never squared off with Melissa. My woman’s pure thunder—she’ll talk you in circles and leave you dizzy.” He clapped me on the back, making the gesture easy, almost familiar. “Appreciate the lift, man.”
After double-checking the plane to ensure no items were left, I disembarked, closing the door behind me. Outside, night pressed in thick and humid, wrapping the tarmac in a silvery haze. A lone black sedan waited, gleaming under the harsh overhead lights, windows tinted so dark they seemed to swallow the glow whole. Slipping into the passenger seat, I wasn’t shocked to see Silas behind the wheel.
The low hum of the car’s engine vibrated through my bones, underscoring the uneasy silence as I let my head fall back, eyes tracing the faint pattern of condensation on the window. My nerves felt raw, frayed in ways that no amount of exhaustion could explain. “Why the hell are you here?” I muttered, the question scraping out between clenched teeth. The air was thick, dense with the scent of gasoline and old leather, making it hard to breathe. “Thought you’d be off chasing thatnightmareyou’re always talking about.” The word hung between us, weighted by memory and frustration.
Silas pressed his lips into a grim line, hands flexing on the wheel as he shifted the car into drive. His voice grated out, low and dangerous, “Trust me. When I find her, I’m chaining her ass to my side. But, like you, I didn’t have a choice. Sinclair called me in.” His words crashed against me like cold water, and I felt the old anxiety coil tighter in my gut.
“Why?” The single word escaped me, sharper than intended, but I couldn’t help it. Sinclair had always treated me like a pawn, but this time felt different—more dangerous, somehow. The chill that shot through me was as much instinct as memory.
Silas kept his eyes fixed on the road, knuckles pale against the steering wheel. “He found his son. As soon as these guests are dropped off, Sinclair wants me to fly him back to Nebraska todeal with King before the whole biker world explodes. Then I’m supposed to fly to Chicago. There’s... been a development.” His voice faltered on the last word, and something icy slid down my spine.
“Do I want to know?” I asked, voice hoarse. The interior of the car felt smaller, the night pressing in from every side, headlights painting fleeting ghosts on the slick pavement.
“No,” Silas said, cutting me a sideways glance. His jaw was clenched, the tension in his voice nearly palpable. “Rowen, you know me. I don’t sugarcoat. So I’ll say it straight.”
I closed my eyes, bracing for impact. “Let me guess, Sinclair’s playing games with my life again?” My bitterness echoed in the confined space, mixing with the metallic tang of fear at the back of my throat.
“Yes.” Silas didn’t hesitate, tone softened barely, but his warning cut deep. “I don’t know what Sinclair’s planning, but I’d watch your back. We’ve never known him to help anyone unless there’s something in it for him. I’d bet one of those passengers has something to do with you. Figure out who it is fast—if you have any chance at keeping ahead when Sinclair decides it’s time to show his hand.”
Silence settled thick as velvet. I stared out at the night, lights blurring past, my thoughts swirling in a storm of regret and uncertainty. Sinclair had manipulated me for years, but now every instinct screamed that the stakes were rising, that whatever waited ahead was far more than another deal. The faces on the plane flashed through my mind—Dr. Roxanne Franks’ guarded glare, Dr. Melissa Jefferson’s stubborn set to her jaw, Ghost’s association to the Silver Shadows. Who were they to Sinclair? Why did they matter so much? I felt the world I thought I knew shift beneath me, cold and unfamiliar, as Silas sped off into the night.
The ocean blurred by as Silas kept his foot heavy on the gas, headlights slicing through the fog and dark patches of road. I tried to steady my breathing, searching for any clue hidden in the fragments of conversation, but every answer felt just out of reach. Determined not to let Sinclair pull the strings unchecked, I resolved to watch the others closely—every gesture, every slip of the tongue might be the crack that revealed his real plan.
Silas’ warning echoed in my mind as I emerged from the shower, droplets of water still clinging to my skin. Bracing myself against the cool edge of the bathroom counter, I stared at my reflection, searching for answers in the foggy surface. The question of Sinclair’s motive gnawed at me, twisting my thoughts into uneasy knots. I barely knew the people in this tangled web—apart from Dante and Danika, the rest were strangers, their histories and intentions a mystery. But Dante, ever eager to share, had filled in the blanks about Sinclair’s current guests, giving names and faces to the uncertainty swirling in my head.
Ghost, whose real name was Travis Foley, now rode with the Silver Shadows Motorcycle Club. I could recall glimpsing him at the clubhouse once, the night Sinclair and I came to collect Dante and bring him back to New York City. Then there was Dr. Roxanne Franks—Roxy—once presumed dead, but revealed to be Sypher’s mother and Dante’s mother-in-law. The fiery woman in the group was Dr. Melissa Jefferson, who belonged to Travis ‘Ghost’ Foley and sister to Michael ‘Gunner’ Jefferson, another member of the club.
It was, by any measure, a peculiar mix of people. The more I learned, the more I realized just how tangled Sinclair’s game had become.
The weight of suspicion pressed against my chest, each breath tight with anticipation. I remembered that Sinclair’s games rarely played out on a single board—there were always hidden motives, unseen alliances lurking just beyond my grasp. Even as I dried off, the walls seemed to shift closer, dense with secrets. Trust was a luxury I couldn’t afford, not with Sinclair, not with anyone, and certainly not with the strangers I barely knew anything about.
The truth was, my past was a blank—no real answers about where I came from or whether my birth parents ever gave a damn about me. I doubted they did. The Trick Pony was all I ever knew, a place that chewed up kids like me and spat us out bruised and broken.
Jane Craven and Devlin Scott ran the show there, using orphaned kids like me until we couldn’t remember what it meant to feel safe. I wasn’t alone in that hell, though. Sinclair wasn’t just a name to me—he was the one who broke us out, not because he was some hero, but because he saw something in us. Silas was always the loyal brother I never had; Gideon kept his head down but watched everything. Thena was the only one who ever believed in hope, and Dante—he was just a baby, an innocent caught up in everyone’s mess. We escaped together; however, that place followed us, clung tight to us no matter how far we ran.
