I jump down before the truck’s fully stopped—no time for finesse.
Bullets zing past, snapping gravel.I meet the asshole who skidded off the road before he can get up, plant my fist under his jaw and let my training take over.
His head snaps back, mouth bleeding.
I hit him again and again.
No gun.No theatrics.
Just flesh and blood and anger.
“Sawyer!The load!”Rooster’s voice cuts through the noise.
I wipe blood from my knuckles and look at the trailer.A skinny bastard’s working the latch, grinning like this job’s already won him a free payday.
Not today.
“Fuck.”
I charge.Heals grind, boots eat gravel.I don’t draw steel—I don’t want to go loud in a metal box that’s holding the prize—but my shoulder takes him as I ram into his side, and my forearm knocks his hand off the latch.
Both biker clubs are going at each other, but DEMC has the advantage, picking off enemy riders with steady, trained shots.
Bullets fly, so do curses as more tires scream, trying to get away.
The attackers pull back—disorganized, bleeding, beaten.The Heathens break like wet paper, riding away into the dark they came from.
I breathe.The world rattles in my chest, but the freezer alarm reads steady.
Temperatures haven’t spiked.The straws are intact.Brentwood’s load is still ours.
I slam my palm against the trailer door, the clap of impact echoing, taste of copper on my tongue.
My knuckles ache, but nothing important is broken.
For a beat, I just stand there and look at the blood on my hand and the metal and bodies left on the pavement.
It’s ugly proof of what I’m willing to pay to keep what’s mine.
We move the bodies, call for a cleaner.
Then, as the engines restart and I jump in the truck, I hear Benji radioing for a status check.
Something slow and feral rolls through me—protective, territorial—and I allow it a moment to linger before answering.
“A swing and a miss.Coming to you now,” I tell him.
“Copy that,” he replies.
The adrenaline burns clean now that I’m away from the immediate heat of battle.
I feel a colder, steadier flame.It’s the idea ofherback at Jersey Iron Ranch.
Lil Bit, all safe and sound, laughing at the sight of a bull grazing in a pasture like he’s a big old lapdog.
That image steels me more than the rage ever could.
Micah checks in this time over the radio, “All good, hoss?”
