Ryder and I sweep the clearing near the south edge of the abandoned dry port. We’re both armed. No cuts covering steel today. Guns out. Visible.
Nomads’ Prez, Blaze, and his VP, Shotgun, should be pulling in any second. The Reapers are posted at the west gate. Rebel—their Prez—brought two of his best prospects.
This isn’t a routine weapons transport. Bug, our outsourced tech savant, flagged the delay in the shipment two days ago. He said it smelled wrong. Said Hell’s Army could be setting up a trap.
I didn’t tell anyone except Ryder—not even Ruin. I couldn’t have him distracted while he’s watching over Charlotte. Plus, we still don’t know if there’s another traitor.
I recall the message from Bug again.
Bug: Shipment delayed from 11 p.m. to the next morning at 10. Take backup. Potential HA trap.
He is the one we call when Ryder hits a wall, which isn’t often. This time, we didn’t gamble. We needed another Ryder.
Still, my gut won’t settle, because I should be somewhere else. I should be standing inside that cottage, watching Charlotte seeit for the first time. Telling her why I built it the way I did. Why every detail mattered.
Instead, I sent Ruin. And I’m almost certain he’s already butchered the explanation.
It’s pushing ten in the morning. The sun beats down hard enough the bandana around my head isn’t stopping the pressure building behind my eyes.
Fuck. I need this done.
My phone vibrates against my chest. I answer through my earpiece without taking my eyes off the treeline. “Wolf.”
“It’s Blaze,” he says. “Shotgun and I just came in through the north gate. No movement. No activity. You sure your intel’s solid?”
A breath leaves me slow and controlled, though irritation coils tight in my chest. Ryder glances my way, reads it instantly.
I shake my head once. “Bug is never wrong,” I tell Blaze. “You’ve used the bastard before. Has he ever steered us off course?”
A grunt on the other end. Reluctant agreement. “Fine. Ten more minutes. Then we move the shipment like usual. I’m not screwing up our three-way distribution because your sister pissed off Hell’s Army.”
My jaw locks. “Ten minutes,” I say flatly, and end the call.
Ryder’s already checking in with Rebel, who’s posted farthest west. He watches. Listens. Then gives me a subtle shake of his head.
Nothing. No movement. No dust clouds in the distance.
Fucking hell. If this isn’t a trap, then I don’t know what Hell’s Army is playing at.
This shipment was perfect bait. Biggest haul of the month, enough firepower to make noise across three counties. If I were planning a double-cross, this is exactly where I’d strike.
As the seconds drag by, my certainty starts to erode. Ten minutes feels like ten hours, and with every tick, my patience thins. My confidence fractures. The feeling that I’m in the wrong place at the wrong time grows stronger. And that’s when it happens.
Ryder’s phone blares, a near-violent alert muffled by the morning breeze. His head snaps toward mine, eyes wide in fear. Within seconds, we gather what has happened in quiet hushed tones.
Breach of our main club gates.
Fucking fuck.
Ryder doesn’t hesitate. He pulls up the live feeds from the clubhouse cams while I yank up Ruin’s contact. My hands are shaking.
Rage. Fear. Pure, unfiltered fear. It takes me a second to lock myself down—to strip everything back to one singular focus.
Please don’t let her be in the clubhouse.
Let her be safe at the cottage with Ruin.
Ryder swallows hard before looking at me, jaw clenched tight. “Two bikes. Armed. Tore down the main driveway. No casualties. Heath’s injured. Scar and Hound neutralized them. Spike’s moving the women and kids into the bunker.” His tone is clipped, controlled. But I can hear it. He’s rattled too.
