CHAPTER 1
The clubhouse door hits the wall as I shoulder it open, the familiar smell of cigarettes and spilled beer doing nothing to mask the iron tang of blood. Blood on my hands. Blood on my shirt. Blood trailing behind us like breadcrumbs through the fucking forest. One month back with my brothers, and already everything's gone to shit.
"Move!" I shout, kicking a chair out of the way as Crow and Dusty struggle through the door behind me, Butch's weight sagging between them. His head lolls forward, chin touching chest. Too much blood loss. Too much time in the truck getting back. The prospects' faces are ghost-white under the fluorescent lights, eyes wide with panic. Kids playing at being outlaws until the bullets start flying.
"Jesus fuck," someone whispers from the bar.
"Not helping," I growl, scanning the room. Too many eyes watching. Too many mouths that'll talk later. "Everyone out. Now."
The bar empties in seconds—hangarounds and weekend warriors all scrambling for the door. Only patched members remain, frozen in place like they're watching a movie they can't pause.
Butch groans, a wet, rattling sound that means there's blood in places it shouldn't be.
"Put him down," I order, clearing empty bottles and ashtrays from the closest table with a sweep of my arm. "Here. Don’t rock him, Dusty! Be careful!"
The prospects lay Butch down, his body heavy and unresponsive as he bleeds out on the table.
I've seen enough gunshot wounds to know this one's bad. The entry wound is a small. A nice, neat hole just below his collarbone. But the exit wound is a ragged crater of flesh.
His skin is gray, his lips blue at the edges.
Fuck. He’s not gonna make it. He’s not gonna make it.
"Where's the fuckin’ doctor?" I demand, pressing my palm against the wound. Blood seeps between my fingers, warm and steady.
Crow shakes his head, swallowing hard. "I’ve called him three times. He didn’t pick up."
"Try again," I snap, meeting his eyes. "And keep trying until he does."
Crow nods, stepping away with his phone pressed to his ear.
"What happened out there?" Ledger asks from somewhere behind me. "That route was supposed to be clean."
Clean. That’s almost funny at this point. I reach for clean bar towels, packing them around the wound. "Ambush. Three trucks came in, no lights on. Like they had night vision. They knew exactly where we'd be. We were in the middle of the drop, pilingit up under the tarp behind the gas station on Route 12, when they came burnin’ in. Butch had to abandon his bike and hop in the damn truck. That’s how he got shot.”
“What did they take?” Diesel asks.
“All of it,” I snap. “All of it, Diesel.”
"Well…” Roach shrugs. It could’ve been a coincidence.”
"Bullshit," I scoff. "This is the third time this month something's gone sideways." I press harder on Butch's wound, and he groans. "Someone's feeding information. We’ve got ourselves a fuckin’ rat."
The room goes quiet except for Butch's labored breathing and Crow's desperate voice in the corner, still on the phone.
"Got him!" Crow shouts. "He's twenty minutes out."
"Tell him to make it ten," I order.
Diesel meets my eyes, sighing. He knows it’s true. Things are… not OK here in Badlands. Haven’t been since I got back. “Let me take over,” he says, pushing my hands away from Butch’s wound. I let him do it because I’m so fuckin’ pissed, I might explode if I don’t walk it off.
Diesel places his big hands over the towel that’s already wet with blood while I play the ambush on a loop in my head.
We were loadin’, then… we heard them. But it was fast. There was no time to get out. Then the lights flashed, lit up in three directions. They started shootin’ immediately.
I cannot even believe that Butch was the only one shot. At least a dozen bullets went whizzin’ by me, missin’. But just barely.
I’m lookin’ at the clubhouse door, still lost in the memory, when it swings open and Brick walks through.
