Danny’s last words.
Danny’s blood on my hands.
The perfect route. The perfect plan. And one dead kid who would never turn twenty.
This was my fault.
Chapter 7
?
— Bea —
Iwas between sessions, reviewing notes for my next client, when my phone buzzed with a number I didn’t recognize. Normally I’d let it go to voicemail—I never answered unknown calls during work hours—but something made me pick up.
“Bea?” Indira’s voice, tight and controlled in a way that made my stomach drop. “There’s been an incident. On the run.”
The pen slipped from my fingers. “What kind of incident? Is Holden—”
“He’s alive. But there were casualties. They’re on their way back now.” A pause, loaded with everything she wasn’t saying. “I think you should come to the clubhouse.”
“How bad?”
“Bad.”
I was already gathering my things, shoving files into drawers with hands that weren’t quite steady. “I’m on my way.”
“Bea.” Indira’s voice softened. “Prepare yourself. From what Dutch said… Holden’s not in a good place.”
I ended the call and canceled my remaining appointments. Told my receptionist it was a family emergency. Drove to the clubhouse with my heart pounding against my ribs and my professional training desperately trying to kick in.
Working with the MC had taught me how to compartmentalize. How to hold space for grief withoutdrowning in it. How to help people process trauma while keeping my own emotions at bay.
But this was different.
This was Holden.
The clubhouse parking lot was chaos when I arrived. Bikes were scattered haphazardly. Brothers moved without speaking — task-focused, flat affect, nobody making eye contact. Checking equipment, making calls, falling silent when they noticed me.
I spotted Dutch near the garage bay, deep in conversation with a man I didn’t recognize. His cut was spattered with something dark that I didn’t want to identify. When he saw me, his expression shifted into something that might have been relief.
“Bea. Thank God.”
“Where is he?”
“Inside. His room.” Dutch ran a hand over his face, and for the first time since I’d known him, he looked old. “We lost Danny. The prospect. He took a bullet meant for Holden.”
My chest constricted. Danny. The eager kid who’d been trailing after Holden for months, desperate to prove himself. Holden had talked about him constantly—his potential, his dedication, his annoying habit of asking too many questions.
“How’s Holden handling it?”
Dutch’s silence was answer enough.
“Has anyone been with him?”
“Colt tried. Handful. He won’t talk to anyone.” Dutch met my eyes, and I saw something I’d never seen in our stoic president before - genuine fear. “I’ve never seen him like this.”
“Okay, let me try.” I walked into the clubhouse, past the main room where brothers sat in shell-shocked clusters, past the bar where bottles were already being poured, past the hallway that led to the private quarters.
