I keep my eyes on the road, on the shadowed cuts between buildings, on the decoy van where it sits exactly where it should. “Who the fuck would knowingly set up Saint’s piece of ass?” I grimace immediately, because even alone on the bike, even with the road waiting to turn into gunfire, the phrase feels wrong now. “Fuck. I mean his husband.”
Moth doesn’t bother correcting me. That means it’s bad.
“The only person who’d believe he could get away with it,” Moth says.
My laugh dies before it leaves my throat. “You really think Sol would do shit like that?”
“I think someone hates the idea of another club’s blood in his house when he can’t control it. I think someone is losing his grip on his son and only works in absolutes. Sol has been testing Oisín as a liability since the wedding. I think he’d justify almost any pressure if it proved what he already wanted to believe.”
I look toward the mill again, but this time I’m not really seeing the road. I’m seeing Saint’s face after Grace left, though I wasn’t there for the beginning of it. I saw enough of the aftermathover the years to know the shape. A kid turned quiet too young, learning the wrong lessons from the only bastard left to teach them. I’m seeing Oisín with Saint’s ring on his hand, soft enough to look breakable until a man realizes softness isn’t the same as weakness. “Fuck,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Well,” I mutter, shifting my weight as the bend approaches, “I guess we’ll have to prepare for a funeral.”
“That would be premature. We don’t yet have confirmation.”
“Sol wanted one. It’s just not going to be the one he expected.”
The support truck reaches the first marker and continues without slowing. I watch the road ahead, every instinct stretched tight. The decoy van near the mill remains dark. The buildings stay quiet. The night holds its breath.
Then a headlight flickers once from the southern access road.
There you are.
I tap my comm twice, the signal we agreed on before the run. Ahead, the support truck keeps rolling like nothing happened. Behind me, one of the Obsidian riders adjusts position by a few feet, smooth enough that a watching enemy might miss it unless they already know what to look for. The Rogue vehicle turns onto the corridor with its lights low, engine muffled, moving too carefully to be innocent and too confidently to be smart.
Moth’s voice comes through. “Visual confirmed. Rogue vehicle one. Two additional heat signatures on the east side. Hold.”
I slow another fraction, letting the trap breathe. That’s the hard part. Every violent bone in my body wants to move first, hit first, end the waiting with a shot and a laugh. But Oisín’s map said Canon would look for reaction. Moth said the closing angle had to wait until the Rogues committed past the false junction.
So I hold.
The Rogue vehicle rolls closer. Another set of headlights glimmers near the far service cut, barely visible between twowarehouses. Canon either got greedy or desperate. Same thing, most days.
“Vehicle two,” I say.
“Confirmed,” Moth replies. “Let them cross the line.”
The first Rogue vehicle passes the painted mile marker where the old city line used to be. The second follows ten seconds behind. Men move near the fence, shadow against shadow, weapons held low. I see the exact moment they think they have the truck boxed.
Poor stupid bastards.
The Rogues fire first, the Obsidian rider ahead of me firing back in response.
The first Rogue by the fence goes down before he finishes lifting his weapon. The support truck swerves exactly as planned, not away from the threat but into the gap that draws the first vehicle forward. From the side road, two black Obsidian bikes cut in with their lights off until the last second, engines roaring as they close the back end of the trap. Gunfire blooms along the corridor, muzzle flashes bright against rusted brick and shattered windows.
A hearty laugh pulls from me. The whole thing is beautiful in the ugliest possible way. Moth’s angles, Oisín’s pattern, Saint’s orders, all of it snapping shut around men who thought they were using a broken boy’s pain as a map. The Rogues scatter where they expected Obsidian to panic. One runs for the mill and gets dropped by the second rider. Another dives behind the van as bullets chew sparks from the pavement near his boots.
Moth’s voice stays calm in my ear. “Trap is active. East team has containment. South team is moving. You’re clear to disengage.”
“Say that like you’re not having fun.”
“I’m satisfied with the execution of the plan.”
“That’s Moth for horny.”
“Don’t make me regret giving you permission to leave.”
