Buck
PROLOGUE
Six Months Earlier
The blood looked black against the snow. Buck crouched beside the carcass of the wolf and studied the bullet wound in its shoulder. The animal had been dead for less than twelve hours and had been shot execution style. This wasn’t a hunting incident, and the animal wasn’t killed because it was a threat. Someone had shot it and left it to rot. It was the kind of thing that made Buck's temper rise fast.
"Third one this month." Buck looked up at the sound of Ghost's voice. He approached through knee-deep snow with his rifle slung across his back and a cigarette hanging from his lips. Ghost stopped beside him and looked down at the dead wolf, and his expression immediately darkened.
"Fucking cowards,” Ghost growled. Buck nodded. The northern wilderness stretched around them for miles. Its endless forests, frozen lakes, and untouched land were all part of the Kings of Anarchy territory in Manitoba. The area was protected territory, and nobody was supposed to be out here—at least not without permission. Yet somebody kept showing up—poachers, trespassers, smugglers. It didn’t matter who it was because if they were killing wolves for sport, then the Kings would get involved. Buck hadn't figured it out yet, but he intended to.
Ghost kicked the snow lightly. "This one’s got a collar too." Buck's eyes narrowed at the tracking collar around the wolf's neck, which had been damaged deliberately, but not enough to destroy it completely. It was like somebody wanted the data erased.
Buck carefully removed the collar and slipped it into his pocket. "We'll have to get the Canadian Wildlife Service involved and have them look at it." Ghost nodded and then looked toward the tree line. The easy humor he usually carried disappeared instantly.
"You feel that?" Ghost asked. Buck did. Something was wrong. The woods felt different today. They were too quiet; no birds were chirping, and there was no movement. His instincts started screaming, and Ghost noticed too. The two men exchanged a look, and then simultaneously reached for weapons. Years together made communication unnecessary.
A branch snapped somewhere ahead, and Buck stood slowly. The snowstorm rolling in from the north muted everything except the sound of wind through the trees. A figure appeared—a man in a heavy coat and snowmobile gear. He was armed and froze as soon as he spotted them. Buck's eyes narrowed because he knew that the man wasn't hunting or trapping. He definitely wasn't local. The stranger turned immediately and started running.
"Well," Ghost sighed. "That's suspicious." Buck was already moving, and the chase lasted less than five minutes. The man seemed to know the terrain, but Buck knew it better. They caught him near an abandoned logging road. Ghost tackled him off the snowmobile, and Buck took his weapon. The strangerfought hard, seeming panicked and even a bit desperate, which told Buck everything he needed to know. The man wasn't afraid of getting arrested. He was afraid of being forced to talk. Buck hauled him to his feet.
"Who are you?" he shouted.
The stranger spat blood into the snow. "Go fuck yourself."
Ghost grinned. "Well, I like him already." Buck ignored that. His attention stayed fixed on the man's jacket and the small symbol that had been stitched onto the shoulder. Three slashes through a circle. Buck had never seen it before, but something about it made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. The man saw where Buck was looking and smiled, like he knew something Buck didn't.
"You boys have no idea what's moving through these woods,” he said. Buck's grip tightened, and the stranger laughed. "You think this territory belongs to you?"
Ghost's expression hardened. "Careful." The warning went ignored, and the man looked directly at Buck.
"There's money flowing through this province that'll make your little biker club look like a daycare." Buck felt it then—the truth buried beneath the bragging. They weren’t running drugs or guns. They were running something else through the woods—something bigger.
The stranger leaned closer and whispered the words that would change everything. "You're already too late to stop it, too." Buck's stomach tightened as headlights appeared through the trees. The stranger saw them too and smiled triumphantly.
Before Buck could react, the man bit down hard, and blood filled his mouth instantly. "Shit!" Buck shouted. “It’s poison.” Ghost lunged forward, but it was too late. The stranger collapsed into the snow and was dead before he hit the ground. Silence settled over the forest as Buck stared down at the body and the symbol stitched onto the jacket. He looked back at the dead wolfnearby, and for the first time in years, something felt bigger than the Kings and their territory. This was bigger than club business.
Ghost crouched beside the corpse. "Well, that took a turn.” Buck didn't answer. His gaze remained fixed on the symbol—three slashes through a circle. It was a warning; a threat. It was the beginning of something ugly.
Ghost followed his stare. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"
Buck nodded. "Yeah." The north had a problem, and somewhere out there, people were dying because of it. Buck didn't know it yet, but his entire world was about to spin off its axis. Standing there in the snow beside a dead wolf and a dead stranger, he knew one thing—war was coming, and Buck Lawson had never been very good at backing down from a fight.
The wind off the river howled like it wanted to peel the world down to its bones.
Buck Lawson leaned against the railing of the clubhouse porch, a cigarette burning low between his fingers, watching the endless white swallow the night. Out here in northern Manitoba, the cold didn’t just bite—it punished. It got into a man’s soul and reminded him of what he was made of. He liked that, most days—the quiet, the cold, and even the distance from everything that used to be so important to him. But tonight didn’t feel quiet.
Beneath the hum of the generator and the crunch of snow under his boots came the low snarl of an engine. Not one he recognized. It wasn’t the deep roar of a Harley or the throaty rumble of a truck from the Kings of Anarchy fleet. This was something smaller, and it seemed to be struggling like a tired old pickup gasping against the cold.
Buck took one last drag and flicked the butt into the snow. “Open the gate,” he called to the prospect standing under the floodlight. His voice didn’t need to rise to be obeyed. “Let’s see what fool’s dumb enough to wander out here tonight.” The gate creaked open. The wind brought with it the scent of oil, metal, and something sharper—fear.
When the headlights cut through the blowing snow, Buck squinted and saw a single figure inside the cab. They were small, with their shoulders tense and head angled toward the windshield like someone braced for a fight.
The truck rolled to a stop near the porch, engine knocking in protest. The door opened, and a woman climbed out. For a second, Buck thought the cold had finally gotten to his brain. Women didn’t drive up to the Kings of Anarchy compound in the middle of a January storm—especially not dressed like that.
She pulled the hood of her jacket down, and light spilled over her face. She was from the city; he had no doubt about that. Her hair fell in soft waves around her face as she shivered against the wind. She was dressed to the nines, and she wore boots that probably cost more than his first bike. But her eyes—hell, if those weren’t something else. They were clear, steady, and bright enough to make him forget for half a breath that they were surrounded by snow, steel, and silence.
He straightened, crossing his arms. “You lost?” he asked, his voice low and rough.
