Page 25 of My Reckless Biker

This is what my decision bought.

I sit in the chair beside the bed and I look at what Ray's become because I made Sienna visible, because I wanted to provoke Crane, because I thought the strategic value was worth the risk.

I was wrong.

This isn't worth it. Ray in this bed isn't worth any strategic advantage we gained from those photos.

I sit there for an hour watching him breathe through the oxygen mask, watching the machines track his vitals, and the whole time I'm thinking about tonight. About the warehouse. About Dutch.

About what I'm going to do when I find him.

At noon I head back to the clubhouse because sitting here isn't helping Ray and I need to be part of the planning. The yard is active when I pull in, brothers prepping bikes even though we're taking trucks tonight, the physical work a way to burn off the tension that's running through everyone.

Inside, Clint and Tate are at the main table with maps spread out and Cain's laptop open. Holt's near the window and Knox is leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

"How's Ray?" Clint asks when I walk in.

"Face is destroyed. Orbital fracture, broken jaw, broken nose, cuts and bruising everywhere. Ribs are broken, spleen was ruptured. He's alive but he's going to be in pain for months and the doctor says there might be permanent damage to his vision and his cognitive function."

The room goes quiet. Everyone processing what that means, what Dutch did, what we're going to do about it.

"Then we make sure the message we send back is clear," Clint says. "Dutch doesn't just get beaten. He gets removed. Permanently. Along with anyone who was with him."

He turns to the map and I move closer to see what they've planned. The warehouse is marked in red, access roads highlighted in yellow, known camera positions noted in blue. Cain's network is thorough.

"Two prospects confirmed inside as of two hours ago," Cain says. "Dutch arrived around nine this morning and hasn't left. They're moving product but they're not rushing, which means they think they have time before we respond. They're wrong."

"What's the approach?" I ask.

Tate points to the map. "Two vehicles. Clint, you, and me in the first truck coming from the east access road here. Cain, Holt, Knox in the second coming from the west. We box them in, cut off escape routes. Warehouse has two exits, front door and a bay door on the south side. Cain's team takes the front, we take the bay. They come out or we go in, but either way they don't leave."

"Intel says they're armed," Cain adds. "Handguns for sure, maybe shotguns. We go in expecting resistance."

"Good," I say. "I want them to resist."

Clint looks at me and I can see him reading the rage that's still burning, still demanding release. "You get Dutch, but you control it. You don't go rogue, you don't take unnecessary risks, and you extract intel about what Crane's planning before you finish him. We need to know if there's more coming."

"I'll get intel."

"And after?"

"After that he doesn't get back up."

We spend the next hour going through tactical details, coordinating timing, making sure everyone knows their role. It's clean, efficient, the kind of operation we've run enough times that the choreography is familiar.

By thirteen-thirty we're done planning and the rest is just waiting for twenty-two hundred to arrive.

I head outside needing air and find Sienna standing near the fence line at the edge of the yard, arms crossed, looking out toward the road like she's watching for something. The sun is high and brutal, August heat that sits heavy, and her dark hair is down past her shoulders catching the light.

She turns when she hears my boots on gravel and I see her take me in, see her eyes track my face and read exactly what's happening.

"Ray?" she asks.

"Alive. ICU. Critical. Face is destroyed, ribs broken, internal bleeding. He'll survive but he's going to carry the damage permanently."

I watch her process that, watch the guilt settle in her expression the same way it's settled in mine.

"This is my fault," she says quietly. "If I hadn't come here—"