Page 5 of Bones and Ashes

Because I care about June. And Havoc was a brother who stood with me 'till the end.

"When do we leave?" I ask.

"Soon as everyone's sober," Diesel says. "Which might be a wait."

I look at the dark circles under his eyes. "You get any sleep?"

"Bout as much as you did. Probably for different reasons."

I don't take the bait. "We roll in thirty. You, me, Chains, Ratchet. Get 'em up."

"What do we tell her?"

I sigh, feelin' very tired all of a sudden. "Nothin' that'll make any difference."

The alarm blares through the clubhouse like we're on a fuckin' submarine about to implode. That awful whoop-whoop that means someone's at the gate who ain't supposed to be. Every man who was asleep a minute ago is suddenly fully upright with a weapon in hand.

Diesel and I cross to the window at the same time. I yank the blinds back and see Dusty standin' with one foot braced wide, AR-15 trained on a cloud of dust that's resolvin' into the unmistakable shape of a fuckin' army rollin' toward us. Bikes, three wide, kickin' up Montana clay like the second comin'.

"What in the actual fuck?" Diesel whispers.

I'm already movin', grabbin' a shotgun off the bar and headin' for the side door. Diesel follows, keepin' pace. Behind us I hear men scramblin', the slam of storage doors bein' thrown open, the metallic slide-clicks of guns bein' loaded, the hammer of boot heels.

But I don't turn or give orders. I just move forward, faster than thought can keep up.

Outside, the sun hits my eyes and I squint against it, feet carryin' me toward the gate automatically. Dusty's still there, not movin’.

"Hold," I call out to him.

The dust is clearin' now, and I can make out the patches on the lead bikes—black and red on dirty leather.

"Who the fuck is this?" I mumble. I'm not talking to anyone in particular, but Diesel answers anyway.

"Sons of Dust."

"Who?" I swear. This fuckin' day.

I feel like sometime in the last twenty-four hours reality slipped sideways and took me with it.

Because nothin' makes sense right now.

First the fuckin' State Patrol ambush, then Mike. Now this.

"They're out of Custer," Diesel adds.

"South Dakota? What the fuck are they doin' here?"

And then I see her. A woman near the front. Small frame, army surplus jacket, olive riding pants tucked into scuffed brown harness boots.

In my mind, I understand this outfit. I know what's goin' on here before I can actually articulate it. But the cat-eye sunglasses are what trigger the name in my head.

"It's June."

CHAPTER 2

The angle of the sun is wrong when I finally pry my eyes open and squint into the bright beams of light pouring through my bedroom window.

I slept in.