Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 78329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
It’s my turn to smirk, “keep tellin’ yourself more lies, Smoke. I’ll be alright, you go do what you gotta do and I’ll touch base when I head back East. You wanna head back you’re always welcome in Salemburg.”
We clasp forearms, the kind of grip that isn’t sentimental but means something anyway. Then he mounts up and heads back east, disappearing into the flow of traffic.
And I keep going. Alone. For whatever reason, I find peace in solitude. It’s probably what makes me most dangerous of all.
Arkansas looks like it’s trying to lull you. It gives this illusion of safety and family. Trees and hills, soft green rolling past like it’s all harmless.
It’s not. No place is. Not when men like us move through it. Playing the games we play in the name of brotherhood, business, or just boredom.
I hit Bella Vista just before midnight, the long gone, the moon lighting the way to the motel. My phone buzzes once—Country Boy’s name.
I don’t answer while I’m riding. He knows this. Very few of us will. I pull into a parking spot, kill the engine, and call him back.
“I’m here,” I say.
Country Boy’s exhale is loud in my ear. “Meet?”
“Now.”
“Be careful.”
“I always am,” I lie.
He hangs up without saying goodbye. That’s Country Boy. No softness. No wasted words. It’s why he’s President.
I walk next door to the diner Wrath picked—low building, neon sign, parking lot half full. The kind of place where no one looks twice at a biker because they’ve seen worse.
Wrath is inside. Big bastard with a hard face and eyes that don’t miss much. Saints patch on his cut, shoulders squared like he’s never known the meaning of relaxed.
He stands when he sees me.
“Miles,” he says.
“Wrath.”
We shake hands. His grip is iron, testing. Mine doesn’t give. Same shit we have done the last two meetings.
“Appreciate you coming,” he states casually.
“Country Boy doesn’t appreciate it,” I tell him.
Wrath’s mouth twitches. “Presidents rarely do.”
We slide into a booth away from the windows. Coffee comes. Food doesn’t. This isn’t that kind of stop.
Wrath leans in. “Saints need a transport moved. Not small. Not light.”
I keep my face neutral. “Route?”
“Through your territory,” he says. “In pieces. Quiet. No big convoys.”
“Who’s buying?” I ask.
Wrath’s eyes sharpen. “You asking like a treasurer or like a cop?”
I smile without warmth. “Like a man who doesn’t want heat on his books. And I’m asking as a Hellion who has boundaries and don’t work with or for just anyone.”
Wrath nods once, approving. “Buyer’s solid. Payment’s clean. We use you because your roads are tight and your men aren’t sloppy. Tripp’s been given the information on the buyer to approve the transport. I wanted you because you get in and get out with my money without a trace.”
That’s almost a compliment.
“Terms?” I ask.
He lays it out—numbers, timing, drop points. It’s all business. It’s all risk. I do the math in my head, weighing profit against trouble, deciding what I’ll take back to Country Boy and the table since he’s wanting our club specifically. Most private transports like this go through Tripp or Rex, the Catawba Hellions President, and they get whatever charter Tripp decides is on rotation. Obviously, we made an impression on Wrath with the previous shipments for him to request me personally.
When we’re done, Wrath leans back in his chair. “Saint’s Outlaws have nothing but respect for the Hellions,” he shares. “This can be good for both of us.”
“Depends on the money,” I answer.
Wrath grins. “Always does.”
We shake again. He leaves first, slipping out the side door like he was never there. I wait a minute, then follow. Different exits. Different directions. Old habits.
Outside, the air’s cooler, the sky bruised with evening. My bike sits where I left it, gleaming under the parking lot light.
I take three steps toward it. That’s when the world tilts. Something feels off. A shadow moves fast to my left, too fast.
Pain slams into my side, sharp and immediate, and for a second my brain refuses to label it. Like if I don’t name it, it won’t be real. The searing burn hits instantly. Then I feel the warmth. The liquid pooling in my hand.
Blood.
I twist, hand going back instinctively, but another hit comes, harder, driving the blade deeper.
“Son of a—” My breath cuts off as someone grabs my cut and yanks me back.
There are more of them. I register patches, different colors, wrong insignia. A different motorcycle club, not Saint’s Outlaws, not Hellions. My vision blurs, but I focus on the men moving trying to take in their cut details. The reaper insignia. The Nameless Ones MC.
They didn’t want Wrath.
They wanted the Hellion who came alone.
A fist connects with my mouth. Stars burst behind my eyes. I spit blood and swing anyway, knuckles cracking against someone’s cheek. He staggers. Another one laughs.