Page 21 of Clay
The kid’s still pinned, whimpering now.
“Please, man, I don’t know nothin’—just let me go,” the young man quivers, close to tears.
I lean in close, my voice a blade. “You didn’t see us. You got jumped, truck broke down, whatever. Open your mouth, and we find you. Got it?”
He nods frantically, and I shove him toward the ditch, where he stumbles and stays down.
I look at Jace and we exchange a silent acknowledgement. His ribs might still be sore as hell, but there was no way he wasn’t coming along with us for this.
“Clay!” Kreese calls, sharp. “Headlights—half a mile out.”
Shit.
Another car, too soon. Way too soon in fact.
I sprint to the truck, helping Jace with the last box as Rusty slams the van’s hood like he’s fixed it. “Move!” I bark, and we scatter—the pickup peels out, tires spitting gravel, the crew melting back into the trees.
I’m last, diving for cover as the new headlights sweep the road, a sedan slowing to check the scene.
The driver’s still in the ditch, playing dead or too scared to move, and the sedan rolls on after a beat.
Close.
Too damn close.
We regroup at the bikes, engines roaring to life, and tear into the night, splitting off down backroads to shake any tail. The pickup’s headed to a safehouse—a barn ten miles out—where we’ll strip the haul later.
My Harley thunders beneath me, the wind tearing at my jacket, and I let the rush burn through me. We did it—clean, fast, thousands of dollars each richer. The Wolf Riders pulled it off, and I can’t stop the grin splitting my face as I hit the highway toward the clubhouse…
The place is a madhouse when I roll in, the lot packed with bikes, the air thick with victory.
Inside, the drinks are flowing—whiskey shots slammed on the bar, beers foaming over as the boys toast the haul. Rusty’s got a bottle in each hand, sloshing bourbon as he dances with some blonde, his busted lip forgotten. Jace is sprawled on a couch,shirt off, showing off his bruised ribs like a badge, a boy giggling beside him.
The jukebox blasts Zeppelin, the bass shaking the walls, and Kreese is at the pool table, racking a new game, his laugh cutting through the noise.
“To the Wolf Riders!” Kreese yells, raising a glass, and the room roars back, a wall of sound that hits me like a wave.
I grab a whiskey from the bar, the burn sharp down my throat, and lean against the wall, watching it all. It’s good—my crew, my brothers, high on the win.
One hundred grand is a game changer, enough to keep us flush, maybe ease off the gas like I told Dylan.
But as the chaos swirls, my head’s not here.
I want to be one place, one damn place only—withhim.
I catch Kreese’s eye across the room, jerking my head toward the door. He weaves over, still grinning, a beer dangling from his fingers. “What’s up, man? You look like you’re half out already.”
“You’re in charge tonight,” I say, setting my glass down. “I’m heading out.”
His brows shoot up, but the grin doesn’t fade.
“Dylan, huh? That boy’s got you,” Kreese laughs with a knowing look in his eyes.
“Yeah,” I admit, no point denying it. “Second chances don’t come around too often, Kreese. I’m not fucking this one up.”
He claps my shoulder, hard and sure. “Go for it, brother. We’ve got this. Get your ass to your boy.”
I don’t wait—time to move, push through the crowd, and I’m out the door, the night swallowing me again.
