The night’s dark, and it’s hungry. Hungry for secrets, sins, and whatever Reaper’s got planned.
I watch through the window. They are only silhouettes now, three shadows swallowed by the night. No words. No goodbyes. Just the quiet crunch of gravel under heavy boots.
Then, they disappear around the corner of the clubhouse, and it’s like they were never here—like Foxy was never there.
“Think they’ll…” Jet’s words trail off, not finishing her thought. Not out loud.
“Maybe,” I say. “Or maybe they’ll just teach her a lesson she won’t forget.”
We all know Reaper’s capable of both. And then some.
The night is silent and so am I, but the clubhouse carries on. Laughter spills from the bar, the jukebox kicks back to life, and somewhere, a bottle shatters.
“Let’s get a drink,” I tell the curious Jet, clapping her on the shoulder and steering her away from the window. “Whatever happens, happens. It’s Reaper’s call.”
But my eyes linger on that corner where darkness swallowed them whole. And I can’t help but wonder if Foxy’s about to become just another ghost story we tell around the fire.
ChapterNineteen
Highway
The rumble of motorcycle engines soothes me as we cruise down the highway. I’m at the tail end, eyes peeled for trouble because that’s what road captains do. Watch. Protect. Ride.
Ahead, Creed’s bike slows. We must be pulling over. We are near the Old Dixie Highway, so I throttle down, feeling the drag, and the boys follow suit.
“Circle up,” Creed grunts, his voice rough like gravel tossed in a metal bucket. He’s off his Harley, his boots kicking up dust.
I kill my engine. The sudden quiet is a stark contrast to the relentless thrum of the ride.
Creed’s stance is all wrong. He’s favoring his left side, shoulder dipped low. The wound in his shoulder must be giving him some pain.
“Russians say we wait here,” Creed says through gritted teeth. His hand hovers over his shoulder. “They got apresentfor us.”
“Present, huh?” Reaper snorts, but there’s an edge to his voice.
A present from the Russians could be anything from a crate of AKs to a one-way ticket to a shallow grave.
“Any idea what kind of gift?” I ask.
“Guess we’ll find out.” Creed’s eyes are steel, cold, and hard. He’s expecting a delivery all right, just not the usual kind.
We settle in, engines cooling, the tension rising like heat from the blacktop.
Creed fishes out a couple of painkillers from his pocket, tilts his head back, and swallows them dry.
“Good to go?” I call over to him.
He nods, a tight jerk of his chin. “Hate this,” he grunts. “Beingout here, away from home turf… dealing with Ivanov’s goons.” His eyes darken, haunted. “But because the Diablos screwed us, we have no choice.”
I watch Creed, the man who took a bullet and still rides like he owns the road. I’ve never seen him steer us wrong. Not once. He’s got a code, and it’s kept us alive. But things have changed since Devil entered his life. She’s softened his edges without dulling his blade. Made him more human. And the club is all the better for it—tighter and stronger.
Yeah, we’re in deep with the Russians now, but if there’s a way through this mess, Creed will find it. He always does.
The rumble of an engine in the distance snags my attention. Dust plumes up from the Old Dixie Highway like a bad omen. I squint against the glare of the afternoon sun. Reaper catches the sound, too, his head tilting slightly.
“Truck’s coming,” he says, voice steady.
“Here?” Creed grunts, disbelief lacing his tone. “They normally stick to the main highway.”
