Page 101 of Catcher

This time, I get to show up before the grave.

“Catcher.” Riggs’ voice cuts through hard enough to drag me back. I turn and find his eyes fixed on the phone in my hand. He’s furious. I glance around at my brothers, all standing there ready for war after hearing the message. “Listen, the paramedics and cops are about two minutes out,” he says.

“Her dad’s alive?” I ask.

“At the moment,” Riggs says.

“Good.” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. Then, I start for the door, and Riggs follows. Outside, red and blue lights already flicker at the end of the street, and rain dots my face while I move through the yard, heading straight for my bike.

Riggs catches my arm hard. “Catcher.”

I turn on him. “Let. Go.”

“No.” The word cracks between us.

I step into him, chest heaving, every violent thing inside me clawing to get out. “We know where she is.”

“And you think you’re going alone?”

“I don’t give a fuck who comes with me.”

“That’s your problem.” Riggs’ tone is flat.

My hand curls into a fist. For one second, I’m close to swinging on my own president.

Riggs sees it and doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. “Hit me if it makes you feel better,” he says, voice low and deadly. “Then when you’re done, we’ll go get your woman back.” That lands, not soft or easy, but hard enough to matter.

“I’m not letting this happen again.”

“We will get her back,” he snaps. “You hear me?”

My jaw locks. “She’s pregnant with my kid.”

“I know.” Riggs steps closer, eyes burning now. “And that means you don’t get the luxury of losing your shit. We take care of this son of a bitch as a club.”

My breathing comes out rough while the sirens get louder and paramedics rush past us into the house.

Riggs never lets go of my arm. “We go back to the clubhouse, gear up, grab Robby, and call Easy.” His voice drops even harder. “You want her alive? Then stop acting like dying for her is the plan. Living long enough to bring her home is.”

That breaks through. Barely, but enough.

We ride back to the clubhouse like hell follows us. The compound is lit up when we pull in, every window blazing, lockdown back in full force. The lot is packed with bikes and trucks. Inside, the place hums with controlled chaos. Women move kids upstairs with bags and blankets.

Tequila stands near the bar, loading a magazine. London is beside her with a handgun on the counter. Pops sits at a table with a rifle across his knees and a cup of black coffee in front of him because he’s done this before and will do it again if asked. His eyes lift to mine. No words. Just a nod—the kind that says go get her.

I head for the gun room first, grab an extra magazine and a backup piece. I move without thinking because thinking too hard puts Ruby back on that concrete floor in my head. Then I get Robby.

I unlock the deadbolt and kick the door open hard enough that it slams against the wall. Robby jerks upright from the bed, eyes wide, hair a mess, face drawn from weeks of fear, guilt, and stale clubhouse air. “What—” I cross the room before he can finish and grab him by the shirt.

He doesn’t fight. Smart.

I slam him into the wall anyway. “Time to pay for your sins.”

His face drains white so fast it looks painful. “No.”

“They took Ruby.”

The sound he makes is broken. It’s small, pathetic, the kind of noise a man makes when the truth finally gets its hands around his throat. “I didn’t⁠—”