Page 19 of Riot

The Vendetta members weren’t trying to overtake us, weren’t acting in any threatening manner. They simply kept pace, a steady reminder of their presence.

Fuck. For two years I’d been making this run without any issues. Those bastards were creating one.

I hit the button on my mounted phone to call Preacher. He picked up on the second ring. “Problem and location.”

I’d never contacted him on a weapons run before.

“Vendetta on our six.” I gave him the highway marker and our direction.

“How many?” Preacher asked.

“Eight deep so far.” I checked my mirror, but they were in such a tight formation, I couldn’t get an accurate count.

For a beat, all I heard was his breathing and the road under me.

Then engines started, roaring to life. The prez was already moving, the pack mobilizing against the threat. The engines grew louder, telling me they’d taken off.

“Have they done anything besides follow?”

“Nothing yet. Still playing like little lambs.” We throttled down at the sharp curve in the road then resumed our steady speed.

“Stay tight around the van. Don’t give them a reason to close in.”

I checked my mirror. They were at the same distance as before. Why hadn’t they made a move? What was their end game? Did they even have one, or was this some kind of intimidation tactic?

“They don’t need a reason,” I said.

“No, they don’t.” Preacher’s voice was flat. “Be there soon. Call me back if anything changes.” He hung up.

“I haven’t had a decent fucking cup of coffee yet and these clowns want to test my goddamn patience.” I growled.

Mile after mile, they stayed on us, never growing closer or dropping back. Just close enough to start trouble if they wanted to.

Mayhem glanced at me with narrowed eyes. He was asking the same questions I’d already asked myself. What was their motive?

I shrugged, giving a small shake of my head. Fuck if I knew.

The highway signs began to look increasingly familiar.

A motor behind me grew louder, followed by the sound of growling engines.

Glancing into my mirror, I saw them gaining ground, a swarm of angry hornets giving chase. They were just riding back there like patient little psychopaths until they got close enough to Temptation that they had to commit.

Merk sped up, going at least ninety, taking the curves in the road with precision skill. Mayhem and I stayed on his ass. A crack rang out. Then something pinged against the back end of my bike.

“You did not just fucking shoot at me,” I snarled, pissed I couldn’t do shit about it. My only priority was getting the van home with the three of us intact.

Two more shots echoed through the air. Mayhem jerked forward but quickly straightened, his mouth set in grim determination.

Blood trickled from one shoulder blade, flung away by the rush of wind.

Then I heard it. A low wall of rumbling, growing louder as motorcycles hit the rise in the road ahead.

Howlers.

Preacher was in the lead, pack spread out behind him, coming straight toward us in the opposite lane like salvation wrapped in chrome and claws. Relief hit hard enough to piss me off. I called Preacher. “Mayhem’s been hit. Left shoulder.”

“Get him to the clubhouse. He’s now your only priority.”