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A sharp gust of October wind whipped through the lot. The flames in the barrels bent sideways, and the first cold drops of rain struck the metal roof above them. Coal looked toward the thick clouds swallowing the moon. “Storm’s moving in faster than they predicted.”
“It’s just rain, pussy,” Grimm grumbled.
“It could make the north road dangerous,” Coal said.
“The north road is always dangerous,” Grimm countered.
“That’s the point?” Coal asked.
Grimm looked at him. “That’s the name of the race.” Nobody entered the Devil’s Run expecting a safe ride. There were no paved tracks, padded barriers, or ambulances waiting around the next turn. Anyone who wanted those things could take their expensive bike to a sanctioned event and pose for pictures. This race belonged to outlaws—it belonged to him.
A roar rose from the crowd below as two women climbed onto the platform beside the starting line. One wore red devil horns. The other had black wings strapped to her back. Both carried bottles of whiskey and looked prepared to make terrible decisions. It was just a normal night at the Rage Runners clubhouse.
Grimm scanned the crowd again. More than a thousand people filled the property. Most were familiar faces—local racers, club supporters, women who spent enough time around the brothers to know the rules. Others wore cuts from invited clubs. The Rage Runners had connections throughout the Mayhem Makers world, and the Devil’s Run attracted patched men from several states.
There were also strangers—too many of them. Grimm had survived this long by noticing what didn’t belong. A man who watched the security cameras instead of the women. A vehicle parked facing the exit. A hand kept too close to a concealed weapon. Tonight, something felt wrong. The sensation crawled beneath his skin, quiet and persistent.
“You feel it?” Coal asked. Grimm didn’t bother asking what he meant. They had ridden together since before the Rage Runners had a name. Coal knew how his mind worked, and Grimm knew the slight shift in his vice president’s posture meant he had noticed the tension too.
“Yeah,” he breathed.
“Any idea what it is?” Coal asked.
“Not yet,” Grimm admitted.
Coal set his bottle on the railing. “You want me to pull our men in?”
“No. That’ll spook whoever’s watching.” Grimm nodded toward the east side of the lot. “Put two more prospects at the gate and have Vex check every vehicle parked outside the fence.”
“Quietly?” Coal asked.
“Unless he finds something,” Grimm agreed.
“And then?” Coal questioned.
Grimm rested his forearms on the railing. “He can be as loud as he wants.”
Coal grinned. “That’s why I like Halloween.” Grimm didn’t. Everyone assumed he did because of his name. They expected him to enjoy the costumes, the fake blood, and the plastic skeletons hanging from the clubhouse roof. His name had nothing to do with Halloween. It had been given to him after the worst night of his life, and anyone who knew the story understood why he never laughed when someone asked about it.
A woman screamed below, and Grimm’s hand moved toward the gun holstered beneath his cut before he saw the plastic knife sticking from her chest. Her laughter carried over the crowd as she chased another woman between the motorcycles. Fucking Halloween.
“Prez!” Grimm turned as Slash pushed through the balcony door. The club’s treasurer was dressed like the Grim Reaper, although the mask had been shoved onto the top of his head.
Grimm stared at him. “What?” Slash asked.
“You look like an asshole,” Grimm grumbled.
“It’s a costume,” Slash insisted.
“You still look like an asshole,” Grim said.
Coal snorted, and Slash flipped him off before turning back to Grimm. “We’ve got a problem with the prize.”
Grimm straightened. “What kind of problem?”
“The safe’s locked,” Slash said.
“It’s supposed to be locked,” Grimm mumbled.
