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“Old safe house was torched too. Maybe more than one,” Pen, from the SC Charter, added. The rest of the day was spent calculating the damage, moving anyone who needed relocation and waiting to hear what the Nebraska charter was able to get out of their…guest. Once we confirmed all the brothers out on the road were safe and bunked down at a motel for the night did I finally crash.

Sleep pulled me under swiftly, the mental exhaustion almost stronger than anything physical. Out of nowhere, I found myself bolting upright in bed. It was the middle of the night, the clock glowed showing it was close to 3 a.m. Something was wrong; in my gut, I knew it. The alarms that started blaring shortly after only confirmed my worst fears.

Code Havoc.

The text came through, and my heart dropped. Running toward the command center, the noise only got louder.

“BASH!” Keys’ voice rang out.

“Here,” I told him, skidding to stop as I took in the massacre displayed on the monitors in front of us. Half of the cameras were unmoving, either no longer attached to their person, or that person was down. Wrecked bikes and blood could be seen in the periphery as any of the brothers still on bikes were speeding through what looked to be a forested area. Trees flew by as bikes surrounded them from every angle.

“Need eyes in the sky!?” Keys asked, typing furiously as he slid between two screens. Already dialing I got Brick on the phone.

“Code Havoc. Need access to your drone and a crew sent out to Batchawana Mountain. We’ll drop the exact location once you’re closer.” We worked out the logistics before I ended the call, quickly dialing my mother next.

“Gonna need medical care. Boys were ambushed in Ontario. You still got that contact in the Algoma area?”

Mom’s role in Seph’s Trail was her medical connections. By the time we disconnected, she was already making calls. I listened as she reached out to contacts and sent emergency services to my brothers who were scattered, wrecked, and abandoned along the highway in a fucking different country.

Grateful I had left Fee and Birdie upstairs, brothers filled the room as we watched the bloodbath unfolding in front of our eyes. Screens went black, heart monitors beeping in protest. Guard and Seph were the last to enter the room, their faces a mask of horror as we all tried to track the carnage.

“Drone is up.” A disembodied voice announced. Soon, overhead footage of a small clearance appeared. Several of our guys were engaged in fights. The relief I felt at seeing Bull’s large form skulking around after his earlier crash was immense. A gasp from behind me had me turning, Fee’s face a mask of horror. Shooting a look at my dad, he grabbed Birdie and took her upstairs as I pulled Fee over to my side.

“How many guys attacked them? Whose camera is still working?” Fee asked, her eyes moving frantically as she tried to process the scene in front of us.

It was useless, one by one the cameras went out or lay frozen in the dirt. Only the drone footage was actively keeping up with the fight; or what was left of it. It was a clusterfuck, Scythe was fighting, his hands and face a mess of blood and dirt. Reaper was handling his own, but the blood pouring out of his leg was concerning. Then, everything froze, and it felt like we were watching in slow motion.

Two figures entered the fray, causing the battles around them to stop abruptly. Tommy was the first of the two figures, his vest and form easily recognizable. The gun pointed at the back of his head was held by someone else.

The drone footage was shaky and far away, it felt like I was watching a football match from the nosebleed seats. It was obvious when Reaper stepped forward, though, his body language clearly attempting to barter with the man that was holding Tommy at gunpoint.

A shot rang out, the sound silencing everyone in that room. Tommy’s body dropped to the floor, the blood and brain matter visible from the height of the drone. An inhuman cry rang out from behind me as Seph dropped to her knees.

Tommy was dead. We had no idea how many of our men were injured as well, and in helpless agony, we had to watch as Crow and his men pulled Reaper and Scythe’s lifeless bodies from the scene. Turning to Fee, I saw as she wiped the tears from her eyes and straightened her back. My little warrior.

“Can you get Seph out of here? Call Match. Have him bring Beth and Lilah to the clubhouse. I want Charlie here, too. Send Guard down. Then stay upstairs, wait for the girls,” I told her. She nodded, her chin jutting out.

“Come on, Seph. Let’s get you upstairs.” She gathered the woman in her arms and brought her upstairs.

“Get all the charter heads on the phone now. Do not let that drone lose them. I want their exact location the entire time,” I told Keys, who was already typing away. The screens filled with the faces of Dagger, Brick, Whiskey, and Atom.

“They have Reaper and Scythe. Ambushed them in Ontario. I need whoever you have to head out there. We’ll transmit their location as we track it, but whoever's closest, I need you on alert and ready to ride out.”

The next few hours were agony. Atom’s guys made it to the scene of the ambush, where emergency responders were already on site. Atlas and Bull were in critical condition, and had been transported to Sault Area Hospital. Both were admitted to the ICU, and we were already sending backup. Logan and Wesson, along with my parents, would be heading out shortly.

Rage ate at me, needing to know where Reaper and Scythe were being taken.

Should have trusted my gut; should have known this was a set up. When the drone went down, a hush ran over the room. We had no eyes on Reaper and Scythe anymore. Just the small red dot indicating the trackers in their teeth. The light flashed and faded, disappearing depending on where they were. It was new technology—not reliable, but it was all we had.

Whiskey’s team was the closest, we had them riding toward the last known location we could pull. Audio was shotty, the sound of bikes and cars drowning out any dialogue. The sound of metal clashing on metal was jarring, but Whiskey’s response was even worse.

Background voices crackled across the phone line somewhere near him as we tried to make sense of the sounds and bits of conversation we could make out.

“Fucking hell! Get him down!” Whiskey’s voice boomed.

“Reaper!” Scythe’s anguished voice rang out, quieter, muddled as if far away. Then, he spoke again, his voice louder and more forceful this time.

“Is he alive?!”