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We throttle up in unison, moving like a well-oiled machine. This is why I live for the club—the brotherhood. No hesitation. When one bleeds, we all do. You ride together, fight together, die together if it comes to that.

There’s a sudden sound of tires that aren’t ours. Headlights explode behind us—high beams, aggressive, closing way too fast. A blacked-out SUV bursts from a hidden trail, engine screaming. Another appears ahead, swerving into our lane like it’s trying to play chicken with Pres.

“It’s a fucking ambush!” Judge’s voice booms over comms.

All hell breaks loose.

The lead SUV clips Fuse’s rear wheel. His bike wobbles violently, tires screeching as he fights for control. Gunshots crack from the tree line—sharp, deadly pops. Bullets zip past my helmet, one pinging off my exhaust. I duck low, heart slamming, and yank my gun free. Pres swerves hard left, signaling the counter. Diesel roars up alongside the trailing SUV, boots out, kicking into the side door before unloading rounds into the tires.

I twist in my seat, bike steady under me through years of muscle memory, and fire at the rear vehicle. Spiderwebs appear in the safety glass. The SUV fishtails but keeps coming, trying to sideswipe Ledger into the ditch. Lennox is right there with me, laying down suppressive fire, his shots precise and deadly.

“Tatum’s right!” I shout into the comms, voice raw over the roar. “They’re coming for blood—fuck, she found something massive.”

The world shrinks to pure survival: throttle, brake, lean, shoot. One SUV slams into Judge's bike. Metal shrieks as it cartwheels away in a shower of sparks, crumpling against the pavement. Judge twists free at the last second, staggering but staying upright, his gun already hammering out rounds. We circle tight like a pack of wolves protecting our own—engines thundering. Fuse takes a graze to the arm, blood blooming dark on his sleeve, but the man doesn’t slow. He fires back with a roar, hitting the driver’s window.

“Push through! Don’t stop for shit!” Pres commands, voice steel.

We break their line with raw force and firepower. One SUV spins wildly into the trees, crashing hard. The second peels off, taillights disappearing into the dark. My chest heaves, adrenaline surging like fire in my veins. Bruises and road rash will come later, but right now, all I feel is rage. For my brothers. For her.

Was this timed with her digging?

Do they know she is alone?

We regroup a mile out in a wide pull-off, engines idling low. Judge is on his feet, battered but furious, wiping blood from a split lip. Ledger checks Fuse’s wound—thank fuck, it’s shallow. Diesel’s reloading, cursing a blue streak. Pres’s face is carved from granite under the moonlight filtering through the trees.

“What the actual fuck was that?” Diesel growls.

“Testing boundaries,” Lennox replies, eyes locking on mine. “Tatum warned us right before they showed up. Get members on the phone and make sure the compound is protected. We ride back now.” I finally pull out my phone. The screen lights up with her messages.

Tatum:

Come back. Now. It’s important. Don’t wait. You’re in danger.

I show Pres the text. His jaw sets. “She has to know more than they want us to. Compound. Double time.” The ride back is a tense blur—every shadow a threat, every distant engine a possible tail. My mind races with worst-case scenarios: Thomas cornering her again, someone getting into the compound and compromising it. By the time the gates swing open under those harsh floodlights, my nerves are raw. We roll in hot, bikes kicking up dust, cuts streaked with grit and gunpowder residue.

Tatum’s waiting just outside the front doors, pacing under the porch light. Her eyes find me instantly—relief crashing over her features, mixed with that fierce heat we can’t seem to turn off. She rushes forward as we dismount, checking the group with sharp, assessing glances. She takes in the blood coming off Fuse’s arm, trying to hide her alarm.

“Everyone okay? Fuck, I got the texts but couldn’t find you guys on any road cams—” Her voice is steady, but I hear the undercurrent of fear.

Lennox pulls her into a brief, crushing hug, scanning her for injuries out of habit. I hang back a beat, then step in, my hand brushing her waist, fingers pressing just enough to remind her I’m here. Alive. Hers.

We file into church—doors bolted, members on perimeter watch since prospects are compromised. Tatum wastes no time. She hooks up her encrypted drive to Judge’s laptop, fingers dancing across the keyboard as the monitor flares to life. Photos, logs, financial trails, chat dumps. The room falls into heavy silence as she breaks down what each of the things we are looking at are, her voice clear and commanding. This is her domain, and damn, if it doesn’t make my chest swell with pride.

My Spitfire.

“Thomas isn’t just some shady prospect,” she starts. “He’s Raymond Collins’s younger brother. Vice President of Redline Revenants. I pulled juvenile records, cross-referenced pings, club database leaks. He’s been funneling route intel, member details, as well as feeding Nicholas details on my every move. It started small at first. The type of bikes everyone rides, and how to identify each of yours. But then he got bold, and it got bigger fast. The ambush tonight was detailed in erased messages. I bet I could tell you how many SUVs and who was in them tonight before you can tell me. They knew you’d be out there.”

Then she brings up the texts from Nicholas on her phone, handing it to Lennox. The look on his face and the way his jaw tightens tells me I’d be pissed, too. My fists clench until the knuckles crack. I want to hunt both of them down myself. Pres leans in, voice low and dangerous, eyes locked on Tatum, handing her the phone back. “This is airtight? No way what you’ve got is wrong?”

“Do you really think I’d get texts like that if it wasn’t rock solid?” Tatum asks. “I wiped everything, reinforced backdoors, set silent alerts. But they knew I was in the system. Thomas is probably ghosting or prepping something worse right now.”

The meeting shifts from information into strategy. Ledger wants Thomas’s house raided immediately. Fuse, arm now bandaged, pushes for an immediate retaliation run. Judge suggests locking down borders and removing all current prospects until we can be sure Thomas has not convinced anyone to join his cause. Diesel’s already mapping all the abandoned routes and warehouses along them that could be used for hangouts or footholes into our territory. Pres stays close to Tatum, pride and worry warring on his face as he chimes in, “You researched us. What are our weaknesses, and how do we fortify this place?”

She jumps in seamlessly, like war is second nature to her. She pulls footage of the routes and warehouses for Diesel, runs backgrounds for Judge and more. I watch her give each question with detail, full thoughts that show us where we are weak, and how we can fix it. She executes each and every request with patience and precision. Exhaustion etches faint lines around her eyes, but she powers on.

“If you give me an hour, Lennox, I can have every weakness and a counter for it as well as fortifying you digitally to make sure cameras, phones, and anything else electronic is good.” Her voice is unshaken.

Hours bleed by. Ledger leads the raid on Thomas’s house—taking him into our custody and finding more evidence condemning him. A hidden burner, notes on each member he’s come into contact with, and photos. The club mobilizes fully. Members run patrols, rotating watches. Once we are all clear on what needs to go down, the room clears for all of us to clean up and rest for a little bit. Once the last person is out the door, I pull her into my arms before we walk out.