Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 50311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 252(@200wpm)___ 201(@250wpm)___ 168(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 252(@200wpm)___ 201(@250wpm)___ 168(@300wpm)
This is club life, don’t question, trust your brother, period.
The road stretches long and empty ahead of us. Miles of hot Carolina asphalt bleeding into Tennessee hills, the kind of ride that makes a man feel free and trapped all at once. There’s no traffic, no cops, no bullshit. Just us, the hum of engines, and the distant promise of Memphis on the horizon.
Toon pulls up alongside me at a rest stop outside of the state line. We park behind the gas station, where the scent of diesel and old coffee hangs in the air.
“You’re quiet,” he says, flicking his kickstand.
“Thinking.”
“Dangerous habit.”
I smirk. “You ever think this is it?”
“This run?”
“No. This life.”
Toon lights a smoke. “You regretting it?”
“Not yet.”
“But you’re wondering.
“Always.”
He hands me a bottle of water. “You’re just feeling the pressure. It’s normal. Comes with responsibility.”
“I didn’t think it’d feel like this.”
He nods. “Because it’s real now. You’re not just earning the patch—you’re wearing it. Means you don’t get to mess up.”
We ride another hundred miles in near silence. The sun beats down hard, the kind of heat that sticks to your bones. I keep my head on a swivel. Can’t afford surprises.
We meet the supplier just outside the Memphis city limits. Industrial zone. Empty warehouses and busted chain-link fences. The contact is a guy called Rizzo—short, twitchy, too many rings on his fingers for someone who claims to keep a low profile.
We trade boxes, swap paperwork, pretend this is all legit.
But I clock the tension in Bishop’s shoulders. The way Mack keeps his hand near his vest.
Something’s off.
We roll out without incident, but the feeling follows me all the way to the hotel on the east side of town. Two rooms, two double beds, thin walls, and one vending machine that eats your dollar twice before it blinks out.
Toon sprawls across one bed and cracks open a beer. “You pacing all night, or you gonna sleep?”
“I’ll sleep when we’re home.”
He grunts. “Cambria get in your head?”
I shrug. “She’s there. But that ain’t what’s got me twisted.”
He nods toward the window. “You think Rizzo’s dirty?”
“I think we’re gonna find out.”
I text Rex a quick update, leave out the gut feelings, and tuck my phone under my pillow. Can’t shake it. The deal went too smooth. The handoff too clean.
I’ve been around long enough to know when silence means someone’s waiting for a bomb to drop.
Tomorrow, we ride hard and fast back to Catawba.
And if someone’s planning on following? They better be ready to bleed.
We’re barely two hours out of Memphis the next morning when the shit hits the fan.
Toon’s ahead of me by a hundred yards, the convoy stretched out over a flat stretch of highway with nothing but cornfields on either side. Mack radios in to say he’s pulling back to check a rattle in the rear axle, and Bishop’s voice crackles a second later to confirm he’s got eyes.
I don’t like the gaps forming.
I tap my throttle, move up beside Toon. “Something doesn’t feel right.” He glances at me, nods once, and picks up speed. That’s when I hear it—distant at first, then rising fast.
Engines.
Not ours.
I glance in the side mirror and catch the flash of headlights weaving between the trucks. Three sport bikes. No patches. No courtesy.
I tap my mic. “We got company.” Toon doesn’t answer, just veers toward the shoulder to give me room.
The lead rider pulls up next to our second truck, bangs on the side panel with something metal—probably a pipe—and shouts something we can’t hear over the roar of the engines.
That’s all I need.
I pull my Glock from the side holster and signal with two fingers—defensive formation. We’ve trained for this. But never for it to happen on my first damn run in charge.
One of the bikers cuts between us and kicks at the truck’s wheel well. Toon drops back behind him, pulls his piece, and fires once—clean, straight to the back tire. The bike wobbles, skids, and crashes hard into the gravel. The rider rolls, limp and visibly shaken.
I don’t wait to see if he gets up.
The other two scatter—one peels off into the ditch, the other veers across the opposite lane and disappears behind a hill. I track him with my eyes, but we don’t give chase. Not with the shipment in tow.
Mack comes roaring up a minute later, face pale. “What the hell was that?”
“Test,” I say, wiping sweat from my brow. “Someone wanted to see if we’d bleed.”
We stop at the next rest station. I call Rex and give him the full report. He doesn’t yell. Doesn’t panic. Just says, “Get it home. Then we talk.”
I hang up and catch Toon looking at me.
“What?”
He lights a smoke. “You just earned a little more than respect.”
I snort. “Earned a fucking headache.”
He nods. “Yeah. But also their attention.”
We make it back to Catawba before midnight, and I don’t even go to the clubhouse. I go straight to the trailer. She’s asleep when I open the door, curled on the edge of the bed like she doesn’t know if she belongs in the middle yet. I strip off the grime of the road and crawl in beside her. She stirs but doesn’t wake.