Baja (Fallen Ravens MC #3)

23. Salem

23

SALEM

The room feels like a ticking bomb about to blow. I’m clenching my fists so damn tight my knuckles might split. Like me, my brothers are dead silent, the kind that makes the air thick and heavy. Mystic paces restlessly like a lion trapped in a cage, each step reflecting his rage, while Harlem remains silent, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his face a hardened mask of stone. The tension in the room is palpable, vibrating in the air like a tight string about to snap.

Nearby, Laredo is on a laptop, doing his best to trace the signal location of the call as Juneau stands behind him, staring at the computer screen. Both men’s faces mirror the mood in the room with their expressions, their eyes darkened by rage and worry.

I stare at my phone lying on the table. Havoc’s voice has been on repeat in my head since he ended the call. “ You’ve got two hours.”

The bastard.

One thing we won’t do is kneel.

The image of Baja bloody and beaten is burned in my brain. I take a deep breath, push through the rage boiling in my chest, and focus on our next move.

Mystic stops pacing, slamming his fist hard into the wall. “Fuck!” he rages.

“Get your shit together,” I snap, the tension in my body coiled tight.

Harlem straightens. “What’s the plan, Prez?” His tone carries an edge.

I look at Laredo, who is laser-focused on the computer screen. “Got a location pinged yet?”

“The signal puts them in this radius.” He spins the laptop around for me to get a closer look. “I’m willin’ to bet they’re hold up at the old textile mill.” Laredo’s voice is cold.

“It’s the best fuckin’ lead we got.” I check my weapon, holstered at my side. “As planned, Laredo, you and Juneau stay behind. Watch over the clubhouse and our family. We can’t leave them unprotected.” I holster my weapon. “They’re all scared shitless and are gonna want answers, but we ain’t supplyin’ any. Got it.” My gaze travels around the room. “They only need to know we are g’tting' our brother back.” I move toward the door. “Let’s move. I’m itchin’ to put some bullets in Phantom Riders’ skulls.”

The engines roar like wild beasts, reverberating as we hurtle down the road, cutting through the darkness. The wind howls, sharper and colder than ever, tearing through me. Yet, it can’t extinguish the raging fire deep in my chest. I tighten my grip on the throttle, adrenaline surging as I push my bike to its limit with Mystic and Harlem behind me.

Headlights appear around the bend in the road—three of them.

I signal my men to fan out and draw my weapon as the approaching motorcycles close in fast. One rider takes the lead, gunning his bike straight for me.

Gunfire erupts, sharp cracks echoing through the darkness. A bullet whizzes past my shoulder, too close for comfort. I aim for the rider in front of me. My first shot misses, but the second hits the motherfucker square in the chest. The bastard’s bike wobbles, then slams into the pavement, sending him tumbling like a ragdoll.

Harlem takes out the second rider, his bike skidding out of control and crashing into a ditch.

Mystic handles the third one, firing multiple shots at the son-of-a-bitch, one of the bullets hitting a tire. The rubber blows, and the bike flips, sending the rider flying.

We keep going, not looking back.

We can’t afford to.

Time is slipping through our fingers.

We need to get to Baja before it’s too damn late.