Chapter 20 Rook
Calla’s standing by the gate when I swing a leg over the bike, morning light catching the steel in her eyes. She doesn’t ask me to stay. Doesn’t need to.
I cup her face in both hands and kiss her hard, a promise pressed against the cold dawn. “I’m bringing our son home,” I tell her, voice low but carved in stone.
“I know,” she whispers, fierce and sure. “Go.”
Ash signals the pack, and the engines roar to life, creating a wall of sound that rattles the gravel.
Montreal and Northern Ontario fall in behind us, but I’m barely aware of anything except the fire in my chest. We ride fast and silent; the mountains open before us like a wound.
My mind narrows to a single point: Beau.
When we hit the junction off Route 3, Grimm signals left toward the cut road, but something in the air drags me right—a thin trail of smoke curling through the trees, a scent of fuel and cold iron. I don’t wait.
I crack the throttle and tear off the main track, the roar of my engine shattering the quiet woods. Behind me, the pack shouts, but their voices fade.
Ahead, through the pines, a cluster of rusted trailers crouches like predators in the mist. The Scorpions’ holdout. My blood pounds a single rhythm: He’s my legacy. And I’m done waiting.
A shadow flashes in my mirror—too close, too fast. I jerk the bars just as another bike slides up alongside me, engine snarling to match my speed. Grimm.
He lifts his visor just enough for me to catch the grin cutting across his face. “Think I’d let you rescue my best buddy alone?”
The rush in my chest eases a fraction, but I don’t slow. “Could’ve fooled me,” I growl over the wind.
“Yeti’s bringing the rest of the pack,” he shouts back, voice a steady rumble through the helmet. “We’ve got your six.”
I glance at him, the trees whipping past in a blur of black and silver. Grimm’s eyes are fixed forward, calm and sharp, like this is just another night run instead of the fight of our lives.
“Then let’s finish it,” I say, throttle twisting harder.
We ride side by side, the roar of two engines splitting the mountain silence as the Scorpions’ hideout looms larger through the trees.
The road narrows to a scar through the pines, moonlight catching on wet granite and the silver flash of Grimm’s blade strapped to his bars. I downshift, engine snarling low. Every sense sharpens—oil smoke in the air, the copper bite of cold metal, the stink of a fire dying somewhere close.
Grimm glances over, helmet visor up just enough for me to see the grin that means hell’s about to open. “You sure this is it?” he calls.
I nod once. “Lights cut five minutes back. They’re here.”
We kill the engines in the tree line. The sudden silence is a gun to the head—thick, waiting.
Far off, a single window flickers. We roll the last hundred yards on nothing but momentum, gravel whispering under the tires.
Shadows of bikes and men drift against the corrugated siding of the Scorpions’ hideout.
Grimm’s eyes stay fixed forward, calm and cold, like this is any other night ride instead of a warpath. I meet his gaze, feel the weight of the gun at my hip. “Then let’s finish it.”
He grins wider. “After you.”
The door gives under my boot with a splintering crack. Inside, the room freezes. Beau sits cross-legged on a scarred table, calmly munching a cookie. Beside him, a leather-clad Scorpion blinks like he’s stumbled into the wrong universe.
“Told you,” Beau announces, grinning when he spots Grimm behind me. “See? Right in your wall. I said Grimm lives in the walls!”
The biker’s confusion lasts a heartbeat too long. I raise my Glock and squeeze. One down. The second man lunges from the shadows, shotgun half-raised. I pivot, fire. Two.
Grimm is already moving—silent, efficient. A blade flashes, and the last Scorpion drops without a sound. I cross the room in three strides, heart hammering. Beau looks up, eyes wide but steady, crumbs on his chin.
“You okay, buddy?” My voice comes out rougher than I expect.
He nods, unfazed. “They didn’t let me get my fox. Can we go home now?”
I scoop him into my arms, holding him tight against the pounding in my chest. “Yeah,” I breathe, the word a promise. “We’re going home.”
The world stays sharp and silent for a heartbeat after the last shot fades.
Then the night fills with engines—low, familiar.
Headlights slash across the clearing as the rest of the Bastards roll in, black kuttes catching the moon.
Ash is first through the trees, Ridge right behind, the others fanning out like a pack of wolves.
They don’t need words. Doors slam, boots hit gravel, and they sweep through the other rusted trailers with practiced precision. Metal groans, locks break, lights flare and die.
“All clear,” Ridge calls at last, his voice flat and deadly.
I holster my Glock and cross to Beau. He’s still perched on the table, crumbs on his chin, calm as if we just left a diner instead of a firefight.
“Time to go, buddy.” I lift him down, the smell of sugar and gunpowder clinging to both of us.
Outside, Ash is already motioning to the road. “Let’s ride.”
I settle Beau on my bike in front of me, strapping his little helmet tight. My arms lock around him like iron. I don’t care if I can’t breathe. Grimm swings into position on my left, Yeti rumbles up on my right, their engines a promise no one will touch us.
We roll out as one, headlights cutting through the dark, brothers closing ranks, my son warm against my chest and my grip unbreakable all the way home.
The miles blur under our tires until the clubhouse lights rise out of the dark like a beacon. Gravel spits beneath us as we pull in, Ash and Ridge already peeling off to block the gate, Grimm and Yeti still tight at my sides.
I kill the engine, but don’t loosen my hold. Beau’s small hands stay fisted in my kutte, head tucked beneath my chin. Only when Calla bursts out the door—barefoot, wild-eyed, Beau’s fox in hand—do I finally breathe.
She reaches us, palms shaking as she cups our boy’s face, then mine. No words, just the three of us locked together while the roar of the bikes dies around us.
For the first time all night, I let go.