Chapter Thirty-Two
BY THE TIME we hit the dirt road Mystic had clocked, the night had gone quiet in that wrong kind of way, the kind that didn’t feel empty so much as watched, like the woods themselves were holding their breath right along with us as we killed the engines a good distance out and rolled the bikes off into the trees, pushing them deep into the brush where the growth was thick enough to swallow them whole, branches dragging low across the handlebars while we worked them in farther, taking those extra seconds to make sure nothing caught the light, nothing stood out, because if the Fire Dragons had eyes out here, and they would, sloppy got you dead.
No one said much because no one needed to, the shift already happening as boots hit dirt and weapons were checked low and quiet, and then we moved, spreading just enough to cover ground without losing each other, the kind of formation that didn’t need to be called out because it came from doing this too many times to count, every step measured, every sound controlled as we worked our way along the tree line.
The road stretched ahead in a narrow cut through the trees, tire tracks fresh in the dirt and deep enough to tell me there’d been traffic recently, more than a couple bikes, more than a casual run, and that sat wrong in my gut as we pushed forward, keeping low, keeping quiet, the feeling settling in deeper with every step that something about this wasn’t lining up the way it should.
I felt it before I saw it, a flicker of movement up ahead that was too big to be an animal and too controlled to be anything natural, and I lifted a hand just enough for the others to catch it, slowing us without stopping as we dropped lower into the shadows and closed the distance.
The shapes started to form through the trees as we eased closer, and it didn’t take more than a second to realize what we were looking at, not bikers, not Fire Dragons, but something cleaner, more controlled, the kind of movement that didn’t belong to chaos but to planning, with vehicles tucked back behind the tree line in careful placement and men moving between them in quiet, efficient bursts, gear tight to their bodies, weapons ready, voices low and clipped in a way that told me everything before my brain even caught up.
Feds.
The word settled in hard as my jaw tightened, my eyes tracking movement without meaning to, counting heads, watching positions, reading the layout the way I’d been trained to read any threat, and the more I looked, the clearer it got, this wasn’t local, wasn’t something small or sloppy.
DEA.
Had to be.
There was no other way to explain the precision of it, the way they were setting up angles and coverage, the way every man out there moved like he knew exactly where he needed to be and what was coming next.
A voice muttered low somewhere behind me, a quiet “what the hell” that didn’t need answering because we were all seeing the same thing, all putting it together at the same time as the truth settled in deeper, they were staging for a hit.
And not a quiet one.
Mystic shifted just slightly to my left, not enough to draw attention but enough that I caught it in my peripheral, his focus locked in the same direction as mine, reading it just as fast, just as clearly, and I felt that realization hit all at once, sharp and unavoidable, that this wasn’t coincidence, wasn’t timing breaking our way.
This was about to blow.
“Circle,” he murmured, the word barely there but carrying anyway, and we didn’t argue or hesitate, just pulled back enough to stay out of their line of sight before cutting wider into the trees, moving slow and low as we worked our way around the edge of the operation, every step more careful now because getting caught between the Fire Dragons and a federal raid wasn’t a mistake you walked away from.
Branches snagged at my sleeves as we pushed through thicker brush, the ground uneven underfoot, but the farther we moved the more the sound shifted, growing louder, rougher, voices carrying through the trees in a way that didn’t match what we’d just left behind.
Laughter.
Shouting.
The Fire Dragons.
Somewhere inside that building, in the middle of all of it, I could feel it pulling at me, that need to move, to push forward, to get eyes on an entry point and find a way in before everything went to hell, but we never got the chance, because the night exploded behind us, engines roaring to life without warning, no longer hidden or controlled as headlights tore through the trees in sharp, blinding beams and voices shouted over each other, commands snapping loud and fast—
“Federal agents! Don’t move!”
Gunfire cracked before the words even finished carrying, and everything collapsed into chaos as Mystic’s voice cut low through it—“Up”—already moving as we followed without hesitation, not running or bolting but climbing, hands grabbing bark and boots finding holds in trunks we’d barely registered seconds before, hauling ourselves up into the trees just as the clearing lit up with flashing lights and muzzle bursts, the whole place turning into a war zone in the span of a breath.
I pulled myself onto a thick branch and settled low against it, body pressed in tight as I looked down through the leaves, watching the Fire Dragons scatter, some reaching for weapons, some already firing back, while the DEA pushed in hard and fast, trained for this, cutting angles and locking down exits as screams and shouting and the crash of breaking glass tore through the night, and through all of it I searched, tracking every doorway, every window, every shift of movement, looking for her.
“Hold,” Mystic said from somewhere to my right, his voice calm even with everything going to hell below us, and I locked it down, forcing myself to stay put even as every instinct in me fought it, because dropping in now would be suicide, and it wouldn’t help her.
Movement near the front pulled my focus, a line of agents pushing forward with purpose as one of them stepped just ahead to take point, issuing orders like he owned the entire scene, his voice cutting clean through the noise with the kind of authority that made men listen whether they wanted to or not, and then I saw his face, clear in the flashing lights, recognition hitting fast and sharp enough to tighten my grip on the branch.
No way.
“That’s—” Chain started under his breath.
“Motherfucker!” Horse snarled.
“Yeah,” I muttered, eyes still locked on him.
Tom Montgomery.
The name landed heavy, dragging up half-forgotten conversations about Brenda and the man she’d been seeing, the one I’d never paid much attention to because he’d sounded like nothing, just some guy who sold insurance, just another name, but this wasn’t that, wasn’t anything close.
This was a DEA lead running a full raid on the Fire Dragons.
Below us, Montgomery moved like he’d done this a hundred times, controlled and precise, calling shots that shifted the entire flow of the operation, and all I could think as I watched him was how deep this just got, how much bigger it was than we’d thought.
From where I was pressed into the crook of the tree, the whole scene spread out below in flashes of light and movement, the DEA pushing in hard while the Fire Dragons scrambled to answer it, and somewhere inside that chaos, somewhere behind those walls, was Evie, close enough now that it sat under my skin like something alive, something pulling me forward whether it made sense or not.
I shifted before I fully realized I was doing it, weight moving, grip tightening on the branch as I tracked the side of the building, already mapping angles, already looking for a way down that didn’t put me straight into a line of fire, because if there was even a chance, if there was a window, a blind spot, a second where no one was looking, a hand closed around my arm.
Not hard.
Didn’t need to be.
“Don’t,” Devil said low from somewhere just above and behind me, his voice carrying that authorative edge that cut through everything else without raising in volume.
I didn’t look at him right away, my focus still locked on the clubhouse, on the back entrance where two agents had just cleared through, because if they were moving that side, then maybe—
“She’s in there,” I said, my voice quieter than it should’ve been but tight enough to give me away anyway, the words dragging rough on the way out as I shifted again, already testing my footing.
“I know,” Devil answered, just as calm, just as steady, like we weren’t watching the whole place turn into a war zone.
“That’s my in,” I pushed, nodding toward a stretch of shadow along the side of the building where the light didn’t quite reach, where movement might get lost if it was fast enough, quiet enough, and I could feel it building in me now, that pull, that need to move before the chance disappeared.
His grip tightened just enough to stop that thought where it started.
“No,” he said, and there was nothing soft in it now, no room left for argument.
I exhaled hard through my nose, jaw tightening as I finally looked back at him, meeting his gaze through the branches, and he didn’t flinch, didn’t shift, just held it like he knew exactly where my head was at and wasn’t letting me go there.
“They’ll miss something,” I said, pushing anyway, because I couldn’t not, because every second we stayed put felt like one more second she was in there alone. “They’re focused on the main floor, on the men, on the guns, if she’s locked down somewhere, if she’s—”
“And you running in blind fixes that?” he cut in, quiet but cutting enough to land.
I didn’t answer.
Didn’t have one that didn’t sound exactly like what it was.
Reckless.
“She’s not dead,” Devil went on, his voice lowering just a fraction, not softer but more deliberate, like he was choosing each word before he let it out. “Drago didn’t want her dead.”
“They’re clearing the place,” he continued, eyes flicking back down to the raid before returning to me. “Room by room, slow and thorough, and that gives her a better shot than you dropping into the middle of that mess and turning it into something else.”
My hands flexed against the branch, grip tightening until the bark bit into my palms as I forced myself to stay where I was, even as every instinct in me pushed the other direction, telling me to move, to go, to do something instead of sitting up here watching it play out like I didn’t have a stake in it.
“She’s not just some woman in there,” I said, the words low, rough, dragged out whether I wanted them to be or not.
Devil didn’t miss a beat. “I know exactly who she is,” he replied, and there was something heavier in that now, something that cut through the rest of it. “That’s why you’re staying right where you are.”
Below us, another burst of gunfire cracked through the night, followed by shouting, movement shifting fast across the clearing as the DEA pushed deeper into the building, and I dragged my gaze back to it, locking in again, forcing my focus where it needed to be.
Watching.
Tracking.
Waiting.
Because as much as it went against everything in me, as much as it scraped raw under my skin, he was right.
Dropping in now wouldn’t save her.
It would just make sure neither of us made it out.