Chapter 23 Havoc
HAVOC
Iswing onto my Low Rider, the familiar weight of it grounding me as I kick it alive. The vibration travels up my spine, settling something restless inside my chest. Diesel pulls up beside me, and across from us, Bishop and Rook mount their bikes.
For a second, we just sit there.
Two clubs. One road. Same direction.
Didn’t think I’d live to see the day.
“Let’s ride,” I mutter.
We tear down the blacktop in a tight formation—Diesel at my side, the Forsaken just ahead. It’s not long until my brothers join us, filing in behind us.
The sky is bleeding out the last of dusk, that deep indigo giving way to night.
Out here, away from town, there’s nothing but winding roads, dense woods, and the occasional flicker of porch lights in the distance.
The wind whips against my face, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine.
My headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating cracked asphalt and roadkill we swerve around without thinking.
Bishop said Switchback’s cabin is twenty minutes out. Jinx should be waiting when we get there, seeing as he’s closer to it than we are.
I keep my eyes moving. Tree line. Ditches. Driveways. Looking for anything out of place.
After what feels like forever, we turn off the main road onto a narrower stretch. Gravel crunches under our tires as we slow just enough not to wipe out.
The trees close in tighter here, branches hanging, street lights and houses gone. But there’s a glow up ahead, peeking through the foliage. The cabin.
“Lights on,” I murmur when we come to a stop.
“Yeah,” Diesel replies. “And I see movement.”
So do I.
“He’ll have heard us,” Riot says from behind me. “No way he misses a dozen bikes pulling up on him.”
Ahead, Bishop and Rook greet an absurdly good-looking Forsaken who must be their road captain, Jinx.
“What the fuck,” Ace murmurs. “He looks like he should be on the cover of GQ, not riding a bike.
Ryder snorts, and Preacher cackles under his breath. I feel my shoulders easing a fraction—we’re in a serious fucking situation, but I have my boys with me. We’ve always handled everything life threw at us and laughed about it after.
“Shadows shifting all over the place,” I tell Bishop once we huddle up.
“Yeah,” he grunts. “‘Bout to have bullets rain down on us.”
“How are we handling this?” Jinx asks, hands in his pocket like he’s in line at a popcorn stand.
I look at Riot. “Split up? See if we can box ‘em in and overwhelm them?”
He nods at me, then pulls out his gun, checking the chamber. “Sounds good to me, Prez.”
Diesel takes over. “Ace, Ryder, Trig, head back left. Riot, Gun, Preach, back right.”
The men peel off without a word, skirting around the cabin like ghosts.
“Let’s knock on his door,” Rook says, eyes hard, his posture determined.
Bishop nods, taking out his own gun—a flashy Desert Eagle.
“You compensating for something with that, brother?” Diesel asks him with a smirk.
Bishop grins back, violence already simmering in his dark eyes.
“Why don’t you ask your momma?” he counters, making Rook snort out a laugh.
“My mom already raised three boys, doesn’t need a fourth,” Diesel shoots back without a moment of hesitation.
“Alright, alright,” I huff, though I can’t help chuckling. “Measure your dicks later. It’s go time.”
I palm my own piece and go low, nodding at the Forsaken one last time as we split and shuffle closer.
“Count four… no, five outside,” Diesel whispers, crouching beside me. “Armed.”
I nod, eyes locked on the cabin.
Two by the porch. One pacing. Two near a truck parked out front. All hired muscle.
“They’re expecting us. But they’re jittery as fuck,” I comment quietly.
“Good,” Diesel whispers back. “Let’s have them shitting their pants for about five more seconds.”
I smirk, then count to five. One last deep breath… then all hell breaks loose.
Gunfire cracks through the night, shattering the quiet like glass.
Bishop drops the first guy before he even has time to turn, the man hitting the dirt with a wet thud. I move at the same time, stepping out from cover and squeezing the trigger.
One shot. Two. The guard by the truck jerks back, collapsing against the door.
“Contact!” someone shouts, too fucking late.
Diesel moves like a ghost beside me, controlled bursts taking down another before he can even raise his weapon.
Return fire lights up the trees. Bullets rip through bark, splinters flying.
I duck behind a thick trunk, feeling the impact thud inches from my shoulder.
“Left side!” Rook yells.
“I see him.”
I lean out just enough—spot the muzzle flash—and fire.
The shooter drops.
Silence hits for half a second, then the cabin door bursts open.
Three more men spill out, guns blazing.
“Jesus, how many fuckin’ clowns did he hire?” Diesel growls.
“Not enough,” I answer, stepping forward.
Adrenaline floods my system, sharp and clean.
This is familiar. Too familiar.
The rest of the Sinners bear down on the goons on the porch, coming out of the forest from both sides of the cabin.
I advance with Bishop on my flank, both of us firing in controlled rhythm. One of the men goes down clutching his gut, another takes a round straight to the chest.
The last one turns to run, and Riot nails him in the back before he makes it two steps.
Then there’s just the ringing in my ears and the smell of gunpowder hanging thick in the air.
I scan the perimeter, gun still raised.
“Everyone good?” I call.
“Good,” Riot answers.
“Clear,” Bishop confirms after a beat.
I nod once, then jerk my chin toward the cabin.
“Let’s go get the traitor. Diesel, with me. Everyone else, make sure there are no surprises around.”
“You got it, Prez,” Ace answers.
“Make him pay,” Gunner adds.
The porch creaks under our boots as we move up. Door’s hanging half open. Lights still on inside. I push it wider with the barrel of my gun.
“Switchback!” Bishop calls out, voice like thunder. “You better be alive, you piece of shit!”
There’s no answer.
I step inside first.
Living room’s a mess—beer bottles, ashtrays, a shotgun leaning against the wall.
And blood. Fresh, trailing down the hallway.
“Looks like he’s expecting us after all,” Diesel mutters behind me.
I tighten my grip on my gun.
“Good,” I growl. “Means he’s still here.”
“Kitchen,” Bishop mutters.
I nod once, then kick the door open.
Switchback’s sitting at the table like he’s been waiting for us. One arm’s braced against his side, blood soaking through his shirt. A pistol rests on the table in front of him, just out of reach.
“Well,” he rasps, lifting his head. His eyes flick between me and Bishop. “Ain’t this a fuckin’ reunion.”
Bishop steps in beside me, his presence filling the room with barely leashed violence.
“You stupid motherfucker,” he says quietly.
Rook moves fast, swatting the gun off the table. It skids across the floor. Diesel grabs Switchback by the collar and slams him back in the chair, the wood cracking under the impact.
Switchback grunts—but then he laughs. “There he is,” he wheezes, looking at Bishop. “The man who let it all go.”
I step forward, planting my hands on the table.
“Start talking,” I growl. “Who else is involved?”
Switchback’s gaze slides to me. Slow. Hateful.
“Still cleanin’ up Viking’s mess, huh?” he sneers. “Or you just fuckin’ what’s left of him?”
The room goes dead silent.
I don’t even remember deciding to move. My fist connects with Switchback’s jaw, snapping his head sideways. The chair nearly tips.
“Watch your fucking mouth,” I say, voice low enough to kill.
Blood drips from his split lip as he grins through it. “Touchy,” he mutters.
“Enough,” Bishop snaps.
He steps forward, grabbing Switchback by the front of his shirt and yanking him upright.
“I want answers,” he says, voice like steel. “Now.”
Switchback spits blood onto the floor.
“You already know the answer,” he says. “You just don’t like it.”
“Then say it,” Rook growls.
Switchback’s eyes flick between them, then he leans back, like he’s settling in for a story.
“It should’ve been me. Savannah was mine,” he says, voice roughening. “Everyone knew it.”
“No,” I cut in sharply. “You thought she was. It was always Vike for her.”
“She chose him,” Switchback says, like the words still burn. “Chose that Sinner piece of shit over a man who knew her her whole life.”
“That was her choice,” Diesel snaps.
“And it got her killed!” Switchback roars, slamming his fist on the table. The movement makes him wince, blood seeping faster through his shirt.
I exchange a look with Bishop. Was all of this really over a woman? Even if it was one as incredible as Sasha’s mom.
“You remember Grim?” Switchback goes on, talking to Bishop now. “Or you forget that too?”
Bishop’s expression darkens. “I remember,” he says.
“Viking put him in the ground,” Switchback says. “Our Prez. Our fucking anchor.”
“And we took out an innocent fucking woman tryin’ to get revenge,” Bishop shoots back. “We voted. We ended it.”
“We buried it,” Rook adds.
Switchback laughs again, shaking his head. “You buried it,” he says. “I didn’t. And I couldn’t get over what I did.”
“The car bomb,” I say flatly. “It was your idea. Told your club it was payback for Grim.”
Switchback doesn’t deny it. “Wasn’t hard,” he says. “Everyone was still pissed. Still hurting. Needed someone to point the finger at.”
“Finish it,” Bishop orders when Switchback goes silent.
“She wasn’t supposed to die,” the asshole seethes. “That was meant for him.”
“And whose fault is that?” Diesel snarls.
Switchback’s eyes blaze. “His,” he spits. “Always his. If he hadn’t come around—”
“If you hadn’t planted the bomb,” I cut in coldly, “she’d still be alive.”
Switchback flinches, his eyes going distant for a moment. Then the rage comes back, stronger than before.
“I spent twelve years trying to fix it,” he spits. “Trying to make it right.”
“By starting a war?” Diesel scoffs.
“By finishing what should’ve been done,” Switchback snaps. He looks at Bishop again, his eyes accusing. “You let it go. You let him walk.”
“We chose survival,” Bishop growls. “We chose the club.”
“You chose him over her!” Switchback fires back.
“No,” Rook cuts in, voice deadly calm. “We chose not to bury more brothers.”
“So I did it myself,” he says finally.
“And there it is,” Diesel mutters.
My hands ball into fists at my side. This piece of shit caused so much suffering.
“Couldn’t turn enough of the club,” Switchback admits, sneering at Bishop. “Too many of you went soft. So I found men who weren’t.”
“Hired muscle,” Rook says, shaking his head.
Switchback nods. “Gave ’em cuts,” he adds with a smirk. “Figured if the Sinners saw our patches again, they’d come knocking.”
“Fake patches,” Bishop repeats, disgust thick in his voice.
Switchback shrugs. “War needed a spark.”
“And Sasha?” I ask, my voice dropping as something inside me goes ice cold.
Switchback’s eyes slide to me, and that’s when I notice the unhinged gleam in them.
“If I couldn’t have Savannah,” he says slowly… “figured I’d take something of his.”
I’m across the table before anyone can stop me, dragging him up by his shirt and slamming him against the wall. The wood cracks behind him.
“You don’t talk about my old lady,” I snarl. “You don’t even think about her.”
He laughs in my face. “Too fucking late. Ever noticed how much she looks like her mom?”
I roar with rage, seeing red. My fist drives into his gut, again and again, until Diesel puts his hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t kill him,” he warns. “Not yet.”
I step back, chest heaving, breath sawing in and out.
Switchback sags against the wall, barely conscious now. But still smiling.
Fucking psycho.
Bishop steps forward slowly, looking down at him with disappointment, rage, and something like grief.
“All this,” he says quietly. “For something that was over.”
“It was never over,” Switchback whispers.
Bishop nods once, then he looks at me.
“Your call,” he says. “He killed your Prez.”
And tried to take my woman.
I roll my shoulders, staring at Switchback.
“Make him talk,” I say coldly. “Names. Everyone involved.”
I crouch in front of him, grabbing his chin and forcing his eyes open.
“Then we end it.”