Chapter 16 Silver
SILVER
“You think fish ever get thirsty?”
Cash and I both turn to stare at Ozzie like he’s grown a second head. We’re mounted on our bikes outside the Steel Saloon, engines off, waiting to roll out for Tom’s brilliant plan to hit the Pena shipment.
The night’s quiet except for crickets and Ozzie’s random philosophical questions.
“I don’t know, Oz,” Cash finally says, adjusting his gloves. “You think that helmet’s squeezing your last two brain cells too tight?”
Ozzie chuckles, completely unbothered. “Joke’s on you. That ship sailed a long time ago, Cash my friend.”
We all laugh despite the tension of what we’re about to do. I check my watch. Almost ten p.m.
“Where the hell are Eddie and Johnny?”
“Johnny probably fell in,” Ozzie says with a grin, and we all know what he means. The guy’s got the bladder control of a seventy-year-old woman.
“That’s… possible,” Cash admits. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
I shake my head. The younger guys never miss a chance to give Flanagan shit. It reminds me of how Tom and I used to be when we were their age.
“Think this’ll go smooth?” Ozzie asks, his humor fading slightly. “Tom’s got us playing with fire here.”
Cash gives a half-shrug. “Mace wanted nothing to do with it. But can’t say I blame him. I’d rather be home right now. Kori and I had plans.”
“Speaking of Kori,” Ozzie says, his grin returning, “you still thinking about popping the question?”
“The question?” I repeat. I glance over at Cash with both brows raised. “You mean that question?”
Cash actually looks embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck like a teenager. “I don’t know. Maybe. Her divorce has been final for a while now, and we’ve been taking things slow. Just want to make sure it’s the right time.”
“Damn,” Ozzie whistles. “Mace off getting married. Logan’s got a kid. Now Cash is shopping for rings. Maybe me and Zoe need to go buy a toaster together or something. Make it official official.”
“What about you, Prez?” Cash asks, flipping things on me. He smiles broadly, showing off what Mace often called his “panty-dropper” smile. “Any special lady you’re not telling us about?”
“Vice Prez,” I correct, ignoring the rest of the question.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t answer it in my head—Solana’s pretty heart-shaped face immediately flashes in my mind.
Then I see her brown eyes fill with the same hurt and anger from last night. The way she looked when she told me to stay away from her. The way her lips felt pressed against mine for the few perfect seconds before everything went to hell.
It’s good that we fought. Good that she stormed out.
We can’t cross any more lines. She’s twenty years old, Eddie’s niece, my ex-wife’s babysitter. The list of reasons to stay away is longer than my rap sheet.
But fuck… it’s only been twenty-four hours, and I’m going crazy not talking to her. No text goodnight. No call about her upcoming audition. No laugh at something stupid I said. How did I get so used to her so fast? How did she become part of my routine without me noticing ’til she was gone?
This isn’t normal. I don’t remember falling this hard even for Rachel, and I married that woman. I had kids with her. Built a life with her. But I never felt this... obsessed.
Never counted the hours since we last talked. Never replayed a single kiss over and over in my mind like a broken record.
It’s just infatuation. It has to be. I’m a forty-five-year-old man having a midlife crisis over a girl young enough to be my daughter. It’s pathetic. It’s wrong in every conceivable way.
But fucking Christ… the way she kissed me back. Like she wanted it as much as I did and felt this same insane pull between us. I’ve kissed plenty of women in my life, but none of them lit me up like that.
Not a single one made me want to throw away every rule, every boundary, every piece of common sense just to do it again…
“Silver?” Cash asks, staring at me. “You good?”
“Yeah. No special lady. Too focused on keeping the club from imploding.”
The saloon door bangs open and Big Eddie and Johnny finally appear. Eddie’s laughing while Johnny looks pissed, his greasy brown hair hanging limp around his shoulders.
“Sorry we’re late,” Eddie calls out. “Johnny fell in.”
“I KNEW IT!” Ozzie whoops, pumping his fist in the air. “Called it! You piss sitting down, Flanagan? Like a chick?”
“Shut the fuck up!” Johnny growls, swinging his leg over his bike. “Big Ed’s lying. More like he was blowing up the toilet with that massive shit he took. Sounded like World War III in there.”
“Alright, enough,” I cut in before things devolve further. “Everybody ready to roll out? The transport truck should be coming through soon. Tom wants this clean and fast.”
Engines roar to life around me, drowning out the crickets and the doubt gnawing at my gut.
This is a bad idea. Hitting the Penas directly by destroying their product—it’s an act of war. But Tom’s calling the shots now, and we follow orders. That’s what we do.
As vice president, it’s my job to keep the guys in line. To make sure they follow what Tom wants. Even if I don’t agree myself, which is the hardest pill to fucking swallow.
We rev up and roll out, sliding into formation like we’ve done a thousand times before. As vice, I take lead while Cash falls back to ride Tail Gunner, watching our six. Eddie and Johnny flank me, Ozzie riding between us and Cash.
The lights of Pulsboro fade behind us as we hit the open highway. Texas stretches out ahead, flat and endless under a moonless sky. Nothing but asphalt and darkness and the occasional semi-truck barreling past with headlights bright enough to burn your retinas.
The wind blows through my hair, silver strands whipping back. This is where I truly thrive—the moments when it’s just me, the bike, and the road.
No Tom, no club politics, no inappropriate feelings for girls I shouldn’t want. Just the rumble of the engine between my legs and thoughts that finally have room to breathe.
Riding clears my head like nothing else. Always has.
The afternoon I caught Rachel with Fred, I didn’t kill him right then. Though if I gave into the blinding rage consuming me, I would’ve. I found the strength to walk out calm as could be, got on my bike, and rode for four hours straight.
The road took care of my rage, the wind processing it ’til I could think clearly. I could make sense of it.
Then… then I followed the bastard home from his office the next day. I beat him so bad he needed reconstructive surgery on his left orbital bone. As far as I’m concerned, he got off lucky—he’s still alive because I let the road talk me down enough to leave him breathing.
We pull off into the speed trap cops love to use when they need to up their ticket quota for the month.
Hidden by a cluster of mesquite trees and tall grass, we wait in the darkness.
“Should be passing through any minute now,” Ozzie says, checking his phone.
Five minutes crawl by. Then ten at an even slower, more tedious pace. Finally headlights appear in the distance, belonging to a box truck that bumbles down the road at exactly the speed limit.
The El Coyote Cargo logo is painted on the side, just like our intel said. A Mexican American courier company the Penas often use for their transports.
“That’s them,” I say. “Let’s move.”
We roar onto the highway behind the truck, engines thundering, high beams flashing. The universal signal to pull over. The truck keeps going, even speeding up.
“Stubborn bastards,” Ozzie mutters, then draws his pistol and puts a round through the left rear tire.
The truck immediately lurches, fishtailing before veering hard to the right. The driver overcorrects and slams into the steel barrier with a grinding screech of metal on metal. Sparks fly as the truck slides to a stop.
We’re on them as soon as it happens, weapons drawn, coming up both sides.
“Out of the truck! Hands where we can see them!”
The cab doors open slowly. Two Mexican men climb out with hands raised. They look like regular drivers—no cartel tats on their necks or forearms, and they’re not wearing any gang colors. Just working stiffs in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“On the ground!” Cash barks. “Face down, hands behind your head!”
They start to comply, dropping to their knees. Then the one on the left moves faster than we anticipate. His hand whips to his waistband and comes up with a Glock.
The muzzle flash is blinding in the dark. Ozzie grunts and spins, blood spraying from his shoulder.
Everything explodes from there.
We open fire as both drivers roll for cover behind the truck’s wheels, returning shots. The back door bursts open and two more men jump out, already shooting. Four against five, muzzle flashes lighting up the night like deadly fireflies.
I put two in the chest of the guy who shot Ozzie. He drops, gun skittering across the asphalt. Cash takes out one of the men from the back. Johnny and Eddie tag-team the other two, bullets punching through sheet metal and glass.
The whole firefight lasts maybe thirty seconds. When the smoke clears and the last echo fades, four bodies are sprawled on the tarmac, blood pooling black in the moonlight.
“Everyone good?” I yell, ears still ringing.
“I’m hit,” Ozzie groans, gripping his shoulder. Blood seeps between his fingers. “Just a graze but still hurts like a bitch.”
“Me too,” Eddie says, teeth gritted. The dark stain spreads on his left arm. “Think mine went through.”
My phone starts buzzing. Solana’s name flashes on the screen.
Now? What are the chances?
I decline the call and move to check Eddie’s wound.
“We need to get you both to the ER,” I say, but my phone’s buzzing again. A text comes in this time. I quickly glance at it.
I need your help.
Now please
It’s Kel…
My chest seizes from the onslaught of sudden tension. That piece of shit was due back today. What the fuck did he do now?
I’ve been waiting for him to get back. If not for the club mission tonight, I would’ve already handled him.
“Cash, you’re in charge,” I say, striding toward my bike. “Load the bodies into the truck. Then drop off Eddie and Ozzie at the hospital. Have Johnny dispose of the bodies when you get back.”
“Where are you going?” Cash calls.
“Emergency. Rachel needs help with the kids.”
I’m not usually a liar. Certainly not when it comes to using my ex-wife and kids as an easy way to get out of a situation.
But what other choice do I have?
Solana needs me.
I’m on my bike and gone before anyone can argue, pushing the Super Glide to its limits. The speedometer climbs past ninety, then past a hundred. Wind brushes at my cut, through my hair and against my face, but all I can think about is Solana’s text.
It’s Kel.
If he’s hurt her again, if he’s touched her… I’ll kill him on sight. Forget being strategic and planning things out before I ruin the kid. I’ll put a bullet in his brain and deal with the consequences later.
The bike rumbles beneath me as I lean into a curve, back tire sliding. I correct myself and accelerate harder.
Pulsboro’s lights appear in the distance, serving as a reminder of the choice I’ve made. I’ve left the mission half-finished and rushed off to handle other important business.
If I were thinking straight, I’d realize things are quickly piling up. Even after one quick mission.
Eddie’s bleeding in a stolen cartel truck. Four men are dead on the highway. Tom’s started a war we might not win. But Solana needs me.
Which means everything else can wait.
The Youngblood house is mostly dark when I pull up, engine still ticking from the hard ride. Only one light glows from what I suspect is Solana’s bedroom window. The rest of the house sits silent and empty.
I knock on the front door, three hard raps that echo in the quiet night.
Nothing answers me. Not even the pad of footsteps approaching. Not the sound of a TV that’s on inside.
I grab my phone and dial her number. It rings in my ear, soon sending me to voicemail.
“Solana!” I bang on the door harder, not caring if I wake the neighbors. “Open the door!”
If Kel’s in there with her, I’ll break every window in this house to get inside. My hand goes to the doorknob, ready to shoulder through if it’s locked.
But it turns easily. It’s unlocked.
That’s immediately concerning. Who leaves their front door unlocked at night in this day and age?
I step inside to find the house like I expected. The place is eerily quiet. It carries the same distinct vibe of an abandoned home, like there’s no life to be found anywhere.
I move through the living room, down the hallway, my boots heavy on the hardwood floors.
“Solana? It’s me. You alright?” I call out to no answer.
Her bedroom door is slightly open, a sliver of light pouring into the dark hallway. I push it wider and then freeze.
Kel Greene’s sprawled on the floor. His eyes are open, staring at nothing. Blood has pooled around him, originating from what looks like a deep stab wound in his gut.
My gaze lifts slowly, already knowing what I’ll find.
Solana’s perched on her bed, knees drawn to her chest, still clutching the knife she used to kill him.