Chapter 26 Silver
SILVER
Glass explodes around us.
I shove Solana down under the dashboard, my body curving over hers as bullets cut through the windows, spraying shards everywhere. The sounds are deafening—the crack of gunfire, the shatter of glass, the roar of a motorcycle engine.
Then, as quickly as it started, it stops.
The bike peels off down the road, rounding the next street corner by the time I look up.
I stay hunched over Solana for a beat, my heart slamming against my ribs, adrenaline coursing through my veins.
Then I push myself up and scan the road through the destroyed window.
The bike’s getting smaller in the distance, but before it was able to drive off, I caught a glimpse of the license plate.
The Road Rebels insignia was unmistakably stamped across it—an illustrated bike crashing through a road of rubble.
Here I was assuming the Penas have been behind the shitshow that’s been going on when it seems old rivals had other ideas.
“Solana,” I rasp, pulling her up and searching her all over. Her arms, her shoulders, her face. “Baby, you alright? You hit anywhere?”
She’s trembling, her eyes wide and glassy with shock, but she shakes her head. “I… I don’t think…”
She trails off, unable to even finish her sentence. But I’ve already spotted the blood trickling down the side of her neck from her ear. A piece of glass must’ve caught her when the window shattered.
“Fuck,” I growl. Pure murderous rage surges through me, white-hot and consuming. Somebody shot at my woman. Somebody made her bleed.
Which means somebody’s gonna fucking die tonight.
“Buckle up, baby.” I start up the truck, jaw tight and chiseled from the tension lancing through it. “I can’t let this shit slide again. I have to go after him.”
I yank the wheel hard, pulling a sharp U-turn that sends gravel spraying. The tires crunch against the asphalt as I barrel after the motorcycle, the engine roaring as I push it to its limits.
The biker’s got a head start, but he’s on a bike and I’m in a truck with a whole lot of horsepower and even more rage.
His taillights come into view as he weaves through the sparse traffic ahead. He’s headed for the road leading out of Pulsboro. He’s trying to escape. Disappear into the ether like the coward he is.
Not on my fucking watch.
I push the gas harder, the speedometer climbing.
Fifty. Sixty. Seventy.
I cut off a sedan, swerve around a pickup, my focus laser-locked on the Road Rebel. The dusty streets of Pulsboro whiz past us—storefronts, streetlights, the old water tower—all of it blending into streaks of color as I close the distance.
“Silver—” Solana murmurs out of fear. She’s placed a hand on the dash like she’s bracing for a crash.
“Stay down,” I bark, not taking my eyes off the road. “This is about to get rough.”
I ram the truck into the back of the bike.
The impact jolts through our vehicle while up ahead the biker wobbles, fighting for control. He struggles to stay in his lane, his hand reaching for his hip.
His gun.
I shove Solana down again a split second before he twists and fires blindly behind him. The shots go wide, punching holes in the afternoon air as I swerve the truck left, then right.
I ram him again. Harder this time. More forcefully.
The bike careens sideways, the rider’s arms pinwheeling as he loses any last control.
He hits the ditch at the side of the road and goes flying, the motorcycle flipping end over end before crashing into the grass with a sickening crunch of metal.
The wheels are still spinning when I throw the truck into park and grab my Glock from the center console.
“Lock the door,” I order Solana. “Don’t get out. You understand me?”
She nods, completely mute as she sits tucked into the corner of the passenger seat. Her ear’s still bleeding, the sight of it making my trigger finger itch.
I get out of the truck and stride toward the wreckage.
The masked biker is collapsed in the grass next to his smoking bike, groaning and fumbling for his gun. He senses me approaching and wants his piece.
I’m quicker. Much quicker.
I cock the hammer and shoot him in the kneecap.
No words. No preamble necessary. Just a bullet to blow out his kneecap and illustrate how fucking serious this moment is.
His scream is raw and throaty, ringing out for seemingly miles. His entire body spasms as blood spurts from the ruined joint. He writhes on the ground like a fish on a hook, his gloved hands clutching at his leg.
I watch on with cold detachment, then crouch down and rip the bandana off his face.
He’s young.
Some punk-faced kid who can’t be older than twenty. Maybe twenty-one. Patchy stubble, acne scars, terror swimming in his pale blue eyes.
A prospect, probably. Some dumb kid sent out on a mission to earn his place in the Road Rebels.
I remember what that was like—back in the day, the old prez, Walter “Skull” Hurst, sent me and Tom to vandalize the Road Rebels clubhouse. It was supposed to be our final test to prove we deserved to be Steel Kings.
That was the night Tom murdered one of their elder members and stirred up shit we’re still dealing with thirty years later.
“Who are you?” I ask, my tone flat. “Who sent you?”
His teeth are chattering, sweat gleaming on his pallid face, but he doesn’t answer. He simply shakes his head, trying to be brave. Trying to be loyal.
I don’t have time for fucking loyalty.
“I’m not fucking around.” I aim the Glock at his other knee. “I expect answers. Now.”
He offers up nothing except ragged breaths and whimpers of pain.
So I pull the trigger.
The second kneecap explodes in another gory spray of blood. His scream is so loud birds take flight from the power lines overhead, scattering into the sky like they’re seeking refuge.
He’s started sobbing, snot and tears mixing on his face. But I don’t feel shit for him. Not an ounce of pity or mercy.
Nothing but cold, cruel fury.
I take aim at his forehead next, standing over him like an executioner. “I’m not gonna ask you again. You tell me who the fuck sent you after me, or I blow your fucking brains out on the third bullet. You hear me?”
“Okay! Okay!” He’s blubbering, the words tumbling out between desperate cries.
“Please don’t kill me… please… it… it was Wheels!
Wheels sent me! It was my initiation mission, man, I swear!
I don’t even know who you are or why he wants you dead.
I was just told to follow you and… and shoot at your girlfriend.
Just a warning, not to kill. I swear to god, man, please—”
“Shut the fuck up with your begging!” I roar over him, finger hovering over the trigger. “You think I’m about to feel sorry for you after the shit you’ve pulled?”
“Silver, check his phone!”
The voice comes from behind me, so sudden I momentarily forget about the violent rage coursing through me.
I glance over my shoulder to find Solana standing a couple feet back. She’s gotten out of the truck despite my orders, her arms wrapped around herself, blood still trickling from her ear.
But her eyes aren’t glassy and fearful anymore.
They’re sharp. Focused.
“You should check his phone,” she repeats. “For evidence. He probably has all sorts of texts and calls that’ll tell you more.”
I stare at her for a moment, caught off guard by her boldness. This woman—this incredible, unexpected, brave-as-hell woman—just watched me blow out a man’s kneecaps, and she’s thinking about evidence.
She’s thinking strategically.
All after she’s sustained an injury to her ear and was shot at herself.
But should I really be surprised? This is the same young woman who killed Kel and didn’t regret it. My baby is not only stronger than anybody realizes, she’s tougher too.
I nod slowly, then turn back to the kid, gesturing with the Glock. “Give me your phone. Now.”
“I’ll just grab it!”
Solana rushes forward to do it herself, boldly digging the phone out of his pocket.
“Passcode,” she demands.
“569212!” he rattles off between groans of pain. She quickly unlocks the phone, scrolling through his call history and texts. I watch her work, impressed despite myself, until she finds what we’re looking for.
I take the phone from her and dial the number labeled “Wheels.”
It rings a few times before he picks up, skipping a greeting altogether.
“Job done?” he asks in his gruff, expectant tone.
“The only job that’s done,” I say, “is that your boy here is on the ground with some blown-out kneecaps. He might never walk the same again.”
Wheels draws a deep inhale. Knowing him he’s grinding his teeth together and fixing to smoke another cigarette (he’s always smoked a couple packs a day). But instead of revealing his hand, he answers my taunting words with taunts of his own.
“You didn’t think this was over, did you, Silver?” he asks as if amused. “I got a score to settle. All the way back from when this war started and I got sent away.”
“You want to settle the score? You know where I live. Drop by anytime. I’ll be happy to kick your ass.”
Wheels lets out a deep, smoker’s laugh. “Why should I have to when I got people to do it for me?”
“Hasn’t worked out too well for you,” I remind him. “You’ve always gotten your ass handed to you, remember? Now’s no different. But know this—I’m not playing games any more, Nate. You’ve crossed a fucking line, and there will be hell to pay for it.”
I hang up before he can respond.
Solana’s staring at me with wide eyes when I turn around. “What’s going on? Who’s Wheels? What did he mean about settling a score?”
I tuck the phone into my back pocket and put my arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “Later,” I say. “Right now, we gotta get your ear checked out.”
I guide her back toward the truck. As we walk, I glance back at the young punk Wheels sent after us. He’s still lying in the grass, sobbing, his legs bent at unnatural angles.
“Better hope help is on the way!” I call out to him. “’Cuz I damn sure ain’t calling 911 for you. You should be grateful you’re alive at all.”