Chapter 32 Silver
SILVER
The world explodes in fiery chaos.
One second Tom’s bike is rumbling ahead of us, the next it’s a fireball—twisted metal and flames erupting into the gray winter sky. The shockwave slams into our truck like residual effects from an earthquake, cracking the windshield and sending us lurching sideways.
The entire road vibrates beneath us, asphalt splitting and crumbling from the force of the blast.
“Shit!” Mace fights the wheel as the truck fishtails, tires screeching against broken pavement.
For a heart-stopping second I think we’re going to flip. Then he corrects at the last moment, wrenching us onto the shoulder and slamming the brakes hard enough to throw me against my seatbelt.
Through the haze of smoke and dust, I see Logan’s bike veer wildly off the road, crashing into a tangle of shrubbery. He goes down hard but rolls clear, scrambling to his feet with his gun already drawn.
Tom’s bike is gone. Just... gone.
Nothing but a skeleton of burning metal where it used to be. His fate remains unknown.
The flames crackle and climb higher, sending plumes of black smoke spiraling into the sky like a declaration of war.
I knew it.
I fucking knew it.
Everything I anticipated has come to fruition. Wheels couldn’t resist. He was never going to let Tom walk away from their alliance—not after Tom agreed to my deal. Not after Tom chose self-preservation over revenge.
Luckily, I’m prepared.
I pull out my phone and dial Cash. He answers on the first ring.
“Code red,” I say. “Now.”
“Already on it, Prez.”
I hang up and look over at Mace. His jaw is tight, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, but his eyes are focused.
“You good?” I ask.
“Since the day I was born,” he answers.
We climb out of the truck, boots crunching on shattered asphalt. Logan joins us, limping slightly but moving with purpose, his face a mask of cold fury. Blood trickles from a gash on his forehead, but he doesn’t seem to notice or give a fuck.
As some of the smoke clears, they materialize.
A horde of motorcycles push through the haze like demons riding out of hell. The rumble of their engines fills the air, drowning out the crackle of flames and the pounding of my own heart. They’re riding in formation, a wall of chrome and leather.
At the front, like a general leading his army into battle, is a man with an aged, scarred face and a thick gray beard.
Nathaniel “Wheels” Rollins.
He and his Road Rebels think they’re about to ambush us. They think they’ve caught us off guard, trapped between the flames and their wall of bikes and this’ll be an easy win.
But they’re wrong.
I start walking toward them, Mace and Logan flanking me. My boots crunch on debris, my hand resting on the gun at my hip. I walk with purpose, the same confident gait I’ve always had, because I know something Wheels doesn’t.
This isn’t an ambush. It’s a trap.
I stop about twenty feet from the line of Rebels. Wheels dismounts his bike and steps forward to meet me, his cockiness even more unbearable than Tom’s. He’s enjoying this. Savoring what he thinks is his moment of triumph.
It goes without saying only one group of men will survive the day. This is it. The final showdown.
A crooked grin spreads across my face.
“Always planned on double-crossing Tom, didn’t you?” I ask.
Wheels shrugs, his hands sliding into his pockets. “Can’t double-cross a double-crosser. Tom double-crossed me first. You didn’t think we weren’t listening, did you? That we weren’t watching that little meeting you two just had?”
I chuckle, blue eyes gleaming with humor. “No, Nate. I knew you would be.”
His smirk falters due to uncertainty, watching me as if I’m some magician about to perform a magic trick before his eyes.
“Which is why,” I continue, “I called in some reinforcements.”
Right on cue, thunder fills the air.
The roar of motorcycle engines, dozens of them, growing louder and louder until the ground itself seems to tremble. Wheels spins around, his face going pale despite his usual weathered tan.
The Steel Kings have arrived.
They crest the hill behind us, an army arriving to battle. Cash at the front, his golden-brown hair whipping in the wind, followed by Ozzie and his fifty tattoos, then others like Tate and Mudd and a dozen more.
They fan out across the road, forming a line that mirrors the Rebels, engines rumbling in challenge.
Pride swells in my chest at the sight of them.
My brothers. My club.
They came when I called, just like I knew they would.
Late last night, before this morning’s meeting at the saloon ever went down, I made some calls. Talked to the rest of the club council. Pieced together today’s plan.
I was the one who called for the meeting at the ravine—not Tom, though I let Solana and the others believe otherwise.
I was also the one who tipped Wheels off anonymously, knowing he couldn’t resist showing up to make his move once he realized Tom was going back on their agreement.
From there, it was all about arranging men on standby, ready to step in the moment Tom or Wheels did exactly what I knew they would.
Be the selfish, violent bastards they are without a shred of decency or honor.
Wheels turns back to face me, his expression morphing from shock to a cross between rage and amusement.
“Seems I was right,” he says slowly. “You’ve always been the brains. Tom was all the mouthy talk.”
“Tom had his strengths,” I reply evenly. “Loyalty just wasn’t one of them.”
Wheels chuckles. “You realize this is it, right? Whoever comes out on top is taking the crown. No more truces. No more negotiations. Winner takes all.”
I hold his gaze without flinching. “May the best men win.”
For a long moment, neither of us moves. The air is thick with tension and the promise of violence and bloodshed. Behind me, my men ready themselves. Across from us, the Rebels do the same.
Then Wheels glances over his shoulder at his men and nods.
The Rebel at the front takes that as his cue.
Gunfire rings out across the road.
I dive for cover as bullets tear through the air, pinging off metal and thudding into dirt.
The landscape descends into pure anarchy—muzzle flashes and rumbling engines and the sharp crack of gunshots echoing off the trees.
Mace rolls behind the truck, returning fire before he’s ever struck himself.
I see a Rebel go down, clutching his shoulder.
Logan’s found cover behind a concrete barrier, picking off targets as ruthlessly as his younger brother.
Cash has dismounted and is using his bike as a shield, his massive assault rifle spraying bullets at the enemy.
Ozzie’s moving through the chaos like a man possessed, flanking left with Tate covering him. They work together seamlessly, years of brotherhood forged between us.
The flames from Tom’s bike still crackle and roar behind us, bathing the scene in hellish orange light. Smoke stings my eyes and burns my lungs, but I push through it.
I’ve spotted Wheels.
He’s retreating toward the tree line, trying to slip away while his men die for him.
Fucking coward.
But not today.
I break from cover and sprint after him, bullets whizzing past my head. He sees me coming and runs faster, crashing through the underbrush. I’m much faster and in better shape than he is, quickly closing the gap.
I tackle him as he reaches the trees. We go down hard in the tall grass.
We grapple on the ground, rolling over each other, each fighting to be on top.
His fist connects with my jaw, and pain reverberates through my skull.
I answer with a head butt that crunches his nose, blood splattering in thick drops.
He’s strong. Stronger than I expected for his age. Years of hatred from behind bars have kept him sharp and hungry.
We trade brutal, desperate blows. Punches that split skin and crack bone. Every hit I take sends shockwaves through my body, but I don’t stop.
I won’t ever fucking stop.
There’s no stopping the Steel Kings. We always come out on top.
We live forever.
Wheels gets the upper hand, rolling on top of me and pinning my arms with his knees. His weight crushes down on my chest as he reaches into his boot and pulls out a pocket knife. He presses it to my throat.
Blood drips from his mouth onto my face as he grins down at me, his eyes wild with triumph.
“Doesn’t matter if the Road Rebels lose to the Steel Kings,” he snarls. “At least I’ll kill you. Which is all I’ve ever wanted.”
I wrestle his weight, searching for my opening to flip him on his ass. If he’s expecting me to go out easily, then he’s more delusional than Tom ever was.
“You mean sorta like how you killed me, Nate?”
Wheels freezes.
We both turn our heads toward the sound.
Tom’s standing a few feet away. He looks like hell, and that’s putting it lightly—bloodied and swollen face and burned and blistered flesh. He must’ve been thrown clear of the explosion and crawled through the grass to make it to us.
He’s swaying on his feet, barely upright, as if he’s hanging onto life by a thread.
But he’s got his own final task to complete, which explains the gun that trembles in his unsteady grip.
And it’s pointed directly at Wheels and me.