Chapter 6 - Beth
I wake to unfamiliar shadows dancing across an unfamiliar ceiling. For one blessed moment, I exist in the hazy space between sleep and full consciousness, where nothing is wrong and I am safe.
Then reality crashes in.
Men with guns. Bullets flying. Running across rooftops. Sam.
I bolt upright, heart pounding, taking in my surroundings. I'm on a bed, a large one with a handmade quilt, in a rustic bedroom I've never seen before. A cabin, from the look of the exposed wooden beams and log walls. Through the window, I can see nothing but trees and darkness.
How did I get here? The last thing I remember is watching the scenery blur past the Jeep's window, fighting to stay awake...
I must have fallen asleep. And Sam must have carried me inside.
The thought of being unconscious and vulnerable while a man I barely know carried me sends a chill through me, yet it's quickly followed by a conflicting warmth. He could have done anything to me while I slept. Instead, he simply put me in a bed.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, noticing my backpack placed neatly on a chair nearby. My shoes are still on my feet, though they feel looser. He must have untied them for comfort without removing them. A considerate gesture from a man who remains a complete mystery.
The bedside clock reads 2:17 AM. I've been asleep for hours.
Moving quietly, I check the small attached bathroom, then return to explore the bedroom. It's simple but comfortable—the bed, a dresser, a chair, and a small desk. No personal items. No photographs or decorations that might reveal who owns this place.
I crack open the bedroom door, peering into the darkness beyond. A short hallway leads to what appears to be the main living area of the cabin. A soft glow emanates from there. Firelight, maybe, or a lamp turned low.
And there's a smell—coffee. Fresh coffee.
Sam is awake.
I hesitate, suddenly aware of how vulnerable I am. In a remote cabin with a man who appeared in my life two days ago. A man who clearly lied about his reasons for being at the bookstore. A man who has skills that no ordinary contractor would possess.
Yet this same man risked his life to get me away from the people trying to kill me. He put himself between me and bullets. He had every opportunity to harm me while I slept but didn't.
Do I trust him? No. Not fully. But right now, he's the only ally I have.
I step into the hallway, and as I move toward the light, I can make out more of the cabin. Rustic but well-maintained, with quality furnishings that suggest it's more than just a hunting shack.
The hallway opens into a large open-plan space—living room with a stone fireplace, kitchen area, and a dining table. Sam sits at the table, his back to the wall, facing both the front door and the hallway where I stand. Of course he'd position himself that way. Always vigilant.
He looks up immediately, green eyes alert despite the late hour. He's changed clothes. He’s now wearing a black t-shirt that accentuates his broad shoulders and strong arms. A steaming mug sits before him, along with what appears to be a map spread across the table.
"You're awake," he says softly.
I step further into the room, drawn by the warmth of the small fire burning in the fireplace. "Where are we?"
"Cabin in the mountains, about sixty miles north of Pine Haven. We're safe here."
"Your cabin?" I ask, though I already suspect the answer.
"No," he admits. "It belongs to... my club."
A new piece of information. "Club?"
He gestures toward the coffee pot. "You might want some caffeine for this conversation."
I nod, moving to the kitchen area to pour myself a cup.
"There's food too," he adds. "If you're hungry."
My stomach answers with an embarrassing growl. I haven't eaten since that half-finished burger at lunch.
"I could eat," I acknowledge.
Sam rises smoothly and joins me in the kitchen, keeping a respectful distance as he opens the refrigerator. "Sandwich? Eggs? There's soup I could heat up."
"A sandwich is fine." The mundane conversation feels absurd given our circumstances, but I cling to it like a life raft of normalcy. "Who are you, really?" I ask as he places a plate in front of me.
He pauses, then sits across from me with a deep sigh. "I need to tell you something, and you're not going to like it."
I brace myself. "Go on."
"I wasn't hired by your landlord. I was sent by my MC, my motorcycle club. The Outlaw Order."
Everyone in this region knows about the Outlaw Order MC. They're infamous. Dangerous.
"You're an outlaw biker?" My voice rises with disbelief. This disciplined, precise ex-military man doesn't fit my image of a leather-wearing, hard-partying biker.
"I'm a prospect," he corrects. "Not a full member yet. Still proving myself."
"By what? Kidnapping witnesses?" I push back from the table, suddenly wanting distance between us.
"By protecting you," he counters calmly. "The club found out your witness protection was compromised. That the marshals assigned to protect you were working for the corrupt officials you're testifying against."
I shake my head, trying to process this information. "Why would a motorcycle club care about my testimony?"
"Because the land grab these officials are planning would push the Outlaw Order out of Pine Haven. It's our home."
Self-interest. Of course. "So, this isn't about justice or doing the right thing. It's about protecting your territory."
"For the club leadership? Maybe." He meets my eyes directly. "For me, it's both. I don't like corrupt officials abusing their power. I've seen what happens when people with authority use it to hurt those they should protect."
I remember his earlier comments about his military service, about following orders that got good men killed. There's genuine conviction in his voice.
"Why didn't you tell me the truth from the beginning?"
"Would you have trusted me if I had?" He raises an eyebrow. "If I'd walked into your bookstore and said 'Hi, I'm Knight from the Outlaw Order MC, and I'm here to protect you from your corrupt federal protection detail'?"
Knight. Not Sam.
"Knight?" I repeat. "That's your... what? Biker name?"
"Road name," he corrects. "But my real name is Samuel Davis. That wasn't a lie."
I take a bite of my sandwich to give myself time to think. "So, everything else was a lie."
"Not everything." He leans forward. "My military background is real. My desire to keep you alive is real."
"Why tell me now?"
"Because there's no time left for half-truths." His expression turns grave. "The trial is in two days, Beth. That's why they tried to kill you today. They're running out of time to silence you."
"Two days?" My heart pounds. "No, that's not possible. It's scheduled for the end of the month."
"It got moved up. Your marshals didn't tell you?"
Cold dread washes through me. "No. They didn't tell me anything."
"Because they never intended for you to make it to that courtroom." His voice is gentle but firm. "They've been playing you all along. They wanted to get rid of you a few days before the trial. The case would be postponed or archived."
The room seems to tilt. All these months in hiding, living in fear, thinking I was doing the right thing, and my own protectors were planning to betray me.
"What now?" I ask, struggling to keep my voice steady.
"Now we figure out how to get you to Denver safely in less than 48 hours."
"We? You mean you and your motorcycle club?" I can't keep the skepticism from my voice.
"The Outlaw Order isn't what you think," he says. "Yes, we operate outside the law sometimes. But we protect our own, and right now, that includes you."
"Because my testimony helps your interests."
"Because it's the right thing to do." He pushes his plate aside, leaning toward me with intensity in his green eyes. "Beth, I know this is a lot to take in. I know you have no reason to trust me or the club. But right now, we're your best chance at staying alive long enough to testify."
The worst part is that he's right. Where else can I go? Who else can I trust? The federal marshals have betrayed me. I have no family I can turn to without putting them in danger. No friends close enough to risk their lives for me.
"Tell me about this club of yours," I say finally. "The one I'm supposed to trust with my life."
He seems relieved at my willingness to listen. "Our president, Reaper, has transformed it from the typical MC stereotype into something different. Still rough around the edges, still outside the law when necessary, but with a code. We protect the town. Keep the peace."
"By whose definition of peace?"
"A fair question." He acknowledges with a slight nod. "Let's just say we handle problems that the law can't or won't touch. Like corrupt officials trying to force good people off their land."
"And you? How does an Army Ranger end up prospecting for an outlaw MC?"
"I lost faith in the system. In following orders from people who don't have to face the consequences. The club... they're straightforward. No bureaucracy, no politics. Just a clear mission and brothers who have your back."
"These men who tried to kill me today," I say. "Who were they?"
"Hired guns, most likely. Working for the same corrupt officials you're testifying against." He takes a sip of his coffee. "Which means they know you're alive and escaped. They'll be looking for you."
"And they know what I look like." A terrifying thought occurs to me. "They could be waiting at the courthouse."
"Probably," he agrees. "Which is why we need to be smarter than they are."
"Two days," I murmur, the reality of the timeline sinking in. "It's not enough time."
"It has to be." His voice is resolute. "I promised to get you to that courtroom safely, and I will. Knight's word means something."
The use of his road name reminds me of the strange dual identity of this man. Samuel Davis, the rule-following ex-Ranger, and Knight, the outlaw biker prospect.
"Why 'Knight'?" I ask, curious despite myself.
A small smile touches his lips. "Ironic, isn't it? They call me Knight because I'm the one who always follows the rules. The honor code. Even in an outlaw club, I'm the straight arrow."
This makes a strange kind of sense. The precision, the discipline, the clear moral boundaries I've sensed in him.
"And now you're breaking all kinds of federal laws to help me," I observe.
"Sometimes the right thing and the legal thing aren't the same." His eyes hold mine. "I learned that the hard way."
The conviction in his voice makes something awaken inside me. Whatever else he may be, Sam—Knight—believes in what he's doing.
"I'm scared," I admit quietly.
"You should be," he says, not offering false comfort. "But you're also braver than you think. Most people would have fallen apart after what you've been through today. You held it together. Kept moving. Made smart decisions."
His assessment surprises me. I've never thought of myself as brave: quite the opposite. I've spent months hiding, jumping at shadows, trembling at every unexpected sound.
"Two days," I repeat, trying to wrap my mind around it. "How are we going to get to Denver without being caught? They'll be watching the roads, airports..."
"Let me worry about that." He stands, moving to gather our empty plates. "You should get some more rest. Tomorrow will come early, and we have a lot to do."
As if on cue, exhaustion washes over me again. The emotional toll of the revelations, on top of the day's trauma, has drained what little energy I had regained.
"There are clothes in the dresser," Knight says as I rise from the table. "T-shirts, sweatpants. They might be big on you, but they're clean."
I nod. "What about you? Where will you sleep?"
"Couch is fine for me." He gestures to the worn but comfortable-looking sofa near the fireplace. "I've slept in much worse places."
I have no doubt that's true.
At the entrance to the hallway, I pause and look back at him. He's standing by the sink, his back to me, shoulders straight and strong under the black t-shirt.
"Knight?"
He turns. "Yes?"
"I still don't know if I trust you. Or your club. But thank you for telling me the truth. Finally."
His expression softens slightly. "Get some sleep, Beth. I'll keep watch."
As I return to the bedroom and change into borrowed clothes that smell faintly of laundry detergent and pine, I find myself sorting through everything I've learned. The Outlaw Order MC. Knight the prospect. The trial in two days. My betrayed witness protection.
It's too much to process, too overwhelming to face all at once. Yet as I slide back under the quilt, I find a strange sense of clarity emerging from the chaos.
For months, I've been living in a fiction—a bookstore owner in a small town, protected by federal marshals, waiting for justice to take its course. Now that fiction has been shattered, replaced by a harsher but more honest reality.
I'm a target. The system I trusted has failed me. And my best hope for survival is a rule-following Army Ranger turned outlaw biker who calls himself Knight.
As I drift toward sleep, one thought rises above the others: In two days, I'll either be dead or I'll be testifying against the corrupt officials who are trying to kill me.
Either way, this nightmare is almost over.