Chapter 2 Lock #2
The weight of what we were about to do didn’t really land until I stepped outside into the cool air. Bikes in rows. Men moving with purpose. The hum of engines being checked and rechecked. Oil. Leather. And that low buzz of anticipation.
Wraith stood by the picnic table going over gear. He gave a low whistle when he saw me. “Fuse is getting us cutters. Says they’ll slice that fence like paper.”
“Good.” I scanned the lot. “Where is he now?”
“Inside, bitching about the wiring again.” Wraith’s mouth twitched. “Said if the Reapers still have the same grid, he’ll eat his own boots.”
I snorted. “Tell him I want video if that happens.”
“Already planning to,” Wraith said.
He jerked his chin toward Slate—Crosby “Slate” Vance, my road captain. Slate was crouched beside his bike with a map spread over his knee, phone in one hand, pen in the other.
“Slate’s on the route, the cameras, back roads, all of it,” Wraith said. “You know him. He’s in deep.”
Of course he was. Slate didn’t do anything halfway.
The crunch of gravel made Wraith look over his shoulder. Ember stood there wrapped in a light jacket, her expression soft but tight with worry. She glanced at me, then stepped close to her husband.
“You’re going out?” she asked quietly.
“Tomorrow,” Wraith said, kissing her forehead. “Tonight’s prep.”
She nodded, but her eyes slid back to me with a silent command/request: bring him home. I gave her a short nod. Promise made.
When she went back inside, Wraith let out a slow breath. “She hates when I run ops.”
“She’s supposed to,” I said. “Means she wants you alive.”
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s the problem.”
He checked his watch. “We’ve got all night.”
I headed for Slate. He didn’t look up until I stopped in front of him.
“How bad?” I asked.
“Patrol patterns are tighter than last month,” Slate said, tapping the map. “They’re running two bikes past the clinic road every thirty minutes. If they bump that to twenty, we’re cutting it close on the in-and-out. We’re already threading a needle.”
“We adjust,” I said. “We slip in between runs. Keep the timing clean.”
Slate nodded. “I’ve got three exit routes ready. If one goes to hell, we jump to the next.”
Fuse came out of the clubhouse then, carrying a pair of insulated gloves and a set of heavy-duty cutters. He dropped the gloves onto the table and snapped the cutters open and shut with a grin.
“Tested them on that old scrap fence near the trucking yard,” he said. “They went through like butter.” He squeezed again and a little spark jumped near the hinge. Fuse frowned, adjusted a screw, and smacked the tool against his palm. “Okay, like slightly haunted butter. I’ll tune it tonight.”
“Try not to fry yourself,” I said. “I don’t feel like hiring another tech.”
“Please,” Fuse snorted. “I’m the best thing that ever happened to your wiring.”
He headed off to help Grim, muttering under his breath.
I sat on the edge of my bike, gloves hanging from my fingers, staring across the yard.
The plan was solid. Clean. No unnecessary force unless they pushed first. Wraith would take the guards from a distance.
Grim would run comms and timing. Fuse would handle any breach problems. Slate would run the escape.
Which left me.
Get in.
Take Kellan Roe.
Get out.
My jaw clenched.
He wasn’t the one who swung that tire iron. He wasn’t even at the race. But Rowan had turned him into a weakness—kept him close, sheltered, guarded like a treasure.
Rowan needed to feel something. Fear. Loss. The kind of hollow that Saint’s brother was living with right now.
If Kellan hated me for it?
That was a problem for tomorrow.
Thunder rolled somewhere far off, low and distant.
A warning.
Or a promise.
Tomorrow, we’d move. Tonight, I needed to see Saint. All the men in this club were my brothers, but Saint, Wraith, and I… that was different. We’d met on the first day of basic, survived more shit than I could count, some how came home in one piece…barely and built Crimson Havoc from nothing.
He was the closest thing to blood I had.
I hadn’t planned on going to the hospital. I’d just gotten on the bike to clear my head and ended up there.
Walking through the automatic doors of the trauma center made the anger come back up like bad whiskey. Rowan Roe and his crew. Every sterile white wall just reminded me why I was doing this.
The lobby was busy—phones ringing, nurses calling names, someone crying near the elevators—but it all blurred around the edges. I headed straight for ICU, passing signs for surgery, x-ray, recovery.
I hated hospitals. Too clean. Too bright. Too many problems you couldn’t fix with your hands.
Two of our guys were posted outside Saint’s room. They straightened when they saw me.
“How is he?” I asked.
“Same,” one said quietly. “No change.”
I nodded and pushed the door open.
The room was cold. Machines did most of the talking, steady beeps, the soft hiss of the ventilator.
Seeing Saint in that bed was wrong on a level I didn’t have words for.
He’d always been loud without trying…from that big laugh, to an even bigger presence, matched with massive opinions.
Seeing him still and quiet twisted something sharp in my chest.
His kid brother, Mason, was slumped in the corner chair, headphones around his neck, legs pulled up like he was trying to fold into himself. When he realized I was there, he jumped up, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, like I hadn’t already seen it.
He was seventeen. With their omega papa gone two years now, Saint was all he had left.
“I—I wasn’t asleep,” Mason said quickly. “Just… resting my eyes.”
“You don’t have to explain,” I told him. “Sit if you want.”
He didn’t. He hovered near the foot of the bed, hands twisting in his hoodie.
“They said he can hear us,” he said, voice cracking. “Maybe. I’ve been talking to him. Doesn’t… doesn’t do anything, but…”
He trailed off.
I swallowed down the rough sound trying to climb my throat. “Keep talking,” I said. “It matters.”
He nodded fast, like he needed that to be true.
“He looks worse today,” Mason whispered.
“He’s fighting,” I said quietly. “This is what that looks like.”
Mason dragged his sleeve across his nose. “Are they sure he’s… stable?”
“For now.” I kept my voice steady. The machines made that harder. “They’re doing everything they can.”
His gaze went to the ventilator tube. “He hates hospitals.”
“Yeah,” I said. “He does.”
A shaky breath slipped out of him. “You’re gonna find who did it?”
“Yes.”
Mason stared at me, searching my face like he wanted to see the answer written there. “You promise?”
“I promise,” I said. “We’re not letting this go.”
His chin wobbled, but he held himself together. Barely.
“If you want to go home and sleep for a few hours,” I told him, “I can have someone take you to the clubhouse. Saint would lose his mind if I left you alone at the house.”
Saint had moved out of the clubhouse after his papa died, bought a place in town instead of dragging Mason into club life full-time.
Mason shook his head right away. “No. I’m staying. I need to be here when he wakes up.”
That almost pulled a smile out of me. “Okay. But if you need anything, tell one of the guys outside, yeah?”
He nodded.
I laid a hand on the rail of the bed for a moment. Grounding myself. Grounding him.
“We’re with you,” I told Mason. “You and your brother. All the way.”
His shoulders shook once, but he straightened them again.
I moved closer to the bed. Up close, Saint looked worse. Swollen on one side, bruises blooming dark across his jaw and temple. Bandages wrapped his head. The ventilator moved his chest for him. The lines in his arms looked wrong on him. He’d always been the strongest bastard in the room.
Moderate injuries, the doctor had said.
Didn’t look moderate.
It looked like somebody tried to take him out.
I pulled the lone chair up and sat.
Saint’s hand was pale against the blanket. I picked it up anyway.
“Won’t bother asking why,” I said. “I already know.”
The machines answered for him.
“Coward jumped you in the lot,” I went on, voice low. “Couldn’t take you straight, had to use a tire iron. Half the club’s on edge. Your kid brother’s scared out of his mind.” I blew out a breath. “You’d probably laugh at me for getting soft about it.”
I watched the slow rise and fall of his chest.
“We’re handling it,” I said. “I’m handling it.”
Mason shifted behind me. I didn’t turn, but I could feel his eyes on the back of my head.
“We’re going to get answers,” I added, so he’d hear it too. “That I can promise.”
His breath hitched like he was swallowing a sob.
I squeezed Saint’s hand once, hard, then let go.
Mason’s voice came out small. “This is because of the Reapers, isn’t it?”
“I’m not gonna lie to you,” I said. “Yeah.”
“Are you gonna… do something?”
“Yes.”
He didn’t ask what. He didn’t need the details.
Before he could, Wraith appeared in the doorway, expression steady. “Lock,” he said quietly. “We’re done for the night. Everything’s set for tomorrow.”
Didn’t surprise me he knew where to find me.
I stood and gave Saint one last look. “Get some sleep if you can,” I told Mason. “We’ve got men outside the door all night.”
He nodded, lip trembling, even though he tried to hide it.
I walked out with one clear thought sitting heavy in my chest:
Rowan Roe had started something.
Tomorrow night, I’d make damn sure he understood that.