Chapter 6 #2
The words hung there, pressing down on us all. I could see the calculations spinning in Bronc’s mind, the tactical angles he was working through. Finally, he exhaled and leaned back, fingers steepled. “What’s our play?”
“We need allies,” I said. “Someone with enough force to stand up to Declan.”
“Rafe Mayfield,” Doc suggested, speaking the name we were all thinking.
Bronc considered it, his expression hard and unreadable. “Reaching out to another king is a big move. Declan gets wind of it, he’ll retaliate.”
“He’s coming no matter what,” I argued. “Once he knows Savannah is here, he’ll make a play for her. He won’t care if we’re in the crossfire.”
Bronc’s gaze met mine, searching. “Can you trust her not to run again?”
“Yeah.” I thought of the look on her face when she said she wouldn’t leave me.
I felt it like a weight in my chest. “She wanted to, just because she’s scared shitless that we can’t handle her father and his men.
I convinced her that we can take whatever he throws at us.
Sure hope I’m right. But she’s not going anywhere. ”
The others were quiet, but I could feel the tension winding tighter around us. Bronc rubbed his hand across his mouth, considering. “We’ll need to move fast. Get to Mayfield before Declan makes a play.”
I nodded, relieved to have him on board. “Soon as we’ve got Skeeter locked down, we ride to Alabama.”
“Better not wait too long.” Bronc’s voice was clipped, the authority in it clear. “Wrecker, find out if Declan’s sniffing around. We’ll have to face him once we start informing packs about their loved ones. Word will get out about us scuttling that lab. We may already be out of time.”
The lights buzzed overhead as silence settled again. Wrecker shifted, pulling out his tablet and scrolling. “Got chatter on Declan,” he reported. “Uptick in movement, but no specifics. He’s trying to keep the search for his daughter on the down low. Keeping it real quiet.”
Bronc cursed under his breath. “Doesn’t sound like him. He usually goes big. He must be pretty embarrassed his little girl slipped out from under his thumb.”
“Maybe he knows we’ve got Savannah,” I said, a chill running through me at the thought.
“Can’t take chances,” Bronc replied, his voice steel. “We have to get to Mayfield.”
The decision felt like a live wire in the room, buzzing with risk and desperation. I stayed rooted at the table, jaw tight, wondering how much time we really had. Bronc pushed to his feet, his chair scraping back. “We go to Alabama after Skeeter,” he said, his voice final.
We went over our plans to nab him. That’s the easy part. He’s right here, every day, all day. We just had to get the job done. Harder part might be breaking him.
Bronc repeated the plan to meet with Mayfield, as if saying it would make it easier. The others nodded, but their faces said otherwise.
The sun hung low, bleeding orange across the asphalt as we rolled up to the shop.
My cut felt heavy on my shoulders, the club patch itching like a brand.
Behind me, Bronc and Arsenal and the others killed their engines, the silence sudden and sharp.
No need for speeches. We all knew why we were here: two years of missing cash, inventory logs thicker with lies than grease, and Skeeter’s shaky hands at the center of it.
Juliet’s spreadsheets had painted him guilty weeks ago—entries “miscounted,” shipments “lost,” pennies skinned into thousands.
Axle’s old fingerprints were all over it too, but that bastard had already eighty-sixed us.
But Skeeter? He wasn’t smart enough to run a game this slick alone.
Someone else was pulling his strings. And tonight?
He’d sing for us or choke on his silence.
We all strolled in like it was a regular Thursday night.
Skeeter stood frozen by a gutted engine, grease smeared up his arms like war paint.
His eyes darted—left to right, exit to exit—but Big Papa was already blocking the door, arms crossed.
Wrecker ran his finger across the front counter like he was giving it the white-glove treatment.
“Hey fellas. Place was pretty scarce today.” Skeeter stammered, backing into a tool rack. Wrenches clattered to the floor. “Just Maddie and me most of the day.”
“Appreciate the hard day’s work,” Bronc spoke as he stepped slowly towards him. “Busy day, otherwise?”
Skeeter was glancing around the shop, trying to figure out what the hell was happening. “Not too bad. Got that Gold Wing in over there. And trying to finish this Street Glide is all. Everything okay, Bronc?”
There was Bronc’s opening. Skeeter continued to use hand wipes to clean his hands.
“Well, now that you mentioned it, Skeeter. There is something we need to discuss.”
He flinched. Sweat glazed his face even in the shop’s chill.
Scared, I noted—not of us, though we could make it quick if we wanted—but of whatever shadow had its claws in his spine.
His throat bobbed as Arsenal tossed me zip-ties from across the room; they landed in my palm with a slap that made Skeeter twitch again.
Eyes wide, he seemed to realize what was happening as he hung his head.
I gave a small laugh. “Ahh, the lightbulb might not be the brightest one in the pack, but it finally turned on. Put your arms behind your back you traitorous piece of shit.”
He did as I instructed.
Bronc continued, “Twenty years, Skeeter. You’re going to betray your pack after twenty years?”
I led him over to Arsenal by his elbow. He wasn’t slinging bullshit like usual now. Didn’t fight when Arsenal shoved him into the van outside. Just slumped against the metal floorboards, staring at nothing, mouth sewn shut by fear. Not much worse than betraying the Alpha of your pack.