Chapter Five
CHAPTER FIVE
RYDER
T he roar of the phone vibrating on the table cut through the quiet of the clubhouse, snapping me out of my thoughts. The sound felt sharper in the stillness, a jarring intrusion that pulled me from the fog of a late-night buzz. I leaned back in the chair, the old wood creaking under my weight, and tossed the half-empty beer bottle onto the table with a dull clink. The phone rattled again, insistent. I snatched it up without checking the caller ID. It was always bad news at this hour.
“What?” I barked, my voice rougher than I intended.
“Vipers hit the depot.” Torch’s voice came through sharp, urgent, cutting straight to the point. “It’s bad, Wraith. One of ours is down–a chest shot. Chains is handling what’s left.”
His words sent a jolt of adrenaline coursing through me, and my grip on the phone tightened. My mind raced, already running through the worst-case scenarios, the possible fallout. “Who?” I demanded, shoving back the chair and rising to my feet. My cut hung on the back of the chair, and I grabbed it instinctively, the familiar leather grounding me even as my blood started to boil.
“Tobias,” Torch said, his voice quieter now, tinged with something I didn’t hear from him often—grief. “He’s gone.”
The words hit like a hammer to the chest, heavy and final. I froze for a moment, the weight of them settling deep in my gut. Knox was young—barely into his twenties. He’d been patched in last year, eager and full of fire, the kind of kid who thought wearing the cut made him invincible.
And now he was gone.
I didn’t let myself linger on it. There’d be time for mourning later—if we survived this. “Where’s Chains?” I asked, my voice low and steady, though the fury simmering beneath the surface was enough to make my hands shake.
“Still at the scene,” Torch replied. “He’s cleaning it up, but we’re gonna need you down there. It’s a mess.”
Of course, it was. The Vipers didn’t half-ass anything, especially not when it came to sending a message. “On my way.” I ended the call and shoved the phone into my pocket, the sharp click of the button echoing louder than it should have.
The clubhouse was quieter than usual, the late hour thinning the crowd. A few of the guys still lingered, clustered around the pool table in the corner, their laughter and banter filling the air like static. The sight of them, so carefree, grated against my nerves. They didn’t know yet. Didn’t know one of their brothers was lying dead at the depot, a bullet through his chest.
I stormed past them without a word, the heavy sound of my boots on the wooden floor silencing their laughter. They looked up as I passed, their expressions shifting from amusement to unease. They knew better than to ask questions when I was like this.
The cool night air hit me like a slap as I stepped outside, the faint scent of rain lingering in the breeze. My bike was parked in its usual spot, the black paint glinting under the weak glow of the porch light. I swung a leg over, the weight of the moment pressing down on me as I fired up the engine. The roar filled the quiet, loud and relentless, but it didn’t drown out the anger building in my chest.
The Vipers had made their move. And now, it was our turn.
The depot was a disaster when I arrived. The sharp, acrid stench of burned rubber hit me first, mingling with the sickly, sweet, metallic tang of blood that hung heavy in the damp night air. The faint glow of still-burning embers flickered in the darkness, casting jagged shadows across the wreckage. The front gates—once solid and imposing—were twisted and broken, one hanging lopsided on a single hinge like a cruel joke. Charred remains of crates and debris littered the ground, the telltale work of Molotovs scarring the asphalt with dark, jagged streaks.
I killed the engine of my bike, and the silence that followed was almost louder than the roar that preceded it. I swung my leg over and planted my boots on the ground, taking in the scene with a clenched jaw. The Vipers had been efficient—they knew exactly where to hit us. This wasn’t some spur-of-the-moment attack; this was planned. Deliberate. Calculated.
My gaze landed on Chains, crouched near the loading dock, his massive frame hunched over something I couldn’t yet see. But I didn’t need to see it to know. The heavy knot in my stomach twisted tighter as I approached, my boots crunching over shattered glass and debris.
Knox’s body came into view, and the knot unraveled into a sharp, burning ache. He lay sprawled on his back, his cut soaked in blood, the dark stain spreading from a single bullet hole just above his heart. His face was pale, his eyes half-closed, frozen in the last expression he’d worn before death claimed him. A kid. Just a goddamn kid. He hadn’t even drawn his weapon. He hadn’t stood a chance.
I clenched my jaw, the familiar anger bubbling up, hot and relentless. This was what the Vipers wanted: a statement, a body for us to find, a scar to remind us of our failures.
Chains looked up as I approached, his face carved from stone but his eyes betraying the weight of what he was feeling. He wasn’t the type to show grief, but it was there in the tightness of his jaw, the set of his shoulders. “They hit hard and fast,” he said, his voice low and rough as he rose to his full height. His hands were bloodied, though I couldn’t tell if it was Knuckles’ or the result of something he’d punched. Probably both.
“Didn’t even give the kid time to draw,” he added, his tone edged with frustration.
My hands curled into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms. “How many?” I asked, my voice tight.
“Five, maybe six,” Chains replied. He gestured to the wreckage around us with a grim sweep of his arm. “They came in like they knew the layout. Hit us where it’d hurt the most. This wasn’t some random raid—they planned this.”
I stared down at Knox’s body, my mind racing. Of course, they planned it. Axel Cruz might be a reckless asshole, but he wasn’t stupid. This wasn’t just an attack—it was a message, and it had landed exactly how they’d wanted it to.
My gaze shifted to the wreckage of the loading dock, to the crates that should’ve been filled with supplies but were now nothing more than smoldering ash. This place wasn’t just a storage site; it was a nerve center. Losing it wouldn’t cripple us, but it would hurt. And the Vipers knew it.
“Any survivors?” I asked, forcing my voice to stay steady.
Chains shook his head, his expression dark. “They cleared out before we even got here. Left just enough of a mess for us to clean up.”
The words hit me like a gut punch, the weight of failure pressing down hard. Ghost was gone, and we had nothing to show for it. No leads. No vengeance. Just the bitter taste of defeat and the charred remains of what used to be ours.
I crouched beside Howl’s for a moment, my eyes scanning his still face. His cut was bloodied, but the patch on his chest still gleamed faintly in the dim light. It was almost cruel—the emblem he’d been so proud of, the one that should’ve marked him as part of something bigger, something that would protect him, was now just a grim reminder of what he’d lost. What we’d lost.
“This wasn’t just about the depot,” I said, rising to my feet and turning back to Chains. My voice was cold, steady. “This was about sending a message.”
Chains nodded, his jaw tight. “And they made damn sure we got it.”
My fists clenched tighter, the anger simmering just beneath the surface threatening to boil over. “Clean it up,” I said finally, my voice low but sharp. “I don’t want any sign we were hit. No bodies. No blood. Nothing they can point to and say we took it lying down.”
Chains nodded again, already moving to carry out the order. He crouched back down, pulling a cloth from his pocket to clean the blood from Ghost’s patch before moving to wrap the body. He worked in silence, his movements methodical but heavy with an unspoken weight.
I turned away, unable to watch. The weight of the scene pressed down on me, a suffocating reminder of everything we’d lost tonight. Ghost was gone. The depot was a wreck. The Vipers had landed their blow, and it was a damn good one.
But this wasn’t over—not by a long shot.
The remaining embers caught my eye, their flickering light reflected in a pool of rainwater on the ground. It was almost poetic, in a way. The fire might have burned out, but the damage was already done. The scars would remain, a reminder of what happens when you let your guard down.
By the time I got back to my bike, the anger burning in my chest had shifted. It wasn’t the raw, chaotic kind that demanded fists and bullets. No, it was something colder now, sharper, like a blade honed to perfection. The kind of anger that didn’t explode—it cut.
I stepped toward my bike, the cool night air doing little to ease the heat of my anger. My mind was already turning over the possibilities and the next steps. Axel Cruz thought he’d won, thought he’d weakened us. But he didn’t know what was coming.
I swung my leg over my bike, the movement smooth and practiced, but there was nothing casual about the storm brewing inside me. My hands tightened on the handlebars, the leather of my gloves creaking under the pressure. For a moment, I just sat there, staring out at the darkened road ahead, the cold night air slicing against my face. As I fired up the engine, the roar of it cutting through the night, I made a silent promise: Ghost’s death wouldn’t be in vain. The Vipers had made their move, and now it was our turn.
This was war.
The faint glow of the depot’s embers lit the scene behind me, flickering in the corner of my vision like ghosts refusing to let go. The air still reeked of burnt rubber, gasoline, and blood—a cocktail of violence that clung to my skin and filled my lungs with every breath. I stopped at the edge of the wreckage, my fingers brushing against the worn leather of my cut, the weight of it a reminder of everything this club stood for.
They thought they’d sent a message. Axel Cruz and his pack of rabid dogs thought they’d made their point. They thought they’d put us on our heels, shake us, and show us the cracks in our foundation.
They were wrong.
They’d made one mistake.
They didn’t finish the job.
The world felt different now, sharper somehow. Wyatt—or Slade, as we called him—was gone. A kid who’d barely had a chance to prove himself, cut down like he was nothing. The weight of his loss pressed against my chest, heavy and suffocating. I hadn’t even known him that well—Slade was fresh, new blood—but he was one of us. And no one touched the Reapers without consequences.
I revved the engine, the familiar roar cut through the night. It was a sound that usually grounded me, but tonight it felt like a war cry echoing into the emptiness. The vibration rumbled through me, setting my teeth on edge, the mechanical hum almost too loud in the quiet aftermath of the attack.
This wasn’t just about the depot. It wasn’t just about Ghost. This was about control—about the Vipers trying to take what was ours, trying to show us that we weren’t untouchable.
My lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
They thought they’d rattled us, that we’d retreat, regroup, and lick our wounds while they claimed more of our territory. They thought they could play this game on their terms.
They didn’t know who they were dealing with.
As I pulled out onto the road, the wind slicing past my face, my thoughts turned to the bigger picture. The rhythmic thrum of the engine beneath me was steady, dependable, unlike the chaos swirling in my mind. Axel Cruz wasn’t just reckless; he was arrogant. He thought his crew could match us blow for blow, that the Vipers could rise to our level.
And maybe, for a moment tonight, he’d convinced himself they had.
But I knew better.
The Crimson Reapers weren’t perfect—hell, we were far from it. The cracks in our foundation were real, and I felt them every damn day. They weren’t new, either; they’d been there for a while, growing beneath the surface like fractures in ice, waiting for the right pressure to splinter everything apart.
Gage didn’t have a need to control everything. But make no mistake as President, his authority was absolute, and most of the club respected that. But sometimes, his grip was too tight, his refusal to delegate leaving us scrambling when shit hit the fan. Then there was the restlessness among the ranks, the way some of the guys had started questioning decisions behind closed doors, their loyalty not fractured but… strained.
And I wasn’t blind to the whispers. The murmurs of whether our leadership—my leadership—was strong enough to carry us through this war.
I clenched my jaw, the wind whipping against my face doing little to cool the heat rising in my chest. They didn’t say it to my face—none of them dared—but I felt it in the way some of them hesitated when I gave an order, the fleeting looks they exchanged when things didn’t go as planned.
The truth was, we weren’t invincible.
But we didn’t need to be.
Because what Axel didn’t understand—what no one outside this club seemed to understand—was that the Reapers thrived in chaos. We didn’t break under pressure. We sharpened. The tension, the doubt, the fractures—they didn’t weaken us. They made us dangerous.
It was in the chaos that we found our edge, where we proved that no matter how much blood was spilled, we would always rise. Stronger. Meaner. Hungrier.
Axel Cruz thought he could exploit our cracks and that he could break us by landing the first blow. But he didn’t realize he’d just given us a reason to come together. He’d given me a reason to remind the Reapers who the fuck we are.
I wasn’t naive enough to think this was the end of it. The Vipers had struck first, but this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
Axel Cruz might think he’d won a round, but he’d just opened a door he wouldn’t be able to close.
And I’d make sure he regretted it.
The road stretched ahead of me, dark and slick from the earlier rain. The faint reflection of streetlights glinted on the asphalt like shards of broken glass. The hum of the engine beneath me was steady, a low, constant growl that matched the tension simmering in my chest.
This wasn’t going to be a quick skirmish. It wasn’t going to end with a single retaliation, a few bodies, and a handshake at the end. That wasn’t how this worked. Axel Cruz hadn’t just fired a warning shot; he’d declared war.
And war?
War bled everyone dry.
It would bleed the Vipers, the Reapers, even the fucking Serpents watching from their shadows. War didn’t care about alliances, loyalty, or the bullshit code of respect most MCs pretended to follow. It was about survival, plain and simple.
I wasn’t afraid of that. The Reapers had been forged in blood and fire. Every scar we carried was a testament to what we’d endured, what we’d overcome. Survival wasn’t just in our DNA—it was our way of life.
But survival wasn’t the same as winning.
I tightened my grip on the handlebars, the leather of my gloves creaking under the pressure. Axel Cruz had made his move, and now it was on me to counter. Gage would want to hit back hard and fast, to remind the Vipers who ran this town and why. And he wasn’t wrong. A show of strength was necessary.
But retaliation without strategy? That was a mistake we couldn’t afford.
This wasn’t just about pride. It wasn’t about saving face or even avenging Ghost and the others—not entirely. It was about control.
Axel wasn’t just testing our limits—he was testing the Reapers themselves, trying to find the fault lines he could exploit. And the Serpents? Those snakes were biding their time, watching and waiting for someone to falter.
They didn’t need to swing the first punch. They didn’t even need to take sides. They were the vultures circling above, waiting for the chaos to spiral out of control so they could swoop in and pick the bones clean.
The thought sent a chill down my spine, cold and sharp. Ridgewood wasn’t just our home—it was our kingdom. Losing control of it wasn’t an option, not to the Vipers, the Serpents, or anyone else with delusions of grandeur.
I couldn’t afford fear, not now.
Gage had always been the face of the Reapers. The one everyone looked to when shit hit the fan. He had the charisma, the authority, and the raw presence that made men fall in line without question. He wore the President’s patch like it was a crown, commanding respect with every decision, every word, every glance.
But behind closed doors, the weight of keeping this club together didn’t rest on him alone. It fell on me.
As Vice President, I was the one who had to see the cracks before they turned into canyons. The one who had to make sure Gage’s decisions didn’t tear us apart while still backing him up in front of the others. To them, Gage was the king, and I was his enforcer. His second-in-command. The man who made sure the machine kept running no matter how rough the road got.
It was a delicate line to walk, one I’d spent years perfecting. Gage had the vision, but I was the one who dealt with the fallout. When his calls didn’t land the way they should’ve, or when his heavy-handed leadership rubbed someone the wrong way, I was the one who smoothed things over. I was the one who sat down with Chains when he butted heads with Gage, who kept Torch from spiraling when a job went sideways.
But this war? This war was different.
The stakes were higher, the risks greater, and the fractures within our club more visible than ever.
It wasn’t just the Vipers or the Serpents that had me on edge. It was us.
The Reapers were a force to be reckoned with, a name that carried weight wherever it was spoken. But we weren’t invincible. The cracks in our foundation had been there for a while, growing slowly, almost imperceptibly. At first, it was the kind of thing you could brush off—a muttered comment here, a hesitation there.
But over time, those small things had grown louder, harder to ignore.
Some of the guys were restless, their frustrations simmering just below the surface, waiting for the right—or wrong—moment to boil over. And I could feel it. Every glance, every word that hung a little too long in the air, every choice questioned in the shadows of the clubhouse.
Chains, for all his loyalty, had been questioning Gage’s calls more openly lately. He wasn’t insubordinate—Chains didn’t operate like that—but his frustration was palpable. He had a way of making his dissatisfaction known without ever outright challenging authority. A sarcastic comment here, a pointed look there. It wasn’t rebellion, but it was damn close.
And the thing about Chains? When he was pissed, people noticed. He wasn’t just a member—he was the sergeant-at-arms, the guy who kept everyone else in line. When Chains was steady, the others followed his lead. But when he wasn’t?
That’s when the cracks widened.
Then there was Torch. Young, eager, and too damn reckless for his own good. He had the fire we needed, sure, but he didn’t understand the bigger picture yet. To him, the club was about loyalty and action—hitting hard, taking risks, and proving himself. He didn’t see that this wasn’t just about swinging fists and pulling triggers. This was about strategy, about survival, about knowing when to bide your time and when to strike.
Torch didn’t know how to wait. And in this war, impatience could get us all killed.
And Smoke? Smoke was loyal. Always had been. But even he had his limits. Smoke was the kind of guy who didn’t complain, who took orders and carried them out without question. But lately, even he seemed... off. He was quieter than usual, his sharp humor dulled, his usual easygoing demeanor replaced by something harder, more withdrawn.
They all had their limits.
Hell, we all did.
I thought about Ghost.
About the way his lifeless body lay sprawled on the ground, his cut soaked in blood. The way his face was frozen in that last expression, a mix of shock and pain, like he’d barely had time to realize what was happening.
And I thought about Chains. The way he’d crouched over Pitch his massive hands moving with an uncharacteristic gentleness as he tried to scrub the blood off the kid’s patch. Like somehow, if he could just make the cut clean again, it would undo what had been done.
But there was no undoing it.
Ghost was gone.
He’d been one of us, a part of something bigger than himself. He’d worn the patch with pride, had earned it through sweat and loyalty and the kind of fire that made me think he might actually go the distance in this life.
And now he was just... gone.
For what?
A message? A show of power? A fucking ego trip from Axel Cruz and his pack of rabid dogs?
It wasn’t just Ghost and the other’s death that weighed on me—it was what it represented. A failure. A chink in our armor. Proof that the Reapers weren’t as untouchable as we wanted the world to believe.
And I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was my failure.
I’d been the one to send him to the depot.
It was supposed to be a routine check, nothing more, a way to give him some experience, to ease him into the kind of responsibilities that came with wearing the patch. He was eager, always the first to volunteer for a job, no matter how small or mundane.
And I’d let him go.
I’d sent him there without thinking twice because why would I? The depot wasn’t supposed to be a target. The Vipers hadn’t made a move in weeks. Things had been tense, sure, but nothing out of the ordinary.
I should’ve known better.
The signs had been there—the quiet, the way the Vipers had stayed just out of sight, the way the air in Ridgewood had felt heavier than usual, like the calm before a storm.
But I’d missed it.
I’d underestimated Axel Cruz. I’d assumed he’d play it safe and bide his time before making his move. I hadn’t thought he’d come at us this hard, this fast.
And they had paid the price for my mistake.
His face wouldn’t leave my mind.
Not just the way he’d looked in death but the way he’d been in life. That cocky grin he always had, the way he’d swagger into the clubhouse like he’d been a Reaper for years instead of months. The kid had fire, and I liked that about him.
I’d seen potential in him.
And now, all I could see was the bullet hole in his chest.
The guilt sat heavy in my chest, an ache that wouldn’t go away no matter how hard I tried to shove it down. I wasn’t the one who’d pulled the trigger, but it didn’t matter. I’d put him there. I’d made the call, and he’d followed it without hesitation, because that’s what Reapers did.
And now he was gone.
This life didn’t come with second chances. There were no do-overs, no way to rewind and fix your mistakes. You made the call, you lived with the consequences, and you moved the fuck on.
That was the rule.
But knowing that didn’t make it any easier.
Their deaths weren’t just a loss. It was a crack in the foundation, a warning that the Reapers weren’t as invincible as we wanted the world to believe. And if I didn’t figure out how to patch that crack fast, it would spread.
The guys were looking to me, even if they didn’t say it outright. They needed me to hold it together, to come up with a plan, to make sure we didn’t lose any more ground—or any more men.
But every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was Ghost.
I could hear his laugh, that easy, confident sound that had filled the clubhouse more times than I could count. I could see the way his face lit up when he’d first been handed his patch, the way he’d worn it with pride like it was the greatest thing he’d ever earned.
And I could feel the weight of his loss pressing down on me like a vice.
I should’ve seen it coming.
I should’ve known Axel Cruz wouldn’t let his father’s death go unanswered. I should’ve known the depot was a risk. I should’ve known better.
But I hadn’t.
And now they were dead.
I let out a slow breath, trying to push the thoughts away, but they clung to me like a second skin. The guilt. The anger. The sense of failure that gnawed at the edges of my mind.
But I couldn’t let it consume me. Not now.
Because as much as it hurt, as much as I wanted to drown in the weight of it, there was no time for that.
Ghost was gone, and nothing I did would bring him back.
But I could make sure his death wasn’t for nothing.
I could make sure Axel Cruz and the Vipers paid for what they’d done.
Because that was the other rule of this life: when someone took from you, you took back twice as much.
So I’d carry the guilt. I’d carry the weight of my mistakes and the responsibility of my choices. And I’d use it to fuel the fire burning in my chest, the fire that wouldn’t go out until the Vipers were ashes at my feet.
I couldn’t bring any of them ack. But I could make damn sure their deaths weren’t the last word.