Tank’s Agent (Steel Phoenixes MC #2)

Chapter 1

TERRITORIAL

TANK

The August heat pressed down on the valley like a physical weight, thick and unrelenting, turning the air into something you had to push through rather than breathe.

I wiped the back of my hand across my forehead and watched the sweat darken the concrete beneath the Harley I'd been working on for the past three hours.

Hawk's bike. Timing chain needed replacing, and the old man was too proud to admit the rattle had been driving him crazy for weeks.

So I'd waited until he rode out with Maria and the girls for their weekend thing—some vineyard tour she'd been talking about—and I'd pulled his Road King into bay three without a word to anyone.

That was how I preferred it. Quiet work. Hands busy. Mind occupied.

The garage was dim compared to the brutal sunshine outside, the concrete floor cool against my boots, the familiar smell of motor oil and old grease settling into my lungs like a homecoming.

I'd spent more hours in this space than I could count—rebuilding engines, fabricating parts, turning wrecked machines into something that could run again.

There was a simplicity to it that I'd never found anywhere else.

Metal and physics. Cause and effect. Problems that could be solved with the right tools and enough patience.

The bay doors stood open to catch whatever whisper of breeze the mountains might offer, and through them I could see the clubhouse lot shimmering in waves of heat distortion.

Beyond the bikes, the compound walls rose like a promise of safety—twelve feet of reinforced concrete topped with razor wire, security cameras tracking every approach, the heavy metal gates that could stop anything short of a tank.

Hawk had built this place to be a fortress, and that's exactly what it was.

High walls, clear sight lines, enough firepower cached in strategic locations to hold off a small army.

Axel's Harley sat in its usual spot near the front steps, chrome catching the brutal afternoon sun and throwing it back like a challenge.

Next to it—close enough that their handlebars nearly touched—Kai's Kawasaki gleamed purple-black, those violet LED strips he'd reinstalled catching even the daylight and turning it strange.

Three months since the war with Chen. Three months since we'd burned Devil's Dust to the ground and walked away bloody but breathing.

The compound had settled into something that almost resembled peace, if you squinted hard enough and ignored the way everyone still checked their mirrors twice and slept with weapons in arm's reach.

I didn't mind the vigilance. Vigilance kept you alive.

The wrench slipped, and I barked my knuckles against the engine block. Pain flared bright and immediate, a welcome distraction. Something to focus on. Something simple.

"You're bleeding."

The voice came from behind me, and I didn't startle—I'd heard the footsteps, catalogued them automatically, known who it was before he spoke.

Tyler moved like someone who'd spent too long pretending to be invisible, his steps careful and deliberate even when he wasn't trying.

Three months of living at the clubhouse hadn't broken the habit.

"I'm aware." I kept my attention on the engine, not turning around.

"You should clean it."

"I will."

A pause. He stood three feet behind me and slightly to the left, present but not imposing. Tyler had a way of occupying space that was hard to describe—watchful without being threatening, still without being passive.

"Hawk know you're working on his bike?"

"Hawk's not here."

"That's not what I asked."

I finally turned, letting my irritation show. Tyler stood in the garage doorway, backlit by the brutal sun, his features cast in shadow but his posture readable enough. Arms loose at his sides, weight balanced, that particular stillness he defaulted to when he was uncertain of his welcome.

Three months, and he still wasn't sure if he belonged here.

"What do you want, Tyler?"

Something flickered in his expression—too fast to name, there and gone like heat lightning. "Church in twenty. Hawk called it in. Something's happening."

That got my attention. I straightened, ignoring the protest from my lower back where three hours hunched over an engine had settled into a dull ache. "He's supposed to be with Maria."

"He was. He's on his way back now. Said to gather everyone."

An unscheduled church meeting, called on a Saturday when half the club was scattered across the county. Whatever this was, it wasn't small.

I grabbed the rag from my back pocket and wiped my hands, the motion automatic, my mind already shifting gears. "Who else knows?"

"Irish is rounding up Blade and Ghost. Axel's—" Tyler paused, and something almost like amusement ghosted across his features. "Axel's indisposed. Kai said he'd handle it."

Indisposed. I didn't need to ask what that meant. Those two had been practically fused together since the claiming ceremony, stealing moments whenever they could, looking at each other with an intensity that seemed to shut out the rest of the world.

"I'll clean up. See you in there."

Tyler nodded and turned to go, but something made him pause at the threshold. The sunlight caught him differently now—no longer a silhouette but a study in contrasts, the sharp line of his jaw against the fall of his hair, the coiled tension in his frame that never quite released.

"Tank."

"What."

"Your hand's still bleeding."

He left before I could respond, his footsteps fading across the lot with that same careful deliberation. I stood there for a moment, watching the empty doorway, then looked down at my hand. Blood had started dripping onto the concrete again.

I grabbed a clean rag and wrapped it tight.

The chapel smelled like leather and the particular musk of men who'd been riding hard in summer heat. I took my usual seat—third from the end, left side, close enough to the door that I could move fast if I needed to—and watched the others file in.

Irish arrived first, still damp from a shower, his red hair darkened to copper and slicked back from his face.

Declan was a half-step behind him—not a patched member, but like Kai, he'd earned his seat at the table.

Ex-Navy, seven years with Irish, and he'd proven himself valuable enough on dangerous runs that Hawk had stopped questioning his presence at church.

Irish dropped into his chair with the loose-limbed ease of a man who hadn't yet registered the tension in the air, drumming his fingers against the table in some rhythm only he could hear.

Declan took the seat beside him, their shoulders brushing in a contact so automatic neither seemed to notice.

Blade followed, quiet and watchful as always, that perpetual sadness he carried settling into the lines around his eyes. He nodded to me once—acknowledgment, nothing more—and took his seat without speaking.

Ghost came next, Jake's road name still new enough that I had to remind myself to use it. He slid into his chair with the barely contained energy of someone still young enough to find these meetings exciting rather than exhausting, his knee bouncing beneath the table.

Axel came last, Kai a half-step behind him.

They weren't touching—too professional for that during church—but the connection between them was visible anyway, a current running just beneath the surface.

Kai's hair had faded since the ceremony, the violet more suggestion than statement now, but his eyes still found Axel's every few seconds.

Tyler sat at the far end of the table, in the seat we'd designated for him three months ago when we'd been trying to figure out what to do with an ex-FBI agent who'd helped us burn down an empire. Not a member—he'd never patched in, never even prospected—but something adjacent. An ally. A resource.

The door opened, and Hawk walked in.

I'd known the man for six years. Watched him lead this club through wars and truces, betrayals and victories, the slow grind of survival in a world that wanted us dead or disbanded.

I'd seen him angry, grieving, triumphant, exhausted.

But I'd never seen him look quite like this—a tightness around his jaw that spoke of controlled fury, a flatness in his eyes that made my instincts prickle.

"Thanks for coming in." His voice was too calm. Too measured. "I'll keep this short because we don't have much time."

He moved to the head of the table, but he didn't sit. Instead he stood, hands braced on the worn wood, and looked at each of us in turn. The silence stretched, thickened, became something with weight.

"The Iron Wolves are in town."

The words landed like stones dropped into still water. I felt the ripple move through the room—Irish's fingers stopping mid-drum, Blade's posture going rigid, Ghost leaning forward with sudden intensity.

"The Iron Wolves?" Irish's voice carried an edge of disbelief. "They're Montana territory. What the hell are they doing in Nevada?”

"Expanding." Hawk's jaw tightened. "They rolled into Henderson two hours ago. Twelve bikes, full colors, like they owned the place. Set up at the old Miller warehouse—the one that's been empty since the textile company went under."

"Henderson's neutral ground." Blade's voice was quiet, measured. "Has been for years."

"Not anymore. They've claimed it."

I felt the shift in the room—the collective intake of breath, the subtle repositioning of bodies. Henderson was twenty minutes from our clubhouse. Twenty minutes from the garage that funded half our operations. Twenty minutes from Maria and the girls.

"Who's their president?" Axel's voice was steady, but I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand had found Kai's under the table.