Chapter 13 Breaking Point #4
I watched them all file in, searching for anything that might give the traitor away. A nervous glance. A tell in the body language. A micro-expression of guilt.
Nothing jumped out. Which meant the mole was good at hiding—or I was looking in the wrong place entirely.
Hawk took his seat at the head of the table, his gavel resting beside his hand. The room fell silent, every eye on him, waiting.
"Tyler. Tank. You called this meeting." His voice was flat, dangerous. "Start talking."
I stood, feeling the weight of every gaze in the room. Tank was beside me, solid and steady, his presence a reminder that I wasn't doing this alone.
"We have a mole." I let the words land, watching faces for reactions. Shock. Disbelief. The particular stillness of men processing a betrayal. "Someone inside Phoenix has been feeding Cross information. That's how he knew about the transport extraction. That's how they knew which bike to bomb."
Murmurs rippled through the room, spreading outward like a stone dropped in still water. Blade's expression went hard, his hand drifting toward the knife at his hip. Irish's jaw tightened, knuckles white on his crutches.
"The bomb." Tank's voice cut through the tension. "Someone knew which bike Tyler was using. Someone who watched him ride it, day after day, during every lesson. Someone who had access to the garage, who knew the compound schedule, who could track our movements without raising suspicion."
"Who?" Blade's voice was ice.
I opened my mouth to answer—
And caught the movement in my peripheral vision.
Near the door. One of the prospects standing guard, his weight shifting almost imperceptibly toward the exit. Young, forgettable face. The one who was always on gate duty, always watching the entrance, always there when we came and went.
I knew him. Had passed him a hundred times without really seeing him. Had nodded at him, thanked him, treated him like furniture.
He'd been watching me this whole time. Watching all of us.
Our eyes met across the room. And in that split second, I saw the recognition dawn in his expression—the realization that he'd been made, that his cover was blown, that everything was about to come crashing down.
"Tank." I kept my voice steady, my eyes locked on the prospect. "The door."
Tank moved. Fast, brutal, the enforcer training kicking in.
But the prospect was faster. He was through the door before Tank was halfway across the room, boots pounding on concrete, the crash of something overturning in the hallway.
Shouts erupted behind me—Hawk bellowing orders, chairs scraping back, the chaos of the entire room realizing the enemy had been among them all along.
I was already running. The night air hit me as I burst through the clubhouse door, cold and sharp after the warmth of the church room.
The compound was lit by security lights, harsh white circles against the darkness, and I could see the prospect sprinting toward the row of bikes, his head start giving him precious seconds.
"Stop him!" Someone shouting behind me—Axel, maybe, or Blade. "Don't let him reach the bikes!"
But it was too late. The prospect reached his motorcycle, threw his leg over the seat, and kicked the engine to life in one smooth motion. The bike roared, tearing toward the gate.
The gate that was already open. He'd left it that way.
Before church, before any of this—he must have known his time was short the moment Sarah arrived at the compound.
She knew too much, and it was only a matter of time before someone connected the dots.
So he'd prepared. Left himself an escape route.
Gravel sprayed behind his bike as he shot through the gap, and then he was gone—a single taillight disappearing into the desert darkness.
The compound went silent. Hawk stood in the middle of the lot, chest heaving, his face a mask of fury that I'd never seen before. The other members clustered behind him—dozens of them, shock and rage and disbelief playing across their faces.
"Vince." Ghost's voice was quiet, hollow. "His name is Vince. He's been prospecting for four months."
Four months. Long enough to learn every secret. Long enough to betray everything. Hawk turned to face the assembled club, and when he spoke, his voice carried like thunder.
"Everyone on bikes. NOW." The words rang across the compound, sharp with command. "I want that traitorous piece of shit found and brought back alive. He has a two-minute head start. Fan out, cover every road, every trail. We ride in sixty seconds or we don't come back at all."
The compound exploded into motion. Men running for their bikes, engines roaring to life, the controlled chaos of a hunt beginning. Tank grabbed my arm, pulling me toward his Harley. "You with me?"
I pulled free. I Crossed to the replacement Sportster I'd been learning on—the bike they'd given me after the bomb destroyed my first one. The engine caught on the first try, the vibration familiar now, settling into my bones like it belonged there.
Tank raised an eyebrow, surprise flickering across his face.
"Separate bikes." I revved the engine, feeling something settle in my chest. Something that felt like freedom. "I'm done riding passenger."
The grin that spread across his face was savage and proud—the look of a man watching someone he cared about become exactly who they were meant to be.
"Then let's hunt."