Blitz (Redline Kings MC #10)

Chapter 1

BLITZ

Istepped out of Jax’s office—the tech genius for my MC—letting the heavy door swing shut behind me.

I moved into the hallway and braced my shoulder against the wall, staring at the opposite one without really seeing it.

A heavy tension had settled deep in my gut, like an anchor dragging me down.

I knew this feeling. It was fucking betrayal.

The realization twisted into anger, confusion, and frustration. A prospect I’d brought into the fold, a man I’d called a friend and soon-to-be brother, was something else entirely. Tripp was something dangerous. And hidden.

As secretary for the club, I oversaw prospect development and evaluated whether they were truly Redline Kings material. Knowing I’d fucked up so spectacularly was like swallowing jagged glass.

Fuck!

I blew out a slow, measured breath and rubbed a hand roughly over my jaw, replaying it all back from the very beginning.

I’d met Tripp at an underground race months back. Our MC was built on and surrounded by the racing culture. Motorcycles, cars, legal races, and illegal ones—we had our hands in all of it.

Our president, Kane, was a world-renowned racer.

Despite being big for a driver, he was known for his sharp reflexes and calm dominance.

His body knew exactly how to handle any motorcycle or race car he drove without having to think about it.

Then he won enough races to gain the capital to build his own racing teams and eventually tracks.

Combining all of that with smart investments, he’d become a billionaire and a fucking giant in the industry—controlling the professional and underground racing world in the South the way the DeLuca crime family ruled New York.

Everyone knew not to fuck with Kane or his brother, Edge, our VP.

And when they founded the Redline Kings, he hadn’t even been given a road name.

He’d built his reputation as a fair but merciless, lethal motherfucker, so definitively that his real name became synonymous with fear and respect.

When people heard “Kane,” they already knew who the hell it was.

Tripp had raced that first night, landing an impressive fourth place. Not dominant enough to trigger suspicion, but clearly talented. I’d come in second, finishing just behind Edge. Afterward, I’d approached the newcomer, teasing him good-naturedly about finishing fourth.

Tripp had taken the ribbing easily, flashing a quick grin and giving as good as he got. That night had started our friendship.

From then on, we’d hang out frequently after races, sharing drinks and jokes and forging a strong camaraderie. Soon, I started bringing him around the club socially and introducing him to the brothers. He’d fit in surprisingly well.

Eventually, I’d suggested prospecting. Kane told Jax to run a background check on him. Everything had checked out—family, old addresses, etc. His employment history had been thin, but he’d won enough races for us to assume he lived mostly off the purses he’d earned

Tripp had quickly earned the club’s trust. He was funny, laid back, and undeniably talented, but something about him had always seemed just slightly off. I’d attributed it to past trauma, sensing that Tripp carried some unseen weight that he didn’t share openly.

But as time passed, more subtle inconsistencies emerged.

Looking back now, the first time I should have noticed something was off was when we went to the gun range. We always took prospects to assess their ability with weapons so we knew who could be sent on certain runs, and if they were eligible for certain roles, like being an enforcer.

Tripp had obviously had weapons training, and when I inquired about it, he told me it was from learning to hunt with his dad.

But that wouldn’t explain his expert marksmanship with handguns.

And while Tripp’s dossier showed that he had a concealed weapons permit, he’d mentioned that he didn’t own a gun.

I noticed Tripp avoiding conversations about family and deflecting any questions that became too personal. He redirected attention quietly, carefully keeping the focus off himself. I initially chalked it up to private struggles, but now it seemed far more deliberate.

Then the federal raid had happened. A warehouse just outside Crossbend, sitting near a critical transport corridor used by the MC’s operations, had been busted wide fucking open. The feds discovered that it was a major hub for laundering, trafficking, and weapons operations.

The Redline Kings had zero ties to that warehouse or its activities, but it didn’t matter. The warehouse sat dangerously close to routes frequently traveled by the club’s vehicles—transport rigs, security teams, and race equipment.

In hindsight, it was obvious that federal surveillance had captured Kings-affiliated vehicles repeatedly moving through the area.

The feds wouldn’t have realized it was coincidental—they would have begun building a case, theorizing a connection between the warehouse operations and Kane’s empire.

It was exactly the kind of misunderstanding that could’ve done massive damage.

Except it didn’t.

Because just before the raid went down, Tripp had brought unusual activity to Kane’s attention—strange vehicles parked near the transport route, unfamiliar surveillance gear, and odd movements along the corridor.

At the time, it seemed exactly what a loyal, observant prospect would do, eager to prove himself to the club.

Kane had agreed it felt off and had promptly rerouted all Kings-related vehicles through alternate routes as a precaution.

When the raid hit, that precaution had saved us. With no recent surveillance footage of the club vehicles using the corridor, the Redline Kings had neatly sidestepped federal scrutiny. Everyone considered it a lucky coincidence.

Except me.

The more I reviewed the situation, the more clearly I saw the truth. Tripp hadn’t gotten lucky—he’d fucking known.

The prospect had recognized the surveillance before anyone else, pointed it out at precisely the right moment, and prompted Kane’s decisive action just before the raid. He hadn’t shown surprise when the operation hit. In hindsight, I realized Tripp had never reacted to the raid at all.

And the biggest red flag: despite clearly knowing federal authorities were involved, Tripp had never actually warned Kane directly.

I decided to dig deeper after my instincts kept nagging me. I noticed that Tripp had no long-term social footprint, which wasn't always a red flag because many of my brothers were very private. But he hadn’t been tagged or flagged in anyone else’s social media either. Ever.

After that, I tried to ask more probing questions, but Tripp would always subvert or distract with ease so I didn’t even realize he hadn’t answered until hours later.

Tripp was no prospect—he had to be undercover law enforcement.

But the realization raised more questions than answers.

Why would a federal agent protecting an investigation help the club evade suspicion instead of allowing surveillance to continue?

Why discourage reckless behavior rather than quietly encourage it?

Nothing added up. Tripp’s actions contradicted his presumed purpose as an undercover operative. Everything I’d known and trusted suddenly blurred, leaving me conflicted, angry, and deeply unsettled.

I’d wanted answers, and I’d intended to get them. One way or another.

The thing that kept eating at me now was that my suspicions had started before the raid, but I’d made too many excuses, not wanting to be right.

Then this morning all the connected pieces finally fell into place.

And the longer I stood there in the hallway outside Jax’s office, the clearer every fucking detail became.

Tripp and I had left the compound shortly after sunrise to check one of the secondary routes Kane planned to use during an upcoming race weekend.

A couple of reports had come in about unfamiliar vehicles hanging around the area, and while none of it had been enough to send the club into a full response, it was enough for Kane to want eyes on the corridor before expensive equipment, security crews, and race transport started moving through it.

We’d ridden the route, stopped at access points, checked sightlines, and talked through weak spots the way we’d done plenty of times before, with Tripp cracking jokes and giving me shit about taking notes when I had a photographic memory. I told him maybe if he paid attention, he’d learn something.

That was the part that scraped raw now. There were so many times when nothing about him had felt fake.

Especially not this morning while we were out there.

He’d been relaxed and irritating in the comfortable way a brother could be irritating when he knew exactly how far to push before getting punched.

And despite being a prospect, he’d gotten away with pushing further than most because we’d built a deep friendship. Or so I’d thought.

When we were heading back toward Crossbend, we stopped near an abandoned service station to check a side road, and a group of riders rolled in like they’d been waiting for an excuse to start something.

They weren’t locals I recognized, racers, or sure as fuck anyone with enough sense to understand whose territory they were sniffing around.

The argument had started with a couple of smart-ass comments, bruised egos, and men too stupid to realize being loud wasn’t the same thing as being dangerous.

Tripp and I had remained calm and would have left them well enough alone if they hadn’t come at us with their bullshit bravado.

They’d been itching for a fight. So eventually, we gave it to them.