27. Stone
Jail doesn’t worry me.
It never has.
I’ve slept in worse places, with louder men and fewer rules. We’ve got cops in our pockets, lawyers on speed dial, and Cyber can unwind paperwork in his sleep. Whatever charges they want to posture with will get softened, delayed, or quietly buried by morning.
That part is noise.
What keeps my blood hot is Lex.
This wasn’t random. The feds don’t just wander into a biker clubhouse on a holiday with a name and a face unless someone points them there. Someone made a call. Someone wanted eyes on her. Wanted hands on her.
And they got them.
I pace the holding cell, jaw tight, replaying every second — the way the agent touched her like she was already owned, the way fear flashed across her face before she masked it. The way she said my name like she needed it to anchor her.
If I hadn’t stopped when I did, this would’ve ended differently.
The night passes in chunks instead of hours. Doors slam. Someone yells. Someone laughs too hard. A guy two cells down keeps kicking the bars until a guard tells him to knock it off. He doesn’t try me. Smart.
I don’t sleep.
I sit on the bunk, elbows on my knees, body loose but coiled, like the walls might decide to test me. Every thought circles back to the same truth:
They came for my woman.
And they promised they’d come back.
Early morning light bleeds in through the narrow windows when footsteps stop outside my cell. Keys rattle.
“Cole Walker,” a guard says. “You’re free to go.”
I’m on my feet before he finishes the sentence.
Processing takes longer than it should — warnings, paperwork, a lecture about federal agents and restraint. I nod through it, already gone, already counting the seconds.
Bruiser and Riot are waiting outside.
Riot grins first. “Heard you had a sleepover.”
“Fuck you,” I say, automatic.
Bruiser hands me my jacket. “You snore?”
“Hard to sleep when you’re planning a funeral.”
Riot laughs. “County didn’t deserve you anyway.”
My bike’s strapped down on a trailer behind them, secured like it’s something sacred. We don’t waste time.
The ride back is sharp and clean — cold air, engines roaring, road opening up like it knows better than to slow me down. The rage burns off just enough to leave clarity behind.
Something’s wrong before we even pull in.
Too many people outside. Too many phones. Bruiser clocks it at the same time I do.
Inside, the clubhouse is wound tight. Cyber’s standing instead of sitting. Neon’s pacing. Ink looks like he’s one bad sentence away from throwing something heavy.
“Where is she?” I ask.
No one answers fast enough.
My chest goes cold.
Riot scans the room. “Why’s Rasmus here?”
That’s when I see him — pale, rigid, phone clenched in his hand, eyes snapping up the second he hears my voice.
Rasmus crosses the room in three long strides. “Stone,” he says. “I was supposed to meet her on campus. She texted me she was two minutes away.”
My stomach drops.
“When?” I ask.
“About an hour ago. She never showed. I waited. Called. Then her phone went dead.”
The room goes quiet in that dangerous way.
“Why was she out there alone?” I ask, already turning.
Bruiser doesn’t look away this time. His jaw tightens. “She wanted to help,” he says. “Couldn’t sit still. I told her—” He exhales sharply. “I told her to get her papers in order. In case the feds came back. I didn’t think she’d walk out. I thought she’d wait.”
The word thought detonates.
“You thought?” I snarl. “After they put hands on her? After they threatened her?”
“I didn’t expect her to leave the clubhouse,” he fires back, voice rough with guilt. “If I’d known—”
“You should’ve known,” I snap. “That’s what watching her means.”
The punch comes fast. Controlled. Too controlled.
He takes it.
Stumbles half a step, then straightens, blood at the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t swing back.
“That one’s on me,” he says quietly. “I own it.”
That almost makes it worse.
Rasmus steps between us before I can say something I won’t take back. “Stone,” he says firmly. “This doesn’t bring her back.”
I breathe hard through my nose, fists clenched, vision tunneling.
He’s right.
Cyber’s voice cuts in, sharp and focused. “I’ve got something.”
We all turn.
“I pulled traffic and campus cams near where her phone last pinged,” he says. “The signal stopped because the phone didn’t go with her.”
He pulls the footage. Lex is just a silhouette on the sidewalk until the black van rolls up and two men spill out. They move with professional precision. Lex fights, a desperate scramble of limbs that ends with her bag hitting the ground and her phone skidding across the pavement. A heartbeat later, the van tears away, leaving the screen empty.
My vision tunnels. All I can see is her fighting — because of course she did. She never freezes. Never submits. And that thought guts me, because fighting means pain. Someone put hands on her hard enough to force her into that van.
I should’ve been here. Should’ve walked her myself. Should’ve locked the damn doors and dared the world to try again. I told myself she was safe because she was with us, because she was mine. And the second I wasn’t here, the world proved me wrong.
I picture her alone in the dark. Wonder if she’s hurt. Wonder if she’s bleeding. Wonder if she’s calling my name like she did when the feds grabbed her — soft at first, then sharp, like she needed me to hear her even if I couldn’t answer. The thought sits heavy in my chest, ugly and suffocating.
I swear silently, viciously, to whatever god might still listen to men like me: I will get to her. And when I do, no one involved walks away the same.
The room goes dead silent.
“That wasn’t the feds,” I say flatly.
“No,” Cyber agrees. “That was a pickup.”
Planned.
Targeted.
Bruiser steps up beside me again, voice low. “Tell us what you need.”
I don’t look at him.
“Find them,” I say.
Cyber’s fingers are already flying. “Already working it.”
Whoever thought they could take my woman—
Just signed their own death warrant.