9. Target Acquired
NINE
TARGET ACQUIRED
CRUSHER
Rock called me back to the Clubhouse in the middle of the night.
I didn’t want to leave Nevaeh, but when the club calls, you better fucking go.
Loyalty to the patch and the brothers means more than any civilian will ever understand.
I’m watching the sun rise from the picnic table outside.
The pink and purple hues splashing across the clouds remind me of the power Nevaeh has over things she writes.
I haven’t been to sleep since I stepped foot back here, and my eyes are gritty. I take a drag of a cigarette and swallow a mouthful of hot coffee, waking myself back up. A deep, troubling feeling settles in the pit of my stomach.
Suddenly, Steel’s voice cracks through the clubhouse walls like a gunshot, causing birds to take flight and the crickets to stop chirping.
“WHO LET THIS HAPPEN!?”
My boots hit the floor before I even register the rest of what Steel shouts. I knew it the second my phone buzzed nonstop. The group chat blew up. Mentions of the club are in bold. My name, right there in the byline next to the Mt. Pleasant Youth Restoration Fund.
The article is live, and she published it. No warning, no compromise. Just a digital hit job, dressed up in feel-good quotes and noble intentions.
“She said she wouldn’t publish it,” I growl under my breath to no one in particular, shoving through the hallway, past Caine and Nova, who go stone still as I pass.
“You trust the press now, Crusher?” Draft questions. His voice blurs under a low buzz boiling in my skull.
I shove the doors to Church open. Every patch member is here. Steel’s standing, arms braced on the table, head down like he’s trying to keep from leveling the whole damn place. Rock and Rampage are flanking him. Everyone looks at me when I step in.
“Sit,” he growls. “Now.”
I take the chair at the edge of the table, the one I usually avoid because it backs the door. But right now, eyes are burning into me from every direction, and I need to face them. No flinching. No running.
“You wanna explain why a reporter has the name of our club, our donation trail, and your fucking face attached to it?”
“I didn’t give her anything,” I calmly say, my voice steady. “I don’t know how the hell she found out.”
City throws his phone down onto the table, the screen cracking against the wood. “She found out because she was digging. Into you.”
“And I shut her down,” I snap. “You think I’d hand-feed a reporter our books? I told her to back off.”
Draft, always the accountant, runs a hand through her hair. “Then how’d she get access to the Mt. Pleasant fund trail? That ledger’s clean. Clean because you said it had to be.”
“Because it had to be,” I grit out. “To protect that center. To protect us.”
I look to Steel. “You think I wanted this out there? You think I wanted to burn the one thing we did right in the dark?”
His glare doesn’t waver. “I think the second a woman gets close to you, shit gets loud.” There’s a faraway look in his eyes, like he’s remembering the woman we shall never speak of in this clubhouse.
Throttle leans forward. “So, what now? You saying she went rogue?”
Before I can answer, the screen crackles. City curses, scrambles for the remote. The cable feed cuts out, replaced by a new image of a dimly lit room, shaky handheld camera.
A woman is screaming in the background.
A man’s voice filtered and clipped. Dominic Vassaro, head of the Echelon Syndicate. The man responsible for Jordan’s death. “You chose poorly.”
The camera shifts. A smashed lamp. Blood on the floor.
A laptop is lifted into frame. Nevaeh’s, I recognize it instantly, and then they toss it into a duffel.
The camera pans briefly, too fast for facial IDs but long enough to see a figure shoved into a wall, Nevaeh, wide-eyed, fighting back until she’s clocked with the butt of a pistol.
The screen goes black. No sound. No signal. Just silence.
Then Steel speaks. His voice is like a tombstone. “Echelon Syndicate just sent us a love letter.”
I don’t remember moving. Just the roar in my ears and the taste of copper behind my teeth. I’m halfway to my bike when Rock stops me. The sun is beating down onto the asphalt, scorching my skin.
“She’s alive,” he says, placing his hand on my shoulder to steady me. “A call came through two minutes ago. She got out, barely.”
“Where is she?”
“No idea.” Rock shakes his head, his grip on my shoulder not letting up. “She’s not answering her phone.”
Throttle joins us, tapping his screen. “It’s not pinging either. She’s either off-grid or her phone is smashed.”
I feel it then, the animal instinct tightening in my gut. The protective surge I hate myself for. I shouldn’t give a damn. But I do, and that pisses me off more than anything.
I’m pacing inside the clubhouse, wanting to crush some bones with my fists for hours, when the alarm goes off at the gates. I hurry outside with my heart thrashing against my chest. And stop dead in my tracks as the gates slide open.
There she is.
Nevaeh.
Her dark hair is tangled, blood dried at her temples. Her jacket is torn, and she’s shaking like her bones are seconds from giving out. Nevaeh stumbles down the asphalt toward the clubhouse like she doesn’t know if she’ll be shot or helped. Like she’s braced for both.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I growl before she makes it to the door.
Her lips are split. Her eyes are red rimmed, and swollen. She sways when she answers. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
I don’t move even though I want to pull her into my arms and protect her from the evil things of this world.
Steel appears behind me, spotting Nevaeh. I fight the growl rising in my throat at the way he sizes her up, like she’s a risk, not a person. “Get her inside before someone sees.”
I usher Nevaeh into the clubhouse and, without a word to anyone, I take her to my room. I open the bathroom door and pull her inside. “Get cleaned up and showered. Then meet me in the common room when you’re done.”
I don’t wait for an answer before I close the door on her and lean against it, blowing out a ragged breath. What the fuck is wrong with me? I should be keeping my distance from her, but I can’t.
Pushing off the door, I stomp my way out of my room and lock it behind me. Keeping her safe while she cleans up and recovers.
An hour later, Nevaeh is showered, wearing my sweatpants that hang off her hips and a Saints Outlaws tank top, wrapped in a blanket, sitting on the couch with a steaming cup of coffee she hasn’t touched.
There’s a red bloom on her shoulder where she’s trying to hide the bruises.
Her lip is busted. I want to kill someone.
Maybe myself. The room is tense. My brothers are nearby, giving us space, barely.
I sit on the coffee table in front of her, arms crossed, anger festering just beneath the surface. I’m watching her, trying to figure out if this is all some twisted game or just bad judgment.
“You didn’t listen.”
Nevaeh’s gaze flips to me. “I didn’t publish it.”
“Bullshit,” I spit out.
“I didn’t, Erik,” Nevaeh says, voice hoarse. “I pulled the article. I wasn’t going to go live. My editor pushed it without me. I tried to stop it.”
“You tried?” I lean forward with my arms resting on my knees, making my muscles bulge. “But you didn’t stop it. And now the men I ride with, bleed with, are exposed. That center’s compromised. And you…”
“What? Deserved to get attacked?” She snaps. “I was nearly killed.”
I look away for a second too long. Because no, she didn’t deserve that. No one does. “And you think coming here makes you safe?” I almost release a low chuckle.
“I didn’t know where else to go!” Nevaeh’s voice cracks, hands trembling as she clutches the blanket like armor. “You think this was easy? You think I wanted to betray you?”
I say nothing.
Nevaeh’s eyes shine, but not with tears, but from fear, which almost makes me crack. She sets the untouched coffee down beside me. “You don’t have to trust me. But I didn’t do this for fame.”
I stare at her for a long time. Long enough for the rage to burn low and leave only the wreckage behind. “You broke something,” I finally say. “And it wasn’t just the story.”
As I stand, walking toward the hallway and away from the woman who might have just lit a fuse under everything we’ve built, I feel the weight of it settle in.
The war has begun, and she brought it to our door.