6. Diesel
DIESEL
Something's wrong.
I've been feeling it all day — that itch at the back of my skull that kept me alive through four combat deployments.
Gracie dropped Amelia at the neutral location Friday afternoon for Ryan's weekend visitation.
Court-ordered. Nothing she could do about it, even though every instinct she had was screaming not to let her daughter get in that car.
Mine were screaming too.
She's been a mess all weekend. Came over to my place Saturday, but she couldn't settle. Kept checking her phone. Kept pacing. I held her that night, felt her tense every time a car drove past, and I knew she wasn't sleeping any better than I was.
Now it's Sunday evening. Five o'clock. Gracie left twenty minutes ago to pick Amelia up from the neutral location — the same McDonald's parking lot where she dropped her off Friday afternoon.
I'm in my kitchen, watching the clock. Watching my phone. The itch is getting worse.
At 5:45, my phone buzzes.
Gracie: He's not here yet.
I text back: Traffic maybe?
Gracie: He's never late. He's obsessive about time.
I set down my coffee. Stare at the screen.
Ten minutes pass. Another text.
Gracie: Still nothing. He's not answering his phone.
Gracie: I've called five times.
Gracie: Diesel, something's wrong.
I'm already grabbing my keys when the next one comes through.
Gracie: He just texted. Oh god.
Then a screenshot:
"She's staying with me. My lawyer will be in touch."
The rage hits me like a wall.
Nineteen years in the Army taught me how to control it. How to take that white-hot fury and pack it down into something cold, something useful. Anger makes you sloppy. Gets you killed. You feel it, you acknowledge it, and then you put it away until you need it.
Right now, I need it.
I'm on my bike and moving before I've finished processing the text. The neutral location is fifteen minutes away. I make it in eight, weaving through traffic, taking corners too fast, not giving a single fuck about speed limits.
Gracie's standing alone in the McDonald's parking lot. When she sees me pull up, she runs.
"He took her." She slams into me, fists my jacket, her whole body shaking. "He took my baby."
I wrap my arms around her and hold on. Let her shake. Let her cry. But my mind is already three steps ahead.
"We're going to my place," I tell her. "I'm making some calls. We're going to get her back."
"Diesel—"
"Gracie." I pull back, grip her shoulders, force her to meet my eyes. "I need you to trust me. Can you do that?"
She stares at me. Tears streaming down her face, terror in her eyes. But underneath it, I see something else. Steel.
"Yes."
"Good. Can you drive?"
She nods.
I call King the second we're through my front door.
"Diesel."
"I need backup. My place. Now."
King doesn't ask unnecessary questions. He's been president long enough to know when something's serious. "What's going on?"
"Woman I'm seeing — her ex just took their kid. Violated the custody order. I know where he lives. I need to go get her back, and I need bodies in case this gets complicated."
"On our way."
I hang up and turn to Gracie. She's standing in my living room, hugging herself, looking lost.
"Sit down," I tell her. "They'll be here soon."
"Who?"
"My brothers. The club."
She sinks onto the couch, but her eyes are on me. "You keep saying that. The club. Your brothers. I don't—" She shakes her head. "I don't understand any of this."
I crouch in front of her, take her hands. They're ice cold.
"I'm not just some guy who fixes bikes, Gracie. The Sons of Ruin — that's my club. My family. I should have told you before now, but—"
"I don't care." Her voice is raw. "I don't care who you are or what you do. I just want my daughter back."
"And you're going to get her. That's what I'm telling you." I squeeze her hands. "When one of us has a problem, we all have a problem. And right now, your problem is our problem."
The first bike pulls up before she can respond. Then another. Then two more. Engines cutting out, boots on concrete, the sound of men who know how to move with purpose.
They file into my living room one by one.
Gracie presses closer to me. I don't blame her. These men look like exactly what they are — dangerous. Leather and ink and barely contained violence, filling up my small living room until it feels like there's no air left.
"This is Gracie," I tell them. "Her ex just violated a custody order and took her daughter. Amelia. Seven years old. I know where he lives — ran his plates weeks ago when I spotted him watching her house."
The room goes still.
There's a particular kind of silence that happens when men like these hear about a child being taken. It's not just anger. It's something colder. More deliberate.
"We're going to get her back," King says. It's not a question. Not a promise. Just a statement of fact.
"Address is in Phoenix," I say. "Hour and a half. Maybe less if we push it."
"Then let's stop talking and start riding." Rogue's already moving toward the door.
"I'm coming." Gracie's on her feet.
Every head turns toward her.
"Gracie—" I start.
"She's my daughter." Her voice is steady now, the panic hardening into something else. "I'm coming."
"Any point in talking you out of that?"
"None whatsoever."
"Fine. You take your car," I tell her. "One of the prospects rides with you. You stay in the car until I come out with Amelia. You do exactly what I tell you, when I tell you. Those are the conditions."
"Okay."
"I mean it, Gracie. I can't do what I need to do if I'm worried about you."
"I understand." She holds my gaze. "Bring me my daughter."
King nods at one of the prospects who came with them. "Vince. She's with you. Keep her safe."
"Yes, sir."
"Let's move."
The ride is ninety minutes of controlled fury.
Rogue on my left, Lock on my right. The desert stretches out around us, dark and endless, the road a black ribbon under our wheels.
I push the bike harder than I should. Take curves too fast. Eating up the miles.
I'm thinking about her. Seven years old. Probably confused, wondering why her dad won't take her home. Wondering where her mom is. Wondering if she did something wrong.
The rage builds with every mile. Cold. Patient. Focused. I learned a long time ago that you don't let anger drive — you use it as fuel. You stay sharp. You execute the mission.
But God, it's hard right now. It's hard to stay cold when all I can see is Amelia's face, and all I can feel is Gracie shaking in my arms.
By the time we pull onto Ryan's street — a nice neighborhood, manicured lawns, the kind of place where people think bad things don't happen — my jaw aches from clenching it.
His BMW is in the driveway. Lights on inside.
"How do you want to play this?" Rogue asks, killing his engine.
"I go to the door. You two stay back unless I need you."
"And if he doesn't cooperate?"
"Then I stop asking nicely."
Lock cracks his knuckles. "Works for me."
I walk up to the front door and knock. Polite. Civilized.
Ryan opens it with a smug expression that makes me want to break his jaw on sight. He's holding a glass of whiskey, wearing slacks and a polo like this is just another Sunday evening.
"Can I help you?" He doesn't recognize me at first. Then his eyes narrow. "Wait. You're the neighbor. What the hell are you doing here?"
"I'm here for Amelia."
"She's staying with me. Her mother can take it up with my lawyer." He starts to close the door.
My hand shoots out and stops it.
Then I push — not hard, just enough to send him stumbling backward into his own hallway. His whiskey goes flying, glass shattering against the hardwood. I step inside, and Rogue and Lock appear behind me, filling the doorway.
"What the fuck—" Ryan's face goes white. "You can't just barge into my house—"
"Amelia," I call out, ignoring him completely. "You here, sweetheart?"
"She's in the living room." Ryan's trying to recover, reaching for his phone. "And I'm calling the police. This is breaking and entering. This is—"
Lock plucks the phone out of his hand like he's taking candy from a child. "No calls."
"Give that back—"
"Sit down and shut up," Rogue says pleasantly. "The adults are handling things."
I follow the sound of the television to the living room. Amelia's curled up on the couch, knees to her chest, watching cartoons with red-rimmed eyes. She looks up when I walk in, and her face crumples.
"Diesel?"
"Hey, sweetheart." I crouch down, keeping my voice gentle. "Your mom's outside. She's waiting for you. You ready to go home?"
She launches off the couch and into my arms, her little body trembling against mine. "I wanna go home. He said I had to stay. I wanna see Mommy."
"I know, baby." I pick her up, let her bury her face in my neck. "Mommy's right outside. Rogue's going to take you to her, okay?"
Rogue appears in the doorway, his whole demeanor different now — softer, warmer. "Hey, Amelia. I'm a friend of Diesel's. You like piggyback rides?"
She peeks at him, then nods.
I transfer her to Rogue carefully. "Take her to Gracie. Keep them in the car until I'm done here."
Rogue settles Amelia on his hip and heads for the door. "Come on, kiddo. Let's go find your mom."
I watch them go. Wait until I hear the front door close.
Then I turn back to Ryan.
He's pressed against the wall, Lock looming over him, and whatever bravado he had left is rapidly crumbling.
"You." I walk toward him slowly. "And me. We're going to have a conversation."
"I'll have you arrested. All of you. My lawyer—"
"Your lawyer isn't here." I stop in front of him. Close enough to see the sweat beading on his forehead. "I am."
"You can't just—"
I move.
One second I'm standing there. The next I've got him pinned against the wall, my forearm across his throat. His feet are barely touching the ground, and the sound he makes is deeply satisfying.