Chapter 23
Grim
The clubhouse lot vibrated with the low, hungry rumble of engines. One by one, the Bloodline Saints mounted their bikes, leather cuts catching the moonlight, faces carved with purpose.
Grim stood beside his bike, tightening the last strap on the small directional charge he’d built in under an hour. His hands were steady. His jaw was set. His eyes were cold.
He wasn’t riding for vengeance. He was riding for the women in those cages, for Reyes’s wife, for Sophia.
He felt her before he saw her, soft footsteps behind him and the faintest tremor in her breath. Sophia stood in the doorway of the clubhouse, wrapped in one of his hoodies, eyes locked on him like she was memorizing every line of his face.
He moved to her without thinking. Her hands slid up his chest, gripping the leather of his cut. His fingers curled around her waist, pulling her in, grounding himself in her warmth.
“Be careful,” she whispered.
“I will,” he said, but it came out rough, like the words scraped his throat on the way out.
She rose onto her toes, pressing her forehead to his. His control slipped for a beat. He hadn’t realized how badly he needed this — her touch, her steadiness, her quiet strength.
“You come back to me,” she murmured.
His hands tightened on her hips. “Always.”
He kissed her, slow and fierce, a promise and a plea tangled together, then forced himself to pull back. Her fingers lingered on his jaw, sliding away only when he stepped back toward his bike.
Leaving her felt wrong. Necessary. But wrong.
Stone swung his leg over his bike. “We ride.”
The engines roared to life, a thunderous, unified growl that shook the ground.
County Line Road was a long, empty stretch of asphalt cutting through farmland and forest. The moon hung low, casting silver light across the cracked pavement.
Fish’s voice crackled through the comms. “Truck’s on schedule. Two miles out. Reaper escort confirmed.”
Stone’s voice was calm. “Positions.”
The Saints split, Havoc and Rook peeling off toward the blind curve, Fish taking the ridge above the road, Stone and Grim holding center, the others forming a loose perimeter.
Grim rode ahead, pulling off to the side and dismounting. He knelt beside the asphalt, setting the shaped charge with practiced precision.
A directional blast. Focused. Controlled. Deadly, but only to the truck’s axle.
He pressed the detonator into his palm.
“Charge set,” he said quietly.
Fish’s voice came through the comm, low and steady. “Eyes on. Scout bike approaching. Tail bike thirty seconds behind.”
Rook responded immediately. “Havoc, take the scout. I’ll take the tail.”
“On it,” Havoc growled.
Stone’s voice came through the comm. “Truck in sight.”
Grim rose, stepping back into the shadows.
The truck appeared over the hill, a massive eighteen-wheeler with headlights cutting through the dark. Behind it, two Reaper bikes flanked the sides, their cuts unmistakable even at a distance.
Fish murmured, “Escort locked in. No chase car.”
Havoc’s voice was a low growl. “Escort confirmed.”
Stone waited.
Waited.
Waited—
“Now.”
Grim pressed the detonator.
The explosion was sharp and controlled, a violent crack that blew the front axle clean off. The truck lurched, metal screaming as it skidded sideways, tires shredding, sparks flying.
It slammed to a stop, tilted but intact.
The Reaper scout swerved, and Havoc hit him like a battering ram, knocking him clean off his bike.
The tail bike tried to brake, but Rook was already there, tackling the rider off the seat and slamming him into the dirt before the man could even reach for his weapon.
Stone and Grim were already moving.
The truck driver stumbled out, reaching for a gun.
Grim was on him in seconds. A punch to the jaw. A knee to the ribs. The man hit the ground, wheezing.
Stone grabbed the second driver, slamming him against the truck. “Where are the keys?”
The man spat blood. “Go to hell.”
Stone didn’t blink. “Wrong answer,” he said, and dropped him with a single shot.
Fish slid down from the ridge, silent as a shadow, already checking the perimeter. “Clear. No reinforcements.”
Rook tossed him the keys. Stone unlocked the back. The door creaked open.
Sophia’s gasp from the photos hadn’t prepared Grim for the real thing.
Inside the truck were cages, metal and welded and stacked two high. Women huddled inside them, bruised, terrified, some crying, some staring blankly like they’d already given up.
One woman flinched when the door opened, shielding her face with trembling hands.
Stone stepped forward slowly, palms up. “You’re safe now. We’re not here to hurt you.”
The women didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t trust.
Stone softened his voice. “We’re taking you out of here. We’re taking you somewhere safe.”
A woman in the top cage whispered, “Who are you?”
Stone met her eyes. “The men who came to get you out.”
Something in his tone — steady, warm, unshakable — broke through the terror.
The woman nodded.
Stone turned to the men. “Cut the locks.”
Havoc and Rook used bolt cutters, snapping the bars open one by one. Grim helped lift the women down, his movements gentle despite the adrenaline still burning through him.
Some women sobbed. Some clung to the Saints. Some collapsed the moment their feet hit the ground.
Stone called over the comms, “Send in the vans.”
Two unmarked vans pulled up, engines idling.
Stone addressed the women again. “We’re taking you to a recovery center. The Sheriff’s on standby. It’s safe. They’ll take care of you. No one will hurt you again.”
A few nodded. A few whispered thank you. One woman grabbed Grim’s arm, tears streaming down her face. “Thank you… thank you…”
Grim swallowed hard. “You’re safe now.”
Stone assigned two men to each van, ensuring the women were protected the entire way.
“Take them straight there,” Stone ordered. “No stops. No detours. Call me when you arrive.”
The vans pulled away, taillights disappearing into the night.
The Saints stood in the road, the wrecked truck smoking behind them, the Reapers unconscious and zip-tied.
Stone exhaled slowly. “Good work.”
Havoc cracked his neck. “Feels good to hit back.”
Rook kicked one of the Reapers hard. “Feels even better to hit them.”
Fish stood a few feet away, scanning the tree line, voice low. “We need to move. Someone’s gonna come looking.”
Grim didn’t speak. He was already thinking of Sophia.
Stone clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Go home. She’s waiting.”
Grim nodded once. The Saints moved toward their bikes, hands on handlebars, boots settling into position, the kind of quiet that comes after a hard-won fight settling over them.
A burst of static ripped through the comms, sharp, violent, wrong.
“—Stone—copy—” Ledger’s voice cracked through, warped and breaking. More static. A hiss. A thud.
Stone straightened on his bike. “Ledger, say again.”
“—attack—club—breach—Reap—”
The line dissolved into a screech of interference.
Grim’s blood went cold.
Stone’s voice dropped into something lethal. “Ledger. Report.”
Nothing.
Just dead air.
Fish’s voice was tight. “That wasn’t weather. That was impact.”
Havoc growled low. “Reapers hit the house.”
Grim didn’t wait for orders. He twisted the throttle, engine screaming as he shot forward.
Stone’s voice followed, hard as steel. “Saints. Move now.”