7. Reyes
Reyes
The pre-lunch crowd at The Black Crown is thin—just a few truckers grabbing burgers, and me pretending to read emails while keeping one eye on the door. Shannon’s been working the day shift for three days, and I still can’t shake the feeling that something’s coming.
I should be back at the shop, helping Grizz with the Torrino security consult. Should be anywhere but here, watching Shannon move between tables like she belongs in my world. But after last night, after the way she felt in my arms, staying away is impossible.
She’s wiping down the corner booth when the door opens and lets in trouble, wearing a pressed military uniform.
Captain Mason Holt walks into The Black Crown like he owns it, and every instinct honed over eight years with the Savage Kings starts screaming.
He’s average height, maybe five-ten, with the rigid posture that comes from years of military discipline.
Clean-shaven, short brown hair, pale eyes that scan the room, cataloguing threats.
When his gaze lands on Shannon, a predatory flicker crosses his face.
She freezes mid-wipe. The life drains from her face, leaving it a still, tight mask. The rag falls from her hands, hitting the floor with a wet slap that echoes in the sudden quiet.
“Hello, Shannon.” Mason’s voice carries clearly across the bar, drawing every eye. “We need to talk.”
I’m already moving, but Tank’s voice stops me cold.
“Savior. Sit.”
My president has stepped out of the back office, and the command in his tone freezes me halfway out of my chair. Tank has his game face on—the expression he wears when negotiating with people who could destroy us.
“Captain Holt, I presume?” Tank walks toward Mason with the kind of calm that precedes violence. “I’m Tank Morrison, president of the Savage Kings MC.”
Mason’s attention shifts to Tank. He’s calculating, deciding how much authority his uniform carries here.
“Mr. Morrison. I’m here on official business.” Mason’s hand rests casually near his sidearm, but there’s nothing casual about the way he’s positioned himself between Shannon and the exit. “I need to speak with Shannon Cole about a custody matter.”
“She’s at work,” Tank says mildly. “Maybe you could make an appointment.”
Mason’s smile is all teeth. “I’m afraid this can’t wait.”
Shannon finally finds her voice. “I don’t have anything to say to you, Mason.”
“You will.” He turns back to her, the mask slipping enough to show the ugly underneath. “Because we’re going to discuss how you kidnapped my son and dragged him across state lines.”
The word ‘kidnapped’ slams into the bar’s atmosphere. Even Diesel straightens on his stool, suddenly interested.
“He’s not your son,” Shannon says, but her voice shakes.
“The courts might see it differently. Especially when they hear about the environment you’ve been exposing him to.
” Mason’s gaze sweeps the bar, taking in the leather, the ink, the barely contained violence.
“Motorcycle clubs. Criminal associates. That sleazeball you’ve shacked up with like the whore you are. ”
Adrenaline floods my bloodstream. I start to rise again, but Tank’s hand lands on my shoulder, a solid, unmovable weight.
“Careful, Captain,” Tank’s voice drops to a register that means someone’s about to bleed. “You’re a guest here. Don’t wear out your welcome.”
Mason laughs, a sound that makes my flesh crawl. “I’m not worried. I’m a federal officer. Assaulting me would bring more heat than your little club could handle.”
He’s right, and we all know it. Touching him would bring federal agents down on us.
“What do you want?” Tank asks.
“I want what’s mine.” Mason’s attention goes back to Shannon. She flinches. “I want Shannon to stop this childish tantrum and come home where she belongs.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“Then I’ll be back at six o’clock with a federal warrant for her arrest,” Mason says, his voice dropping to a deceptively calm tone.
“Getting the cross-jurisdictional paperwork finalized takes a few hours.
I could have you detained in the meantime, of course.
But I'm a reasonable man." He checks his watch.
"So, I'm giving you a choice. Eight hours.
You can come with me quietly, or you can force my hand, and I'll enjoy watching your son get handed over to protective custody while you sit in a federal holding cell. "
The threat lands like a sledgehammer. Shannon goes limp, gripping the back of a chair to stay upright. “You bastard,” she whispers.
“I’m the bastard trying to save you from yourself.” His voice turns mockingly gentle. “Look around, Shannon. Is this really the life you want for Aiden? Hiding in dive bars, sleeping with criminals, running from the law?”
“Better than being with you.”
“We’ll see.” Mason turns to Tank, all business. “Eight hours, Mr. Morrison. Have her ready, or I’ll return with enough federal backup to turn this place inside out.”
Tank flips his silver coin, the metal catching the dim light. “And what about him? If she leaves, is he good?” He nods toward me.
Mason’s smile turns genuinely pleased. “For now. But then, I haven’t looked too hard into Mr. Reyes’s background, have I?
” His pale eyes find mine across the room.
“Discharged from the Navy SEALs under less than honorable circumstances. Multiple arrests for assault. Association with known criminals.” He shrugs.
“I imagine if I really put my mind to it, I could find all sorts of interesting things.”
The message is crystal clear. He’ll destroy me piece by piece if Shannon doesn’t come.
“Eight hours,” Mason repeats, heading for the door. “And gentlemen? I’d strongly advise against trying to leave. I have resources you can’t imagine.”
The door swings shut behind him, leaving a silence that feels like the aftermath of an explosion.
Shannon’s legs give out, and she sinks into the nearest chair. “He found us. God, he actually found us.”
“How?” Tank asks, but a sick feeling in my gut already knows the answer.
“Surveillance,” I say. “Military grade. He’s been watching, building a case.”
Tank nods grimly. “Question is, what do we do about it?”
I look at Shannon—my Shannon—sitting there lost and terrified, and something inside me hardens into steel. Mason thinks he can waltz in here and take what’s mine? Thinks he can threaten the woman I love and walk away?
He’s about to learn exactly why they call me Savior. And why crossing the Savage Kings is the last mistake he’ll ever make.
“We fight,” I say, my voice carrying to every corner of the bar. “We fucking fight.”
Tank catches his coin and pockets it, decision made. “Church. Now. Everyone.”
As the brothers file toward the back, I meet Shannon’s eye. She’s scared, broken, but there’s still fire there. Still fight. Good. She’s going to need it because this war is just getting started.
The church is thick with tension when I walk in five minutes later. Every seat around the scarred wooden table is filled—Grizz sprawled in his chair, Hawk cleans his nails with a switchblade, Diesel cracks his knuckles. Viper leans against the back wall, his ink-black eyes missing nothing.
Tank sits at the head of the table, his silver coin dancing between his fingers. When the door closes behind me, the coin stops.
“Brothers,” Tank begins, his voice carrying the weight of fifteen years leading this club. “We got a problem.”
“Federal problem,” Hawk adds, not looking up. “Worst kind.”
Tank nods. “Captain Mason Holt, military police. Claims Shannon Cole kidnapped her own kid. He’s got surveillance photos, federal backing, and a hard-on for making our lives difficult.”
“So we cut her loose,” Diesel says immediately. “Not our problem.”
“The hell we do,” I growl. "Hell, the fuck, no."
“Easy, Savior.” Grizz holds up a massive hand. “Let Tank finish.”
“Holt’s given us eight hours to produce Shannon, or he comes back with warrants.
Child endangerment, kidnapping, the works.
” Tank’s coin starts moving again. “But that’s not the worst part.
He’s threatening to dig into Savior’s background.
Military discharge, arrest records. He’ll destroy you, brother.
And once he starts on you, how long before he starts on all of us? ”
“Torrino deal,” Viper says quietly from the wall. “Federal heat kills it dead.”
The Louisiana expansion. Three months of negotiations, and Holt could blow it apart with a single phone call.
“So what’s the play?” Hawk asks, pocketing his knife.
Tank leans back. “We could cut Shannon loose. Tell Holt she was never here. Problem solved.”
My chair scrapes against concrete as I surge to my feet. “Over my dead body.”
“Savior—”
“No.” I plant my hands on the table, leaning forward.
“You want to know what the play is?” Silence.
“We’re going to ask ourselves which one of us is willing to take a knife and cut out their own heart.
Because that’s what you’re asking me to do.
Cut out my fucking heart and hand it to some uniform-wearing piece of shit who likes to break three-year-olds’ arms.”
Diesel shifts uncomfortably. Hawk’s expression goes neutral. But none of them look away.
“She’s changed you,” Grizz says quietly. “We’ve all seen it. Seen you come alive for the first time.”
“She has.” I don’t hide it. “Shannon and her boy—they’re everything I never knew I needed. Everything I never thought I’d have.”
“And if keeping them costs us the Torrino deal?” Viper asks. “Costs us our freedom?”
The question hangs in the air. We all know what this could cost.
“Then it costs us.” I straighten, meeting Tank’s eyes. “But I won’t give them up. I can’t.”
“Why?” The question comes from Hawk, but I see it in all their faces.