Chapter 6
?
— Holden —
R un day dawned cold and gray, the sky heavy with clouds. I’d checked the forecast three times before bed. Clear skies, mild temps, perfect riding conditions — none of which matched what I was looking at now.
“Weather holding?” Dutch appeared beside me in the clubhouse parking lot, coffee in hand, his eyes scanning the clouds the same way mine were.
“Should be. Front’s moving east. We might catch some drizzle around noon, but nothing serious.” I’d already adjusted the route in my head, accounting for wet roads if it came to that. Slower speeds through the mountain curves, longer following distance, extra caution at intersections.
The brothers were gathering, checking their bikes, making last-minute adjustments. Colt was already mounted up, his face set in that focused expression he got before a run. Handful was cracking jokes with Glitch, trying to lighten the tension that always hung in the air before a big operation.
And Danny—
Danny was practically vibrating with excitement.
He stood next to his Sportster, helmet in hand, grinning like Christmas had come early. When he saw me looking, he straightened up and tried to look serious, but the effect was ruined by the way his eyes kept darting around, taking everything in.
“You ready?” I asked, walking over to him.
“Born ready.” He patted his bike like it was a loyal dog. “I’ve been over the route a hundred times. I know every checkpoint, every fallback point, every—”
“That’s good. But Danny?” I waited until he met my eyes. “Today isn’t about proving yourself. It’s about following orders and staying alive. You understand?”
Some of the bravado faded from his expression. “Yes, sir.”
“Stay behind me. Keep your eyes open. If anything feels wrong, you signal immediately.” I gripped his shoulder. “We ride together, we come home together. That’s the only goal.”
He nodded, suddenly looking every one of his nineteen years. “I won’t let you down, Holden.”
“I know you won’t.”
Dutch called the brothers together for a final briefing. I ran through the route one more time—primary path, secondary options, emergency protocols. Everyone knew their positions, their responsibilities, their fallback plans.
“Questions?” Dutch looked around the circle of faces. “No? Then let’s ride.”
I watched Colt check his phone one more time before he mounted up. He’d done it twice already. Lilac, I assumed — she’d made him promise to check in before we left, and he was the kind of man who kept that kind of promise.
Glitch came down the line with a duffel after that, collecting phones.
Nothing on us that could trace back — standard protocol.
I dropped mine in without looking. I hadn’t texted Bea.
I’d said what I needed to say this morning in bed, careful not to use the word goodbye.
Bad luck. I’d told her I’d see her tonight. That was enough.
The engines around me roared to life, the sound vibrating through my chest. I swung onto my Softail and pulled out first, Danny falling into position behind me, the rest of the formation spreading out in our wake.
The first two hours were perfect.
The route unfolded exactly as I’d planned, every turn and straightaway matching the maps I’d memorized. Traffic was light, weather held, and the brothers rode in tight formation behind me. Danny was doing exactly what I’d told him—staying close, staying alert, not trying to show off.
We stopped for fuel at the halfway point, a small station I’d scouted three weeks ago. The owner was on our payroll, the security cameras conveniently malfunctioning whenever Venom Riders rolled through.
“So far so good,” Colt said, pulling up beside me at the pumps. “You called this one perfectly.”
“We’re not there yet.” My eyes kept cutting to the treeline — everything was running exactly according to plan — but the numbers all checking out didn’t make them stop.
“Relax, brother.” Colt clapped me on the shoulder. “We’ve got this.”
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to let myself feel the satisfaction of a well-executed plan, the pride of a route that was working flawlessly. But I couldn’t. Because when everything looks right is exactly when you stop checking.
?
The ambush came out of nowhere. One moment we were cruising through a stretch of empty highway, mountains rising on either side, the road clear for miles. The next, gunfire erupted from the treeline, bullets pinging off asphalt and metal, and everything dissolved into chaos.
“Ambush! Break formation!”
I don’t know who shouted it—maybe me, maybe Dutch, maybe all of us at once. The brothers scattered, bikes swerving to avoid the kill zone, engines screaming as we tried to find cover.
More shots. Glass shattering. Someone cursing over the roar of engines.
I spotted the shooters—four, maybe five, positioned on a ridge above the road. Professional setup. Military precision. This wasn’t random highway robbery. This was planned.
Someone had known our route.
“Cover! ” I shouted, pulling my bike behind a rocky outcrop and drawing my weapon. Danny skidded to a stop beside me, his face pale but his hands steady as he pulled his own gun.
“Who are they?” he asked, voice tight.
“Doesn’t matter. Stay down.”
Return fire erupted from our side. Dutch was barking orders.
I heard Glitch trying to raise Handful on the emergency channel — nothing back, just static.
The follow van should have been fifteen minutes behind us.
The cargo van had pulled off the road, the driver taking cover behind the engine block.
I scanned the ridge, tracking the shooters’ positions, calculating angles. If we could flank them—
“Holden!”
Danny’s voice, sharp with terror.
I turned just in time to see the shooter on the far left swing his rifle toward me. I saw the barrel. Saw the finger on the trigger.
And then Danny was there.
He moved faster than I could process, throwing himself between me and the shooter, his body slamming into mine just as the gun went off. The sound was deafening—and then Danny was falling, falling, and I was catching him, and there was so much red, so much fucking red—
I pulled him behind the rocks, my hands already pressing against the wound in his chest. Too much blood. Too fast. The bullet had hit him center mass, and even as I tried to apply pressure, I knew.
I knew.
“Holden.” His voice was a whisper, wet and rattled. Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth. “Did I—did I do good?”
“You did good, kid.” I could barely get the words out. “You did so good.”
“I proved myself, right?” His eyes were glazing over, that eager light fading into something distant. “I’m a full brother now?”
“You always were.” I gripped his hand, feeling the life draining out of him with every heartbeat. “You always were, Danny. From the first day.”
He smiled—and then his eyes went fixed, and his hand went limp in mine, and he was gone.
Nineteen years old. Turns twenty next month.
Would have turned twenty next month.
The firefight ended eventually. I don’t remember how.
One moment I was holding Danny’s body, and the next Dutch was pulling me up, shouting something I couldn’t hear over the ringing in my ears.
The shooters were dead or fled—I didn’t care which.
Handful and the follow van had taken primary and were heading to the pickup—I didn’t care about that either.
All I could see was Danny’s face. That last smile.
I proved myself, right?
“Holden.” Dutch’s voice finally cut through the fog. “Brother. We need to move.”
“He’s dead.” The words came out flat, empty. “Danny’s dead.”
“I know. And we’ll mourn him properly. But right now we need to get out of here before more show up.”
I looked down at my hands. They were covered in blood. Danny’s blood. The blood of a kid who’d taken a bullet meant for me because I hadn’t seen the shooter in time.
My route. My plan. My failure.
“Holden.” Dutch’s grip on my arm tightened. “We go. Now.”
I let him lead me to my bike. Let him position Danny’s body in the cargo van with more gentleness than I’d ever seen from our president. Let him signal the brothers to form up, to ride out, to return from the mission that Danny had died to protect.
The ride back to the clubhouse was a blur of asphalt, wind and the taste of bile in my throat. Every mile, I replayed the ambush in my head. Every mile, I saw Danny stepping in front of me. Every mile, I felt his blood on my hands.
I’d promised to bring everyone home. I’d promised to keep him safe. I’d told him to trust my lead, to follow my orders, and he had—he’d followed them all the way to his death.
The clouds finally opened up as we pulled into the compound.
I parked my bike and sat there for a long moment, rain soaking through my clothes. Danny’s blood still on my hands. Brothers moved around me. I didn’t move. Couldn’t move.
Because if I moved, I’d have to face what had happened.
I’d have to walk into that clubhouse and see the empty chair where Danny should have been sitting.
I’d have to call his mother—his mother, fuck, how was I going to tell his mother—and explain that her son was dead because I hadn’t seen the shooter in time.
“Brother.” Colt’s voice, soft and steady. “Come inside. Get dry.”
“I killed him.”
“No. The shooter killed him.”
“He took a bullet for me.” I finally looked up, and Colt flinched at whatever he saw in my eyes. “He jumped in front of a gun because I didn’t see it coming. That’s on me.”
“Holden—”
“Leave me alone.”
He hesitated, then nodded once and walked away. I stayed on my bike, rain pouring down, replaying the moment over and over until I couldn’t see anything else.
Danny’s smile.
Danny’s last words.
Danny’s blood on my hands.
The perfect route. The perfect plan. And one dead kid who would never turn twenty.
This was my fault.