11. Jade
Jade
I’m still alive.
That’s the first thought when I wake up Monday morning. The deadline passed. Reaper’s twenty-four hours came and went sometime last night, and I’m still breathing.
Which means Hawk bought us time. Somehow.
I don’t know how. Don’t know what he said or promised or threatened to get Reaper to back off. But clearly something worked, because I’m sitting here in this cabin bedroom instead of buried in the woods.
For now.
The reprieve won’t last forever. I know that. Reaper’s not the type to just forget about a direct order being ignored. Sooner or later, the consequences are coming. The enforcers. The reckoning.
But today, I’m alive. And I’m done waiting for these men to decide my fate.
I’ve spent two days being reactive. Being the victim. The hostage. The problem to be managed. Two days of letting them make decisions while I cowered in my room or screamed in kitchens or tried to escape through windows.
Two days of being powerless.
I’m done with powerless.
I head to the bathroom, lock the door, and quickly freshen up. Downstairs, I smell bacon. Coffee. My stomach growls. But I’m not going down there to beg for food or wait to be told what’s happening next.
I’m going down there to take control.
The decision crystallized somewhere between waking up and stepping into the bathroom. I can’t keep being passive. Can’t keep waiting for them to figure out how to save me while Tyler hunts and the club closes in and the Feds circle.
I have information. I have leverage. I have four years of watching the Ruthless Saints operate, of being invisible in rooms where men talked business like I wasn’t there.
Tyler always said I was too stupid to understand what was happening around me. That I should keep my mouth shut and look pretty and let the men handle important things.
He was wrong.
I understood everything. I just played dumb because it was safer that way. Because asking questions got me hit. Because showing intelligence meant becoming a threat Tyler needed to control even harder.
But I’m not with Tyler anymore.
And these men—Hawk, Shadow, Razor—they’re not Tyler.
They’ve proven that in a dozen small ways over the past two days.
The way they listen when I talk. The way they haven’t touched me except to bandage wounds or prevent escapes.
The way they argue about what to do with me instead of just doing whatever they want.
They’re not good men. They’re criminals, kidnappers, members of a motorcycle club that deals in weapons and violence.
But they’re not Tyler.
And maybe—just maybe—I can work with that.
I take a breath, square my shoulders, and head downstairs.
The three of them are in the main room. Shadow’s at the stove, flipping bacon. Razor’s at the table, cleaning a gun with methodical precision. Hawk’s by the window, coffee in hand, staring out at the woods.
They all look up when I enter. Three sets of eyes tracking my movement, assessing, calculating.
I don’t flinch. Don’t make myself smaller. Just walk to the table and sit down.
“We need to talk,” I say.
Shadow raises an eyebrow. “About?”
“About what happens next. About how we all survive this.” I fold my hands on the table, careful of my bandaged palm. “I have a proposal.”
Hawk turns from the window. “We’re listening.”
I take another breath. This is it. The moment where I either become a partner or confirm I’m just a hostage with opinions.
“Tyler won’t stop looking for me,” I start. “You all know that. He’s got every club in the region on alert, offering rewards for information. Someone’s going to put together that the woman grabbed at the gas station matches Tyler’s missing girl. It’s just a matter of time.”
“We know,” Razor says, not looking up from his gun.
“The Ruthless Saints want revenge for the gun deal,” I continue. “They think you set them up with the Feds. Whether that’s true or not doesn’t matter. They’re coming for you. And when they do, I’m leverage. A way to hurt both you and Tyler at the same time.”
“We know that too,” Shadow says.
“And the Feds probably want my statement,” I add. “I’m a witness to a federal weapons sting. They’re going to track me down eventually. Ask me to testify. Put me in witness protection or jail me for obstruction if I refuse.”
“Getting to the point anytime soon?” Hawk asks, but there’s no heat in it. Just curiosity.
“The point is that running alone means dying. I can’t disappear by myself. Tyler will find me. The Ruthless Saints will find me. The Feds will find me. I need help.” I lean forward. “And you three need me.”
That gets their attention. All three of them are looking at me now, really looking.
“Need you how?” Hawk asks.
“I know things. About the Ruthless Saints. About Tyler. About their operations, their contacts, their weak points.” I count off on my fingers.
“Four years I spent in that clubhouse. Four years of being invisible while men talked business around me like I was furniture. You’d be surprised what people say when they think a woman isn’t listening. ”
Razor sets down his gun. “What kind of things?”
“Supply routes. Money laundering schemes. Which cops are on their payroll. Which businesses are fronts. Where they stash weapons and drugs.” I meet his eyes. “Everything you’d need to know to either destroy them or broker a truce that actually sticks.”
Shadow leans forward. “You’d give us that information?”
“I’d give you whatever you need to end this war.
Because as long as the Ruthless Saints and Satan’s Reapers are at each other’s throats, I’m caught in the crossfire.
Tyler’s using the conflict to justify hunting me.
Your club is using it to justify eliminating witnesses.
The only way I survive is if the war ends. ”
“Or if you disappear completely,” Hawk says. “New identity. New life. No connection to any of this.”
“Which requires resources I don’t have. Money, contacts, documents.” I look at each of them in turn. “But you do. The club has those resources. You could make me disappear. Make Mason disappear. Give us a real shot at starting over somewhere Tyler can never find us.”
“In exchange for intel on the Ruthless Saints,” Razor says slowly.
“In exchange for whatever you need to end this situation without everyone dying.” I sit back.
“So here’s what I propose: I help you figure out how to end this war.
You help me disappear with Mason when it’s over.
Partnership. Not hostage and captors. Not victim and protectors.
Partners working toward the same goal—survival. ”
The silence stretches. I can see them processing, weighing options, considering angles.
Hawk’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. Shadow’s grinning slightly, like I’ve impressed him. Razor’s neutral, but his eyes are sharp, calculating what this means.
Finally, Hawk speaks. “What do you know about Ruthless Saints operations?”
Here we go.
“Plenty.” I tick off items on my fingers. “Their main supply route runs through a trucking company called Hastings Freight. They move drugs, guns, stolen goods. The owner, Rick Hastings, is Tyler’s uncle on his mother’s side. He’s been running that operation for fifteen years.”
“We know about Hastings,” Razor says.
“Do you know that he keeps paper records? Old-school ledgers in a safe at his house because he doesn’t trust digital?” I raise an eyebrow. “Do you know where his house is? What his security system is? When he’s not home?”
Razor’s eyes narrow. “You do?”
“Tyler took me there for Christmas two years ago. Rick showed off his whole setup, thinking I was too stupid to understand what I was seeing.” I smile without humor. “Men always underestimate what women notice.”
Shadow’s grinning wider now. “What else?”
“Their president, Marcus Stone, has a gambling problem. Owes money to people in Atlantic City. Big money. The kind that gets you hurt if you don’t pay.
” I count on another finger. “Their VP, Carlos Rivera, is skimming from the club treasury. Has been for years. If someone proved it, the club would handle him internally. Violently.”
“How do you know that?” Hawk asks.
“Because Tyler was helping him hide it. In exchange for Carlos covering up Tyler’s side deals. They had a whole system.” I meet Hawk’s eyes. “Your son isn’t just violent. He’s corrupt. And he’s been playing his own club for years.”
Hawk’s expression doesn’t change but something flickers in his eyes. Recognition. Disappointment. Not surprise.
He knew. On some level, he knew what Tyler was.
“If we had proof of the skimming,” Razor says slowly, “we could use it as leverage. Force the Ruthless Saints to back off or we expose their VP’s theft.”
“Or we could just give them the proof and let them handle Carlos themselves,” Shadow adds. “Internal betrayal tends to distract from external conflicts.”
They’re already strategizing. Already seeing how my intel could work.
Good.
“There’s more,” I say. “Tyler keeps files. Digital records of everything—deals he’s made, money he’s moved, people he’s paid off. He thinks he’s being smart, keeping insurance in case the club ever turns on him. But those files could burn him and half the Ruthless Saints if they got out.”
“Where are these files?” Hawk asks.
“On his laptop. Password protected, but I’ve seen him type it in dozens of times. He uses the same password for everything because he’s predictable that way.”
Razor leans back in his chair. “You’re talking about giving us access to information that could destroy the Ruthless Saints from the inside.”
“I’m talking about giving you enough ammunition to either force peace or win the war. Whichever keeps me and Mason safest.”
“And you want what in return?” Hawk asks. “Specifically.”