Chapter 5 – Morgan
I'm down the stairs and moving before my brain catches up to my body, every instinct honed by years in the military snapping into place, because this is exactly what we’ve been waiting for.
They took the bait.
Three engines, maybe four, idling in formation rather than rolling through, which means they're not passing by, they're positioning. The headlights sweep across the cabin walls in overlapping arcs, meaning they're blocking exits and controlling sight lines just like we figured they would.
I grab my gun from the lockbox near the door, check the magazine by touch, and move to the window in a crouch, staying below the sight line. The glass is cold against my cheek as I angle for a view, and what I see makes my jaw clench hard enough to hurt.
Four bikes, Deadwood colors visible even in the dim glow of their headlights. Three riders still mounted, one already dismounted and moving toward the porch.
I move back from the window and take the stairs two at a time, finding Megan already sitting up in bed, eyes wide and alert, clutching the sheet to her chest. She's scared but not panicking.
I’d hoped she’d be asleep when this happened, she wouldn’t have to see any of it.
"Get dressed," I say quietly, keeping my voice calm and level despite the adrenaline flooding my system. "Fast as you can. Stay away from the windows."
She nods and reaches for her clothes with shaking hands. I turn my back to give her privacy and move to the window, watching the dismounted rider reach the porch steps. He's big, broad-shouldered, moving with the kind of confidence that comes from thinking you've got the upper hand.
He's wrong.
Behind me, I hear the rustle of fabric as Megan dresses, and I force myself to stay focused on the threat outside rather than the memory of her body still warm in my bed.
There'll be time for that later—if we survive the next ten minutes.
"Morgan?" Her voice is steady despite the fear I can hear underneath.
"Yeah."
"What do we do?"
I glance back at her. She's dressed now, standing near the bed, and the trust in her eyes when she looks at me does something to my chest that I don't have time to examine. "You're going to stay behind me. You're going to do exactly what I tell you, when I tell you. Understand?"
She nods.
"Good." I move to the stairs, gesturing for her to follow. "Stay close."
We descend together, her hand gripping the back of my shirt, and I position us near the kitchen where the angles give me cover and sight lines on both the front door and the side window.
The wood stove still radiates heat, but my skin feels cold, every sense heightened the way it used to get before raids overseas.
The knock on the door is loud, knuckles on wood that rattles the frame.
"Morgan Hale." The voice is rough. "We know you're in there. We just want to talk."
Bullshit. If they wanted to talk, they wouldn't have come at night with backup and blocked escape routes.
I keep Megan behind me, one hand reaching back to make sure she's pressed against the wall, and I call out without opening the door. "You're on Night Wolves territory. Turn around and leave."
There's a pause, then a low chuckle that makes my trigger finger itch. "See, that's the thing. We're not here for club business. We're here for the girl."
Beside me, I feel Megan tense, her breath catching audibly.
"There's no girl here," I say flatly.
"Don't insult my intelligence, Hale. We've been watching. We know she's running from someone with deep pockets and a long reach. He's paying good money for her location, and we're businessmen. So here's how this works—you hand her over, we ride out, nobody gets hurt."
The hell they will.
I pull my phone from my pocket with my free hand and send a single text to Grave: Four Deadwood riders. Now.
The response comes back in seconds: Two minutes.
Two minutes. That’s all I need to keep them focused on me and not on what’s circling the tree line.
"I'm going to give you one chance," I call through the door. "Get on your bikes and leave. You've got ten seconds."
The response is immediate, the sound of a boot hitting the door hard enough to crack the frame, followed by shouting and the unmistakable sound of weapons being drawn.
I move without thinking, shoving Megan down behind the kitchen counter and positioning myself between her and the door. "Stay down," I tell her, and there's no room for argument in my voice. "Don't move unless I tell you to."
She nods, her face pale but her jaw set, and then the door splinters inward and everything happens at once.
The first rider through gets my fist in his throat before he can raise his weapon, and he goes down choking and gasping.
The second one is smarter, coming in low and fast, but I sidestep and use his momentum against him, slamming him into the wall hard enough that the impact knocks a picture frame to the floor.
The third rider hangs back in the doorway, weapon raised, and I see his finger start to squeeze the trigger. Time slows. I'm already moving, diving behind the couch as the shot cracks through the cabin, wood splintering where my head was a second before.
I come up firing, two shots center mass that drop him where he stands.
The fourth rider, the one who was doing the talking, doesn't come through the door. Instead, I hear his engine roar to life, and through the shattered doorway I see him peeling out, spraying snow and gravel as he tears down the road.
Running. Carrying information back to whoever sent them.
The cabin is suddenly, devastatingly quiet except for the groans of the two riders still breathing on my floor. I keep my weapon trained on them as I move, checking for additional threats.
Behind me, I hear Megan's shaky breathing, and I risk a glance back to make sure she's unharmed. She's still crouched behind the counter, eyes wide but focused, and when our gazes meet I see something fierce in her expression that wasn't there before.
She's terrified, but she's not breaking.
The sound of engines roaring up the road cuts through the quiet right on time. Grave's bike is the first through the trees, followed immediately by Miller and two prospects.
They take in the scene in seconds—the broken door, the bodies, me standing with my weapon still raised—and Grave moves immediately to secure the two survivors while Miller checks the perimeter.
"Clear," Miller calls out after a moment, his voice carrying a calm authority.
Grave hauls one of the Deadwood riders to his feet, the guy's face already swelling from where I hit him. "Talk," Grave says, his voice flat and dangerous. "Who sent you?"
The rider spits blood and glares, but Grave just tightens his grip, and whatever he sees in Grave's eyes makes him reconsider. "Contract," he rasps. "Some businessman out east. Said the girl was his property, said he'd pay ten grand for her location."
My vision goes red at the edges. Property, like Megan is something that can be owned and returned.
"Name," I say, stepping forward, and the rider flinches at whatever he sees in my face.
"Didn't give one. Just money and a photo."
Miller appears at my shoulder, his expression cold and assessing. "The one who ran?"
"Got away clean," I say, and I can hear the frustration in my own voice. "He'll report back to Deadwood leadership. They'll know we engaged."
"Good," Grave says, and there's a dark satisfaction in his tone. "Let them know what happens when they cross into our territory."
Price and Ink, the prospects, are already working on securing the scene, checking the bodies, and gathering weapons.
My phone buzzes with a message from Hansen.
Status?
I type back quickly: Deadwood took the bait. Megan is safe. One escaped. Two down, one captured.
The response comes immediately: Bring them in. War council at dawn.
War council. Which means Hansen recognizes Deadwood just declared war, and we have no choice but to answer.
I holster my weapon and turn back to where Megan is still crouched behind the counter.
The adrenaline is starting to fade, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion and a fear so visceral it makes my hands shake.
The thought of what could have happened if I'd been slower, if backup hadn't arrived, if that shot had found its target—
I can't think about it, can't let myself go there.
I cross to her and crouch down, my hands reaching for her shoulders without conscious thought. "You okay?" My voice comes out rougher than I intend.
She nods, but I can see the tremor in her hands and the way she's holding herself together through sheer force of will. "I'm okay. You—you're not hurt?"
"I'm fine." I run my hands down her arms, checking for injuries I know aren't there but needing to confirm anyway. "You did good. Stayed down, stayed quiet. That's exactly what you needed to do."
She lets out a shaky breath, and then she's pressing forward into my chest, her face buried against my shoulder. I wrap my arms around her, holding her tight, and I feel the moment the fear catches up to her, the way her body starts shaking, the hitched breathing that says she's trying not to cry.
"I've got you," I murmur against her hair, and I mean it with everything in me. "You're safe, I'm not letting anyone touch you."
She nods against my chest, her fingers curling into my shirt like she's afraid I'll disappear if she lets go. Behind us, I'm aware of Grave and Miller moving the captured Deadwood members outside, the low rumble of engines and voices as they coordinate transport.
But all of that feels distant, secondary to the woman trembling in my arms.
I pull back just enough to tilt her face up, forcing her to meet my eyes. "Listen to me. What just happened? That doesn't happen again. From this moment on, you don't go anywhere without me or someone I trust. You don't leave the clubhouse without an escort. You don't take chances. Understood?"
She searches my face, and whatever she sees there makes her nod slowly. "Okay."