Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Regan counted twelve motorcycles through the front window. Then fourteen. Then she stopped counting.
Lynx stood near the door, his hand resting on his hip where she assumed a weapon was concealed. His face betrayed nothing, but his eyes tracked every movement in the parking lot.
“You need to go to your office,” he said. “Lock the door.”
“This is my bar.”
“And those are Ryder’s men.”
She knew that. She could see the Canon Outlaws patch bright against the black leather they wore.
They weren’t rushing the door, and they weren’t breaking windows.
They just kept arriving, parking their bikes in neat rows, standing in clusters, and smoking cigarettes like they had all the time in the world.
Which, she supposed, they did. The extortion deadline was today. She hadn’t paid. And now here they were.
Her hands trembled as she wiped down the bar top for the fifth time. She needed to look busy, needed to feel like she had some control over the situation. But she didn’t. Control had walked out the door the moment the first bike pulled into her lot.
“Ms. Hill.” Lynx’s voice was firm. “Please.”
“I’m not hiding in the back while they intimidate my customers.” She gestured at the handful of regulars who’d been nursing coffees when the bikes started arriving. Most had already asked for their checks, their eyes darting nervously toward the windows. “Someone has to run the front.”
“I can handle the front.”
“You know how to pour a draft?”
His jaw tightened. “I think I can handle it.”
The front door opened. Regan’s heart seized.
But it wasn’t an Outlaw—it was CB, moving through the entrance with a calm that seemed almost impossible given the army assembling outside. His eyes found hers immediately, and he smiled.
Like he wasn’t worried at all.
Like everything was going to be okay.
Her shoulders dropped an inch.
“Hey.” He crossed to the bar, leaning against it like this was any other Friday. “Lynx. Status?”
“Twenty-three bikes total, an equal number of men. No weapons visible, but I’m not assuming anything.”
CB glanced toward the window, then back at Regan. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” She wasn’t fine. She was terrified and trying to hide it behind a bartender’s competence.
He called her on it. “Rule 8, remember?”
“Ugh.” She tossed the bar towel into the bin. “What are we supposed to do? Wait for them to come in and trash the place?”
“They’re not here to trash anything.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yeah, I do.” CB straightened, rolling his shoulders like he was preparing for something.
“Ryder’s making a point. Showing you what he can do, how many people answer to him.
But these guys?” He nodded toward the parking lot.
“Half of them don’t even know why they’re here.
They got a call saying to show up, so they showed up. That’s how it works.”
Regan stared at him. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“It is.” He held her gaze. “Ryder’s power depends on people following orders without asking questions. The minute they start asking questions, he’s in trouble.” A faint smile crossed his face. “And I’m about to make them ask questions.”
Before she could reply, CB walked to the front door and pushed it open.
She watched through the window as he stepped onto the porch, hands visible, posture relaxed. A few of the Outlaws turned to look at him. Then a few more. She saw recognition dawn on some faces—these were men who knew him, who remembered Wade’s son.
CB raised a hand in greeting. Called out something she couldn’t hear through the glass.
One of the older Outlaws laughed.
Regan’s breath caught. That wasn’t the reaction she’d expected. She’d braced for confrontation, for threats, for the tension to erupt into something ugly.
Instead, CB started walking into the crowd, shaking hands, clapping shoulders. She watched him stop beside a gray-haired man in a faded cut and exchange words that made the man throw his head back and laugh.
“What is he doing?” she murmured.
Lynx smiled. “What he’s good at.”
Over the next twenty minutes, Regan watched CB work the parking lot like a politician at a fundraiser. He moved from group to group, talking and listening in equal measure.
Some of the men stayed stiff, arms crossed, clearly loyal to Ryder.
But others warmed to him. She could see it in their postures, the way they leaned in, the occasional burst of laughter.
By the time a black SUV pulled into the lot, the atmosphere had shifted entirely. The threat that had felt so imminent when she’d counted those first motorcycles had dissipated into something closer to a tailgate party.
Two people climbed out of the SUV. A man and a woman. The man was tall, dark-haired, with a bearing that reminded her of CB—controlled, watchful, but not aggressive. The woman was Claire Dawson.
They made their way through the crowd of Outlaws, neither rushing nor hesitating. CB met them at the edge of the parking lot and exchanged a few words before leading them inside.
“Regan.” CB gestured to the man beside him. “This is Garrett Cross, my CO at Shadow Point.”
Garrett extended his hand. His grip was firm, his eyes assessing her in a way that felt professional rather than personal. “Ms. Hill. CB’s told me a lot about you.”
“Has he?” She glanced at CB, whose face revealed nothing. “Good things, I hope.”
“He said you don’t back down.” Garrett released her hand. “I’d say the evidence supports that.”
“And my mother?”
Garrett chuckled. “She’s told me even more about you.”
“I can just imagine,” Regan said on a sigh.
Claire stepped forward, pulling an envelope from her bag.
“The cease and desist was delivered to Ryder Briggs an hour ago. Officially, he’s been notified that any further contact with you constitutes harassment and will result in legal action.
This is your printed copy. Another should be in your inbox. ”
Regan took the envelope, turning it over in her hands. It felt flimsy for something meant to protect her. “And unofficially?”
“Unofficially, I don’t expect him to care.” Claire’s voice was matter-of-fact. “But it sets the board. Every time he ignores the law, he strengthens our case.” She glanced at the window, at the Outlaws still milling around outside. “Do you want me to disperse them?”
Regan followed her gaze. CB was back outside, talking to another cluster of men. One of them was showing him something on his phone, and CB was nodding along, engaged and unhurried.
“No,” she said slowly. “Leave them.”
Claire raised an eyebrow.
“CB’s doing something out there. I don’t know exactly what, but—” Regan watched as two more Outlaws drifted over to join the conversation, their body language open and curious. “He’s making them think. Making them see him as something other than the enemy.”
“He’s undermining Ryder’s authority,” Garrett said. “Reminding them that the Briggs name doesn’t belong to Ryder alone.”
Regan hadn’t thought of it that way. CB wasn’t fighting the Outlaws. He was reclaiming them.
The front door opened again, and this time Outlaws actually came inside. Three of them, older men with weathered faces. They settled into a booth near the window and picked up menus.
Regan exchanged a glance with Lynx, then grabbed her order pad and approached the table.
“Afternoon, gentlemen. What can I get you?”
The one closest to her—silver beard, kind eyes—looked up with an apologetic smile. “Sorry about all the commotion. You know how it is when someone puts out a call.”
She didn’t, but she nodded anyway. “No trouble so far.”
“There won’t be.” He said it with quiet certainty. “We heard the recording. That Ryder…” He clucked his tongue. “Most of the boys out there, they remember Wade. Remember how things used to be. CB’s been reminding them.”
She took their orders—burgers, fries, coffee all around—and retreated to the kitchen. Only then did she realize she had a problem.
Lucy wasn’t here. Lucy was at the SPS compound with Desi, safe from exactly this kind of situation. Which meant Regan had no cook.
She stood in front of the grill, frozen, when one of the Outlaws appeared in the kitchen doorway. Maybe late fifties, with a sheepish expression.
“You need a hand?”
Regan blinked. “Excuse me?”
“CB said you’re not a cook, and I saw your face when you came back here.” He stepped inside, already reaching for the apron hanging by the prep station. “I cooked at a diner in Billings for six years before I joined up. Name’s Pete.”
She should say no. Should tell him this was her kitchen, her bar, her problem to solve. But the lunch rush was picking up, more Outlaws coming inside and settling into booths, and she couldn’t pour drinks and work the grill at the same time.
“Okay.” She handed him the order slip. “Burgers are in the walk-in. Fries are pre-cut. Don’t burn anything.”
Pete grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”
It was surreal. Regan moved through the lunch rush on autopilot, pouring beers and filling coffee cups while an Outlaw manned her grill.
The men were polite. Friendly, even. They said please and thank you, asked about the specials, and complimented the burgers Pete was turning out with surprising competence.
She caught Claire near the back hallway and pulled her aside.
“I have something for you.” Regan reached into her apron pocket and withdrew a thumb drive. “Everything I’ve gathered on the Outlaws. My research notes, interview transcripts, and financial records I managed to dig up. All of it.”
Claire took the drive, her expression sharpening. “This is for the podcast?”
“It was. Now it’s evidence for you.” Regan held her gaze. “Whatever helps you build your case against Ryder. I want him gone.”
Claire pocketed the drive. “I’ll review everything tonight. Thank you.”
She and Garrett left. By mid-afternoon, the rush had tapered off. The Outlaws filtered out in small groups, calling goodbyes as they left. “See you around, Ms. Hill.” “Thanks for the food.”
Regan collected plates and glasses, still half-expecting the other shoe to drop. But the mood stayed easy, almost festive. When she cleared the last table, she found a pile of cash that made her stop and count it twice.
A hundred dollars on a twenty-dollar tab. The same pattern repeated at every table she cleared.
By the time the bar was empty except for her and CB, Regan had collected more in tips than she usually made in a full week.
She leaned against the bar, watching CB wipe down the last of the tables. He moved through the task with the same unhurried ease he’d brought to everything today.
“What the hell just happened?”
CB looked up, and a grin spread across his face. “Ryder’s not the only one who can charm people into following him.”
She shook her head, but she was smiling too. “You just turned his show of force into a lunch rush.”
“Those guys aren’t loyal to Ryder. They’re loyal to the club, to what it used to stand for.
My grandfather and father built something that mattered to people—you reminded me of that.
Ryder’s been trading on that reputation while running the organization into the ground.
” CB tossed the rag onto the bar. “Today, I reminded them what being an Outlaw means.”
Regan’s smile widened. CB hadn’t fought Ryder with threats or muscle—he’d fought him with memory, with connection, with the simple act of showing up and being someone worth following.
“You’re good at that,” she said quietly. “Making people feel seen.”
His grin softened into something more genuine. “Learned it from my mom.”
The rest of the afternoon and evening passed without incident. The summer heat drove a few regular customers in, along with a handful of tourists. Regan served drinks, made small talk, and tried to convince herself that the worst was over.
At closing time, she and CB walked through the shutdown routine together. Chairs on tables, register counted, lights off in the kitchen. Pete had left hours ago with a wave and an offer to help anytime she needed, which she still hadn’t fully processed.
“Ready?” CB held the back door open, keys in hand.
“As I’ll ever be.”
They stepped into the parking lot.
The overhead light illuminated the gravel in a pale circle, the edges fading into darkness. CB’s truck sat alone. Beyond them, the tree line was a black wall against the midnight sky.
Two figures stepped out of the shadows.
Regan’s stomach dropped.
Ryder Briggs walked over and leaned against the hood of CB’s truck, arms crossed, his expression unreadable in the dim light. Beside him, Denny Crue cracked his knuckles, a smile spreading across his face.
“Evening.” Ryder pushed off the truck and took a step forward. He tossed an envelope on the ground, and Regan knew without a doubt it contained the C&D letter. “Seems we have a problem.”