Shadow’s Rescue (Savage Riders MC #7)

Chapter 1 - Shadow

The darkness is my home. It always has been.

I crouch in the shadows outside the Iron Eagles' new clubhouse, my breathing slow as I count the guards.

Two at the front door, both armed. Three more patrolling the perimeter on a rotating schedule that's so fucking predictable it's almost insulting.

Inside, I can make out at least a dozen more through the grimy windows, drinking and laughing like they don't have a care in the world.

Like they don't have a death warrant hanging over their heads.

"Shadow, report." King's voice crackles through my earpiece, calm and commanding even though we're about to wage war.

"Fifteen visible targets," I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. "Guard rotation every twelve minutes. Vulture's bike is parked out front, so the bastard's definitely inside."

"Good. The others are in position. We move in five."

I don't respond. King knows I heard him. Words are wasted energy, and I've learned to conserve everything—breath, movement, and emotion. It's kept me alive through two tours in Afghanistan and a year with the Savage Riders MC.

The wind shifts, carrying the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke from the clubhouse.

My fingers flex against the grip of my Glock, muscle memory from countless missions making the weapon feel like an extension of my arm.

This isn't so different from the ops I ran overseas.

Same objective: eliminate the enemy before they eliminate us.

The only difference is that tonight, there's something else at stake. Intel mentioned that the Eagles grabbed women off the streets last week. Forcing them to work as waitresses and fuck-toys for the club.

I've done a lot of questionable shit in my life. Killed men who probably had families waiting for them. Left my best friend's body behind in a cave in Helmand Province because the mission came first. Walked away from my parents when they were sentenced to prison and never looked back.

But I don't hurt women. I don't take what isn't freely given.

And I sure as fuck don't stand by while other men do.

"Two minutes," King says.

I change my position, moving so silently that even the crickets don't stop chirping.

It's a skill I learned young: how to disappear, how to become nothing more than a shadow on the wall.

When your childhood home is a war zone and making noise means becoming a target for your drunk father's fists or your mother's thrown bottles, you learn real quick how to be invisible.

The Savage Riders don't know the full story. They know my parents are in prison. Dear old dad for attempted murder, mom for being his accomplice. They know I don't talk much and that I can move through a room without anyone noticing until I want them to.

They don't know about the nights I spent hiding in closets, holding my breath while my parents tore each other apart. Or the way I learned to slip out my bedroom window and disappear into the night, finding peace in the darkness that terrified other kids my age.

The darkness never hurt me. Only people did.

"One minute."

I can see Tank positioning himself near the side entrance, his massive body somehow finding cover behind a dumpster. Beast is on the opposite side, probably cracking his knuckles and grinning like the psycho he is. Torch will be handling the vehicles, making sure none of these assholes can escape.

And me? I'll be the one they never see coming.

My specialty.

"Thirty seconds."

My heart rate doesn't increase. It never does. That's what made me valuable to my unit overseas and what makes me valuable to the club now. I don't get nervous. Don't second-guess. Don't feel much of anything when it's time to pull the trigger.

Some people might call that a weakness. I call it survival.

"Go."

I move.

The first guard doesn't even have time to register my presence before I'm on him, my knife sliding between his ribs. I lower his body to the ground silently, already moving toward the second guard as gunfire erupts from the front of the building.

The second guard spins toward the sound, and I put a bullet through the back of his skull before he can raise the alarm. Suppressor on my Glock keeps it quiet enough that the chaos at the front door drowns it out completely.

I slip inside through the side entrance, my eyes adjusting instantly to the dim interior.

The main room is in chaos. Savage Riders pouring through the front door, Iron Eagles scrambling for weapons.

I move along the wall, picking off targets as I go.

Three shots, three bodies dropping before anyone notices where the fire is coming from.

By the time they do, I'm already somewhere else.

This is what I'm good at. This is what I was made for.

An Eagle charges at me from the left, and I sidestep smoothly, letting his momentum carry him past me before I put a round through his temple. Another comes from the right with a knife, and I catch his wrist, twist until something breaks, then drive my own blade up under his chin.

The violence doesn't touch me. It never does. I'm just a shadow moving through the carnage, taking lives with the same detachment I'd use to take out the trash.

King is fighting his way toward the back of the clubhouse, looking for Vulture. Tank is ripping through Eagles like they're made of paper. Beast is laughing as he swings a fucking pool cue like a baseball bat, crushing skulls with every swing.

My brothers have all found their happiness. Found their women. Found reasons to fight beyond just the violence. I'm happy for them. Really, I am. But I know that's not in the cards for me.

Love is a fairy tale sold to people who don't know any better. I watched my parents claim to love each other while they beat each other bloody. Watched my mom take a wine bottle to my dad's head, then cry and apologize and fuck him on the kitchen floor an hour later.

That's what love is. Obsession and violence and toxicity dressed up in pretty words.

No fucking thank you.

I clear the main room and move down a hallway, checking doors as I go. Storage closet. Bathroom. Office. Everything's empty until I reach the last door at the end of the hall.

It's locked.

I shoot the lock off and kick the door open, weapon raised and ready for another fight.

Instead, I find six women huddled in the corner of what looks like a converted storage room.

They're all wearing short skirts and tight tops that make it clear what the Eagles expected them to do.

Their eyes are wide with terror as they stare at me, at the gun in my hand and the blood splattered across my shirt.

"Savage Riders MC," I say, my voice rough from disuse. "We're here to get you out."

None of them move. Can't really blame them. I probably look like death incarnate right now, cold eyes and fresh blood.

Then one of them steps forward.

She's got long dark hair that's tangled and messy, like she's been running her hands through it for days.

Brown eyes that should be warm but instead look like they've seen too much.

Curves that her too-small outfit can't quite contain, though she's tugging at the hem of her skirt like she's trying to disappear into the fabric.

She doesn't look grateful. She looks pissed.

"Sure you are," she says, and her voice drips with sarcasm. "Let me guess, you're the good guys? Here to save the day and expect us to fall at your feet in gratitude?"

I blink. Of all the reactions I expected, that wasn't one of them.

"I'm here to get you out alive," I say flatly. "What you do after that is your business."

Her eyes narrow. "Right. Because motorcycle clubs are just known for their altruism and respect for women."

"Rachel, shut up," one of the other women hisses. "He's trying to help."

"Is he?" Rachel—apparently that's her name—crosses her arms over her chest. "Or is he just claiming territory from the Iron Eagles? Maybe we're part of the prize."

"Lady, I don't have time for your trust issues," I bite out. "There's a war happening out there, and this room won't stay safe for long. You can come with me and live or stay here and take your chances with whatever Eagles are left standing. Your call."

She stares at me for a brief moment, and I can see the wheels turning in her head. She's trying to figure out if I'm lying, if this is some kind of trick. Trying to decide if jumping from one fire into another is worth the risk.

I don't blame her for being suspicious. The world has clearly taught her that men can't be trusted.

She's not wrong.

"Fine," she finally says. "But if you try anything—"

"I won't," I cut her off. "I'm not interested."

"Good. Neither am I."

I turn without responding and gesture for them to follow. The other women scramble to their feet immediately, but Rachel takes her sweet time, like she's making a point.

Whatever. As long as she follows.

I lead them back down the hallway, moving slowly enough that they can keep up but fast enough that we're not sitting ducks. The main room has quieted down. Most of the Eagles are either dead or subdued, and I can hear King's voice barking orders.

"Clear the rest of the building," he's saying. "Find Vulture. I want that bastard alive if possible, dead if necessary."

I emerge from the hallway with six women trailing behind me, and every head in the room turns. Tank's expression softens when he sees them. Beast actually stops grinning. Even King looks relieved.

"I found them," I announce.

"Good work," King says, then his attention shifts to the women. His voice is gentle in a way it never is during club business. "You're safe now. We'll get you medical attention and help you contact anyone you need to reach."

Most of the women start crying. A few rush forward to hug the nearest Savage Rider, not caring about the blood and violence that still lingers in the air.

Rachel doesn't move. She stays right where she is, arms still crossed, eyes still suspicious. I don't know why I notice. I don’t know why it matters.

"We didn't find Vulture," Tank reports, his expression grim. "Bastard must have slipped out during the fighting."

King's jaw clenches. "Then this isn't over."

No shit. But at least we've dealt the Iron Eagles a serious blow tonight. Their new clubhouse is destroyed, most of their members are dead, and the women they kidnapped are free.

It's a win, even if it's not the final victory we wanted.

"Get the women to the vehicles," King orders. "Torch, make sure nothing's wired to explode. Beast, Tank, finish clearing the building."

I should move. Should help with the cleanup or escort the women to safety. Instead, I find myself looking at Rachel again.

She's staring at the bodies littering the floor, and for the first time since I found her, that defensive anger has cracked. She looks lost. Exhausted. Like she's been holding herself together through sheer force of will and it's finally catching up to her.

"Come on," I say. "Let's get you out of here."

She flinches when I speak, like she forgot I was there. Her eyes meet mine, and I see something in them that I recognize, that hollow emptiness that comes from surviving something you shouldn't have had to survive.

"Why?" she asks. "Why do you care?"

It's a fair question. I'm not known for caring about anything.

"I don't," I lie. "But King does, and he is my president. So, you're my responsibility until we get you somewhere safe."

It's the wrong thing to say. I know it as soon as the words leave my mouth. Her expression shutters completely, that defensive anger slamming back into place like armor.

"Right," she says coldly. "Responsibility. How noble."

Then she brushes past me, heading for the exit without waiting to see if I'm following.

I watch her go, something uncomfortable twisting in my chest. It feels almost like guilt, though I'm not sure why. I told her the truth. She is a responsibility, nothing more.

Except…

Except I can't stop watching the way she walks, head held high despite everything she's been through. Can't stop thinking about the way her eyes flashed when she challenged me, all fire and defiance even though she had to be terrified.

Can't stop wondering what she'd look like if that fire was directed at something other than pain.

"Shadow."

I turn to find King watching me.

"Take point on getting the women to the safe house," he says. "Make sure they arrive in one piece."

It's not a request.

"Copy that."

I head for the exit, following in Rachel's wake. She's already outside, standing with the other women near the vehicles. She's not crying like some of them are. Not seeking comfort or reassurance.

She's just standing there, arms wrapped around herself, staring at nothing. I tell myself it doesn't matter. Tell myself she's just another rescued civilian, no different from the dozens I've pulled out of bad situations over the years.

But I've never been good at lying to myself.

And as I watch her climb into the van without looking back, something tells me Rachel is going to be a problem.

The kind of problem I have no fucking idea how to handle.