Page 16

FIFTEEN

TOON

"When life becomes unbearable, channel the resilience of a grizzly." — Unknown

Tripp calls sermon at six sharp.

No warning.

No soft lead-in.

Just a single text to every patched member with the word:

sermon.

That call means shit has hit the fan when we have no heads up it’s coming.

I drive like hell to get there, heart pounding, stomach sour.

I haven’t eaten since yesterday.

Not because of the chemo this time.

Just this gnawing instinct.

The one that tells you to brace for something ugly.

When I walk into the cave, it’s already quiet.

BW’s jaw is tight.

Pretty Boy sits with a sinister face, making his scar almost come alive.

Smoke curls from his cigarette, untouched in his hand.

Tank and Red sit opposite each other, arms crossed, brows low.

Tripp stands at the head of the table.

Doesn’t even wait for me to sit.

“We’ve got a problem.”

“Define problem,” I say, sliding into my seat.

His eyes flick to me—sharp, unreadable.

Then he tosses a file onto the center of the table.

“Toon, do not go off half-cocked on this shit.” His warning only amplifies my feelings of something being seriously fucked.

I don’t agree.

Instead I open the folder.

Inside are pictures.

Reports.

A copy of the plea deal Michael Brenner was offered after the accident that killed Clutch.

The words are there, same ones that were repeated in court today.

But something’s different.

There’s a second file underneath it—photos that aren’t from the DA.

Instead the folder is non-descript with the word confidential on the outside.

Surveillance shots.

Grainy stills.

A picture of our pack riding that day.

“Who sent this?” I ask wanting to know how good the information is.

“Jacoby,” Karma mutters referencing his cousins, Jacoby Brother’s Investigations.

They are three brothers in Idaho who are private investigators and bounty hunters.

If they sent the folder, it’s serious, and everything in it has been checked.

Thoroughly.

“Link called,” Karma explains.

“Has a contact with the DEA. They have an undercover in the Vulcans MC. DEA agent doesn’t want to tie himself up in the Hellions in case the people over his paygrade are watching. He knows Link is my cousin and I’m in the club. Used the connection to relay the message.”

I give a huff.

“Since when do we trust a fed? And who the fuck are the Vulcans?”

“Feds usually can’t be trusted.” Tank mutters, “Vulcans though are stirring up shit. Low running MC out of Georgia that we turned away transporting for. This fed, well, I think he’s sharing out of respect for the lifestyle. However, he can’t be tied in due to the nature of his job and the oath he took. Since this one sent us something major and this shit means war. He said they’re going to turn a blind eye to the war as long as we keep their man and his cover secure. They want someone connected to Vulcans but more involved than the club fucks. We have a green light to wipe them out, but gotta keep some fuck that goes by Porky alive and his cover intact. More than anything, Link and Ven vetted the information personally and all of it matches what they found. This is legit. And it means war.”

I look to Tripp.

“You good with all that?”

He nods, “you look in that folder you will be on board too. I just need to know you aren’t gonna flip and try some lone wolf shit. We need to play this shit right.”

I don’t commit to anything because one thing I am is a man of my word and if I tell Tripp I won’t go off half-cocked then I won’t be able to but if there is a threat to Dia or our baby, then all bets are off and I’ll take out anyone in my way.

I look in the folder.

There are pictures.

One zoomed in on Clutch turning off the highway in the dark.

The digital date imprinted in the photo is the night he died.

A beat, that’s all it takes for me to snap inside.

As my thoughts run wild.

Then Tripp speaks.

“The drunk driver wasn’t an accident.”

Silence slams through the space.

I stare at him.

“Say that again.”

“Brenner was paid to get on that road,” Tripp says, voice like stone.

“He’s a hang-around for the Vulcans—Like Tank said, they’re out of South Georgia. Low-level runner. They’ve been giving Ravage MC problems, but Cruz hasn’t pushed them out all the way yet. He’s got some heat and shit going on in his club. The Vulcans offered Brenner ten grand to drive drunk and hit the club coming back from that poker run.”

My blood runs ice cold.

“Jesus Christ,” BW mutters.

“He was late,” Tripp continues.

“He missed the group, as a whole. But Clutch took that early turn-off, headed home to Dia, and Brenner caught him alone. He thought catching one was better than none.”

My throat dries.

“You’re saying Clutch was collateral damage?”

“He was bait,” Tank says, flat.

“The Vulcans decided to change tactics when Brenner fucked up. Figured this was a way to send a message. We turned down a weapons run for them three months before it happened. They said we owed them. They had no marker so Tripp told them to go to hell. End one of us to force us to pay attention or keep turning them down and it will become all of us.”

“And this was their payback.”

Tripp nods once.

“They made it look like a random DUI.”

I push back from the table, my chair scraping across the floor.

My body shakes with rage.

“Dia just gave her impact statement,” I say, voice low.

“She’s on public record now.”

Tripp meets my eyes.

“I know. That’s why I need you to not lose your shit, Toon.”

“Fuck!” I roar.

“This club made me a better man, sure. But fuck it all, she makes me whole. You gotta know, they’ll come for her. All to send another message to this club. Brotherhood is everything. I chose this fuckin’ patch over her. I walked away so none of this chaos would ever touch her.”

Tripp glares at me, “I respect your love for my daughter, Toon. But watch yourself. I’ll end you before you fuck around and mess shit up for us with the feds going off wild on this one. And your choice in pussy is yours and my daughter or not that shit ain’t club business. That’s the responsibility I deal with as President. And I’ll tell you like Roundman told me, you fuck up I got a bullet with your name on it and I’ll end you myself. Now calm the fuck down so we can make sure Dia is safe and the club stays out of any law enforcement sites while we get retribution for Clutch.”

“They come for her, I make no promises,” I tell the room honestly moving back to the door and getting into the box that houses our phones.

Dia needs to go to her mom’s until I finish here.

She shouldn’t be alone with this potential threat.

“I know that too.” Tripp gives me a half smirk in what I can only read as pride.

“Just askin’ you to give us time to move as a unit, brother. I know there ain’t another motherfucker who will keep my princess safer than you. Always known that shit. Just needed you to get your head outta your ass.”

My mind races.

Images of her belly round and heavy with our child— not mine by blood but mine by soul —flash behind my eyes.

“We need to move her,” I say.

“Now. Call Doll, I’m calling Dia to go home to your house until I come pick her up. She isn’t to be alone anymore.”

Before I can finish, my phone buzzes.

Then it dings the high-pitched chime.

Motion alert.

My blood turns to stone.

The app loads slow.

Too slow.

Then the feed pops up.

It’s my front porch.

The security camera above the door.

Three men in black hoodies walk up.

Calm.

Focused.

One bangs hard, drawing attention from Dia.

The other circles the side of the door.

I switch views and see her checking her phone.

She’s checking the camera.

She’s taking too long for the men.

The the third kicks the door open like it’s made of paper.

“No,” I bolt upright.

BW stands too.

“What the hell?”

I tap the screen.

The feed cuts back to the living room camera.

Dia appears, stumbling into view.

Her belly obvious beneath the hoodie she’s wearing, phone in hand.

Skye is running around crazy.

She’s trying to call someone.

Her voice is a blur through the mic feed: “Get the hell out of my house!”

She grabs a lamp.

Swings it.

Catches one in the shoulder.

As Skye latches on to the third man entering the room.

He cries out as he swings her around wildly, her jaws clamped down on his arm.

The second man tackles Dia.

She lets out a wail that cuts me to my soul.

She fights like hell—elbows, teeth, screaming.

But the first man rights himself from the lamp incident and pulls a syringe from his pocket.

No!

No.

No, this shit isn’t happening.

She’s outnumbered and I helplessly watch on this tiny screen as she looks at the camera, her eyes pleading for me to get back to her.

My heart stops.

They inject her in the neck.

She jerks once, crying out, “I love you, Justin.” Then crumples to the ground before they drag her by her feet across our living room floor.

.

I scream, I think.

Or maybe I just move so fast that the whole room blurs and it feels like screaming in my mind.

.

The feed cuts out.

No video.

Just black.

“They have her , ” I choke out.

“They grabbed her. I just watched it happen.”

“WHERE?” Tripp barks.

“My house.”

“Go,” he says instantly.

“Go now. BW—ride with him. Tank, alert outer circle. Nobody moves solo. We find her.”

We’re on the road in under three minutes.

I don’t feel the engine.

Don’t feel the wheels or the road or even my own heart.

Just the scream inside me that won’t stop.

They took her.

They took her.

And she is pregnant.

Helpless.

But still tried to fight.

God, she fought.

Tears blur my vision, but I blink them back.

I can't break down. Not yet.

Not until she's in my arms.

My house is trashed.

Skye is pacing like crazy, her eyes swollen, her white fur matted in blood.

Someone hit her in the face, either really hard or multiple times.

I don’t know which.

Looking around, she follows.

The door is off the hinges.

Table overturned.

Blood on the floor, hers, maybe?

One of theirs?

BW sweeps the rooms while I replay the feed again and again, scanning for a plate, a face, anything.

There’s nothing.

Whoever they were, they were clean.

Fast.

Professional.

“Security feeds are down,” I mutter.

“Jammed it somehow.”

“They knew what they were doing,” BW says grimly.

I pick up her phone.

Smashed.

Useless.

Then I kneel by the couch, where she was dragged across the floor.

The blanket she always uses is still crumpled near the corner.

I bury my face in it.

I breathe her in.

Then I stand.

I’m not crying.

I’m a burning inferno of rage.

Tripp calls while we’re still sweeping for clues.

“Road crew says a black SUV blew through the county border checkpoint twenty minutes ago. Heading south. Fast.”

I grit my teeth.

“The Vulcans?”

“Most likely. I’ve got eyes on the interstate. We’ll track the plates.”

“Then we ride.”

“Not yet,” Tripp snaps.

“They’ve got a pregnant woman. This isn’t a bloodbath mission. We do this smart. Clean.”

“You better find her fast,” I growl, voice shaking.

“Because if something happens to her or our baby, I’ll fucking burn the world down around them all.”

Hours pass in agony.

I’m not a patient man.

No word.

No clue.

Every second is hell.

Every minute without her is another inch of me unraveling.

The rest of the club is scrambling—reaching out to contacts, leaning on allies, pushing the Vulcans out of hiding.

But me?

I’m stuck in limbo.

I sit in her rocking chair in the nursery—empty walls, unassembled crib—and press my hand to my chest.

She was just here.

She made tea this morning.

Kissed my shoulder.

Laughed at my failed attempt to fold baby socks.

And now she’s gone.

.

Injected.

Taken.

Alone.

I whisper into the air, unsure who I’m talking to.

“Clutch… please. If you’re anywhere—anywhere at all—don’t let her die. Don’t let the baby die.”

I squeeze my eyes shut.

I can’t lose her again.

I can survive cancer.

I can’t do life without Dia Crews.