Page 9

Clay

“Business time,” I growl, my mind focused and my senses set to full alert.

The night’s black as pitch, the kind of dark that swallows you whole, and the Wolf Riders are shadows moving through it, silent and sharp.

I’m crouched low behind a cluster of pines off the old mill road, the Harley parked a quarter mile back, engine cold.

My breath fogs in the cool April air, my heart thumping steady but hard against my ribs.

The heist’s on—Kreese’s plan, my call—and the adrenaline’s got me wired, every sense dialed up.

The truck’s due any minute, a hulking beast loaded with electronics we’re about to claim, and we’ve got this locked down tight. No room for fuck-ups tonight.

Kreese is beside me, his shaved head glinting faintly under the sliver of moon, eyes narrowed as he scans the road. He’s twitchy, eager, a coiled spring ready to snap. “Two minutes,” he mutters, checking his watch. “Rusty’s got the van in place. Jace, are you good?”

“We’re good,” Jace replies.

I nod, peering through the trees.

The trap’s set—Rusty’s parked an old panel van across the bend, lights off, a fake breakdown to stall the driver. Jace is perched up the hill, binoculars trained on the highway, ready to signal.

The rest of the crew—six more Riders, patched and loyal—fan out along the tree line, armed with tire irons and grit. We’re not here to kill, just to take, but it’s still a razor’s edge.

One wrong move, and this goes from clean to bloody fast .

Headlights flicker in the distance, a low rumble growing louder, and my pulse kicks up.

“Here we go,” I say, voice low. Kreese grins, a flash of teeth, and signals the boys with a sharp whistle. We move like wolves—silent, fast, closing in.

The truck rounds the bend, a boxy shadow grinding down the gears as it spots the van.

The driver—a kid, barely twenty by the look of him—leans out the window, cursing loud enough to carry.

“Fuckin’ piece of shit! Move it!” he yells, laying on the horn.

Rusty steps out, hands up like he’s apologetic, stumbling a little for show. “Sorry, man, he’s dead. Gimme a sec.”

That’s our cue.

I burst from the trees, Kreese on my heels, and we’re on the truck before the kid knows what’s hit him. I yank the driver’s door open, hauling him out by the collar—he’s all flailing arms and panicked shouts, but I’ve got a good six inches and fifty pounds on him.

“Shut it,” I growl, slamming him against the cab, my forearm pinning his throat. He freezes, eyes wide, and I nod to Kreese, who’s already climbing into the passenger side to kill the radio.

Rusty and Jace swarm the back, popping the lock with a crowbar, the metal screeching as the doors swing wide. Inside, it’s a goldmine—boxes stacked high, TVs, laptops, phones, all shrink-wrapped and gleaming.

“Holy shit,” Jace breathes, tossing a crate to the ground. The crew moves fast, a line forming to haul the goods to the pickup we’ve got stashed fifty yards off-road. Sweat beads on my neck, the clock ticking in my head—ten minutes in, ten to go.

The kid’s still pinned, whimpering now.

“Please, man, I don’t know nothin’—just let me go,” the young man quivers, close to tears.

I lean in close, my voice a blade. “You didn’t see us. You got jumped, truck broke down, whatever. Open your mouth, and we find you. Got it?”

He nods frantically, and I shove him toward the ditch, where he stumbles and stays down.

I look at Jace and we exchange a silent acknowledgement. His ribs might still be sore as hell, but there was no way he wasn’t coming along with us for this.

“Clay!” Kreese calls, sharp. “Headlights—half a mile out.”

Shit.

Another car, too soon. Way too soon in fact.

I sprint to the truck, helping Jace with the last box as Rusty slams the van’s hood like he’s fixed it. “Move!” I bark, and we scatter—the pickup peels out, tires spitting gravel, the crew melting back into the trees.

I’m last, diving for cover as the new headlights sweep the road, a sedan slowing to check the scene.

The driver’s still in the ditch, playing dead or too scared to move, and the sedan rolls on after a beat.

Close.

Too damn close.

We regroup at the bikes, engines roaring to life, and tear into the night, splitting off down backroads to shake any tail. The pickup’s headed to a safehouse—a barn ten miles out—where we’ll strip the haul later.

My Harley thunders beneath me, the wind tearing at my jacket, and I let the rush burn through me. We did it—clean, fast, thousands of dollars each richer. The Wolf Riders pulled it off, and I can’t stop the grin splitting my face as I hit the highway toward the clubhouse…

The place is a madhouse when I roll in, the lot packed with bikes, the air thick with victory.

Inside, the drinks are flowing—whiskey shots slammed on the bar, beers foaming over as the boys toast the haul.

Rusty’s got a bottle in each hand, sloshing bourbon as he dances with some blonde, his busted lip forgotten.

Jace is sprawled on a couch, shirt off, showing off his bruised ribs like a badge, a boy giggling beside him.

The jukebox blasts Zeppelin, the bass shaking the walls, and Kreese is at the pool table, racking a new game, his laugh cutting through the noise.

“To the Wolf Riders!” Kreese yells, raising a glass, and the room roars back, a wall of sound that hits me like a wave.

I grab a whiskey from the bar, the burn sharp down my throat, and lean against the wall, watching it all. It’s good—my crew, my brothers, high on the win.

One hundred grand is a game changer, enough to keep us flush, maybe ease off the gas like I told Dylan.

But as the chaos swirls, my head’s not here.

I want to be one place, one damn place only—with him .

I catch Kreese’s eye across the room, jerking my head toward the door. He weaves over, still grinning, a beer dangling from his fingers. “What’s up, man? You look like you’re half out already.”

“You’re in charge tonight,” I say, setting my glass down. “I’m heading out.”

His brows shoot up, but the grin doesn’t fade.

“Dylan, huh? That boy’s got you,” Kreese laughs with a knowing look in his eyes.

“Yeah,” I admit, no point denying it. “Second chances don’t come around too often, Kreese. I’m not fucking this one up.”

He claps my shoulder, hard and sure. “Go for it, brother. We’ve got this. Get your ass to your boy.”

I don’t wait—time to move, push through the crowd, and I’m out the door, the night swallowing me again.

The Harley fires up with a growl, and I tear out of the lot, the wind biting my face as I cut through Willow Creek.

The town’s asleep, streets empty, houses dark, the river a black ribbon glinting under the moon.

My head’s a mess—Dylan, the heist, the promise I made him.

The money’s ours, the risk paid off, but I can’t shake the itch that this is just the start. Kreese will want more, the boys too—bigger scores, deeper shadows. I meant it when I said I’d dial it back, but this life’s got claws, and it doesn’t let go easy…

The ride’s fast, too fast, my pulse pounding with the engine as I turn onto his street.

Soon enough, Dylan’s cottage comes into view, a soft glow spilling from the study window, and I ease off the throttle, coasting to a stop.

The light’s on—he’s up, working, maybe—and my chest tightens.

I swing off the bike, gravel crunching under my boots, and stare at that window, hope and fear tangling up inside me.

Did he mean it—about us, the second chance?

Or has he had time to think, to see the mess I am, the danger I carry?

I pray he hasn’t changed his mind, hasn’t decided I’m too much to handle after all.

I take a breath, the cool air steadying me, and head for Dylan’s front door.

The heist’s done, the night’s ours, and whatever happens next, I’m here for it—for him.

I want to be his Daddy again. For real. And I want him to want that too.

“Here we go,” I mutter. “It’s now or fucking never…”