Page 25 of Daisy

The line goes dead.

I stare at the phone for a heartbeat, then knock hard on the wall between our rooms. "Gunner! We've got a situation."

His door opens before I finish the sentence. He's already dressed, keys in hand, green eyes alert and focused. Twenty-six years old and he still looks like the kid I met in that holding cell when we were seventeen—ready to fight the world for people he cares about.

"Ace needs backup," I tell him. "Cops and angry alphas outside his house. They're trying to take Harley away. We're the distraction so they can get her out."

Gunner nods once, jaw tight. He doesn't say anything, but then again, he doesn't need to. Ace and Jax are more than just business competition—they're the closest thing to family either of us has had since we aged out of the system.

If they need help, we don't ask questions.

The garage is dark except for the security lights casting long shadows between the cars we're working on. My van sits in the center bay, black and built for speed rather than looks. Gunner heads for the driver's side without discussion—he's the better driver, and we both know it.

The engine roars to life, echoing off the concrete walls like thunder. Gunner's hands are steady on the wheel as we pull out into the night, but I catch the slight tension in his shoulders. He's thinking about his sister again.

"How bad you think it is?" I ask as we navigate through the empty industrial district.

Gunner shrugs, but his scent carries the sharp edge of worry. Something that makes my own protective instincts flare.

As soon as we hit the main road toward the residential district where Ace lives, I can see the orange glow on the horizon. Smoke rises in dark columns against the night sky, and the distant sound of sirens wails through the air like a soundtrack to the apocalypse.

"Jesus Christ," I breathe, watching the city burn.

The closer we get to Ace's neighborhood, the worse it gets. Shop windows are smashed, their contents scattered across sidewalks like broken dreams. Groups of beta-born alphas roam the streets with signs and makeshift weapons, their anger so thick I can taste it even through the van's closed windows.

But it's not random destruction. They're moving with purpose, and a lot of them seem to be heading in the same direction we are.

"Fuck," I mutter, watching another group of protesters round a corner ahead of us. "How many you think are already there?"

Gunner's hands tighten on the steering wheel, but his driving stays smooth and controlled. He weaves through abandoned cars and debris like we're threading a needle, taking shortcuts through back alleys I didn't even know existed.

I text Ace:Two blocks out.

My phone buzzes back immediately:Need distraction in 5.

"We're almost there," I tell Gunner, checking the message. "They need us to draw attention in five minutes."

Gunner floors it, and we careen around the last corner toward Ace's street. What I see makes my blood turn to ice.

At least forty alphas crowd the front of Ace's house, pressing against the fence and shouting demands. Some carry protest signs about omega rights, but others have bottles and rocks. The air thrums with aggression so thick it makes my teeth ache.

But that's not what makes my stomach drop.

It's the coordinated way they're moving. The fact that some of them have positioned themselves at the house's side exits. This isn't just an angry mob—it's a planned operation.

"They're trying to trap them inside," I realize.

Gunner nods grimly and pulls up two blocks away, positioning the van for maximum chaos. We've done this before—not for omega rescues, but for getting friends out of bad situations. Street racing, illegal fights, cops who ask too many questions. The principle is the same.

Make noise. Draw attention. Give your people a chance to run.

"Ready?" I ask, pulling out the emergency flares we keep in the glove compartment.

Gunner cracks his knuckles and grins—the first real expression I've seen from him all night. "Let's give them something to really be angry about."

What follows is ten minutes of pure, beautiful chaos.

We drive straight into the crowd, laying on the horn and revving the engine. When they scatter, I lean out the window and light off flares, tossing them into the street where they hiss and spark like angry red stars. Gunner executes a perfect donut in the middle of the road, tires screaming against asphalt.