Page 37

Hammer

I stood in the center of the clubhouse, the familiar smell of leather, whiskey, and gun oil filling my lungs as I watched my brothers prepare for war.

Not the flashy, media-friendly kind, but our kind -- brutal, efficient, and final.

The last time I’d gone hunting like this had been years ago, before my knees started giving me shit in cold weather.

But some things a man couldn’t delegate.

When someone threatened your family, you handled it yourself.

Savior unrolled a map across the scarred wooden table, weighing down the corners with spent shell casings he’d turned into mini paperweights.

Brothers gathered around, their faces grim in the harsh overhead lighting.

The usual rowdy banter was absent, replaced by a focused silence that only came when blood was inevitable.

“Intel puts the Minions here,” Savior said, tapping a spot just outside the town limits. “They’ve set up some kind of barricade on the old service road. Tempest’s scout counted at least twenty of them, all armed, with Piston front and center.”

Saint leaned forward, studying the terrain. “They’ve chosen their ground well. Limited approach options, good sight lines.”

“They’re expecting us,” Savior confirmed, his finger tracing potential routes.

“Which means we give them exactly what they expect -- and then hit them where they’re not looking.

” He outlined the plan with the precision of a man who’d spent years leading men into combat situations, pointing out approach vectors, fallback positions, and rally points.

The strategy was solid -- brothers would approach in a standard formation, drawing attention to the main road while a secondary team circled behind using the dry creek bed that ran parallel to the service road. Simple, effective, with minimal risk to our side.

My focus zeroed in on one detail above all others: Piston would be there.

Ghost shifted beside me, his lanky frame rigid with tension. “Hammer should stay back,” he said suddenly, drawing all eyes in the room. “Handle security at the compound.”

I turned to face my son, seeing concern etched in lines that reminded me too much of my own face at his age. The worry in his eyes might have touched me if it weren’t so Goddamn insulting.

“That’s not happening,” I replied, my voice low but firm.

Ghost didn’t back down. “You’ve got a family to protect. Amelia and the boys need you here, not out there playing hero.”

Several brothers exchanged glances, clearly uncomfortable with the public challenge. In any other situation, a patch questioning another patch’s place in a run would earn a swift correction, but this was different. This was my son worried about his old man. This was family.

I stepped closer to him, dropping my voice so only he could hear. “I am protecting my family. By cutting off the threat at its source.”

“There are twenty brothers who can handle Piston,” Ghost argued, still loud enough for nearby patches to hear. “Let us deal with him.”

“No.” The word came out final, brooking no further argument. I turned back to the table, addressing the room. “I’ll be riding point with Savior. This son of a bitch threatened my wife, threatened my boys. He’s mine.”

Ghost’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t argue further. Smart of him. Some lessons a son had to learn the hard way, and one of those was knowing when to shut up when his father had made a decision.

Savior continued outlining positions and responsibilities as if the interruption hadn’t happened, though I caught the slight nod of approval he sent my way. Whatever Ghost thought, my President understood. There were some debts a man had to collect personally.

“Thunder, you and Ghost take security at the compound,” I said when Savior finished. “No one gets within a hundred yards of my family. Our family.”

Thunder nodded once, accepting the assignment without question.

He probably preferred to stay behind and watch over my granddaughter and great-grandson anyway.

Ghost’s eyes flashed with frustration but he gave a terse nod.

He might not like it, but he’d do his job. Family or not, he was a Reaper first.

I moved to the back of the clubhouse, where I’d dropped my bag earlier. I unzipped it, revealing the tools of my trade lined up with military precision. My fingers grazed each item, checking, confirming, a ritual as old as my time with the club.

First, my Glock, its weight familiar and comforting as I checked the magazine and slid it into my waistband.

The brass knuckles came next, slipping into my right front pocket, the metal cold against my thigh even through the denim.

My KA-BAR knife went into my boot sheath, the blade razor-sharp and oiled.

The preparations felt both ancient and new.

Ancient because my body remembered these movements from a thousand similar situations over decades with the club.

New because this time, the stakes were different.

It wasn’t just about club business or brotherhood.

This was about the look in Amelia’s eyes when I’d told her I was going after Piston directly.

About the way Chase had watched me from the doorway, his face carefully blank but his knuckles white where he gripped the frame.

About Levi’s silence, more devastating than any protest could have been.

I closed the bag, feeling the weight of choices I’d never expected to make at my age.

Staying behind would keep me physically close to them, but letting Piston live another day meant leaving a knife hanging over their heads.

Better to face the threat head-on, eliminate it completely, even if it meant risking everything.

Behind me, brothers checked weapons, donned cuts, exchanged the quiet words and ritual handshakes that preceded every run where blood was likely. The familiar choreography of men preparing for violence settled over me like an old coat, worn but reliable.

“Five minutes,” Savior called out, his voice carrying over the low murmur of conversation.

I stepped outside, the evening air cool against my face as I surveyed the compound.

Brothers moved with purpose between buildings, securing entrances, checking sight lines.

I spotted Ghost speaking with Warden, probably coordinating security positions.

Good. Whatever his feelings about my decision, he wouldn’t let it interfere with protecting Amelia and the boys.

The thought of them sent a tightness through my chest that had nothing to do with age.

I’d never been the sentimental type, had spent more years than not convinced I was better off alone.

Yet somehow, in the space of a few turbulent weeks, these people had become essential to me.

Had become mine in a way nothing ever had before.

Brothers began filing out of the clubhouse, heading for their bikes parked in formation at the gate.

Engines roared to life, one after another, the sound echoing off the surrounding buildings like a war cry.

I made my way to my own Harley, running my hand over the familiar handlebars before swinging my leg over.

Savior pulled up beside me, his face half-hidden by the gathering dusk. “You good?”

I nodded once. “I’m good.”

“Remember the objective,” he said, not quite a warning but close. “We push them out. Make a statement. This isn’t about personal vendettas.”

We both knew it was a lie even as he said it. For the club, yes, this was strategic. For me, it was entirely personal. I didn’t bother responding. Some things didn’t need saying between men who’d ridden together as long as we had.

Savior gave the signal, and twenty bikes rolled forward in precise formation, headlights cutting through the growing darkness. As we passed through the compound gates, I caught a glimpse of Ghost standing watch, his gaze following my back until I turned the corner.

My last thought before focusing entirely on the road ahead was of Amelia’s face when I’d kissed her goodbye.

Not tearful or pleading, but fierce. Understanding.

She hadn’t asked me to stay, hadn’t tried to change my mind.

She’d simply pressed her lips to mine and whispered, “Make him pay.” In that moment, I’d known with bone-deep certainty that I’d found exactly the woman I needed -- strong enough to understand that some threats could only be answered one way.

And I intended to keep my promise to her.

* * *

We rolled toward the barricade like a black tide, our engines a synchronized growl that echoed off the abandoned buildings at the town’s edge.

The last rays of sunlight caught on chrome and steel, painting everything in blood-orange hues that seemed fitting for what was coming.

I rode three bikes behind Savior and Saint, my position giving me a clear view of the makeshift barrier the Minions had constructed -- vehicles parked at angles, debris piled between them, men with rifles visible behind the improvised fortress.

My focus narrowed to a single figure standing front and center: Piston, his face still showing the damage I’d inflicted days ago.

Savior raised his fist, and as one, we slowed, then stopped, our formation an arrowhead pointed directly at the Devil’s Minions’ barricade.

The rumble of engines died away gradually, leaving an unnatural silence broken only by the pinging of cooling metal.

I heard a flutter of wings and looked to my right, spotting three turkey vultures.

Fitting audience for what was about to happen.