Page 33 of Hellbent (Snakes & Daggers #1)

RYDER’S BEEN GONE since sunrise.

No knock on the bedroom door. No explanation. Just the slam of the front door and the low growl of his truck fading down the drive. I watched him go from the bedroom window, wondering when he’d be back.

By the time the sky drains to twilight, shadows bleeding across the floorboards, I’ve flipped through every channel on the TV, walked the length of the house a dozen times, touching walls, adjusting picture frames, opening and closing cabinets just to hear a sound.

Made toast just to watch it go cold. Wandered through the empty house like a ghost.

No word from Jake. Or Damian. Or Wyatt.

So much for all the talk about me being in “serious danger” and needing protection. So much for worrying about what it would be like to be alone in the house with Ryder. Apparently the plan was to lock me up in here like a prisoner in solitary confinement.

By the time the sun drops below the horizon, my thoughts are spiraling. All day, I’ve been thinking about the bounty. The photo.

About Billy. The senator.

I wonder if Ryder found something. If that’s why he left.

Or if something happened to him.

The thought makes something clench deep in my stomach.

I need air.

I lace up my shoes, step onto the porch, and look out in the direction of Leathernecks.

Down the road, but out of sight. Like everything else I want right now.

I wonder what Wyatt is doing, and the pang of missing him hits me.

Why can’t I just be down there with him, the two of us watching TV and teasing each other?

I stand, walk around the house, taking in the sense of openness. The trees break up the horizon, but otherwise, it stretches on forever.

A sudden rustle underfoot makes my heart leap into my throat. I freeze mid-step, one foot hovering above the grass as something slithers away. A flick of a tail. A snake.

Heart pounding, I move off the grass and onto the gravel of the driveway, and decide to look in the garage. For something to do…anything.

I open the side door, hinges groaning, and inside it’s cooler and impenetrably dark, smelling of oil and damp concrete.

I search the wall blindly, find a light switch, and flick it. A single yellow bulb hangs from the ceiling, casting weak light across the room.

Everything’s neat—tools arranged by size, shelves of ammo boxes, spare parts, cleaning kits.

A wall-mounted rack with rifles locked behind glass.

Tucked behind a barbecue, a bicycle sits half-hidden by a canvas tarp, back wheel jutting out.

I drift toward it and lift the tarp.

Black frame, wide tires, single gear. The kind you’d see in an old war film or chained up outside a pawn shop.

I blink. Then I laugh.

No keys. No gas. Just wheels. Pedals. Motion.

I throw the tarp off and locate an air pump tucked behind the bike. A helmet hangs off the side.

It’s three miles to the garage. And I could make it on this bike. See Wyatt. I’ll be safer with him than alone.

I pump the tires, wheel the bike out the door, and soon I’m bouncing along the dirt road between the houses, guided by moonlight and the flickering streetlights to my left. But when I get to the garage, no lights are on. No sign of Wyatt’s bike out front.

I let myself in, climb the stairs to his apartment, and knock.

“Hello?”

No answer.

Loneliness settles deeper into my bones.

I head back outside, glance at the field behind the garage. There are tire marks where Damian’s been driving straight down from his house.

A new idea forms. I get back on the bike and follow the tracks. The bike jitters, the dirt broken and uneven, roots grabbing at the tires. The further I go, the darker it gets, moonlight the only guide.

But when I reach the boys’ house, the lights are off there too. No trucks out front. I drop the bike to the ground and try the door. It’s locked.

I press my forehead against the door, breathing hard.

The silence out here isn’t peaceful. It’s suffocating.

My mind won’t stop running. Back to the photo. The bounty. The bar.

Who took that picture? Who knew where I was?

My brow furrows. I can’t keep doing this—sitting in silence, waiting for someone else to make a move.

I’d rather walk straight into the fire than be left to smolder here, forgotten.

I pick up the bike.

If no one will tell me what that picture means, I’ll find out myself.

The ride takes a long time.

Warm night air brushes against my skin, thick with the hum of cicadas and the occasional rush of passing cars.

I stay tucked along the shoulder of the highway, head down, pedaling hard, the wheels whirring steadily beneath me.

Streetlights break the dark in long, slow intervals, casting gold pools of light that stretch and vanish behind me.

By the time the trees give way to sidewalks and storefronts, my legs are shaking. Sweat clings to my back. I coast down Main Street, past the gas station and the old diner, all the little shops I noticed the first time Jake and Damian brought me here.

Up ahead, the bar’s neon sign glows red and blue against the dark, pulsing like a heartbeat. I lean the bike against the wall out front, brush damp hair off my forehead, and pull open the heavy door.

The bar is quiet. Not empty, but low and slow. Muted conversations, the occasional clack of pool balls, something twangy humming from the jukebox. Not like the last time I was here. No dancing. No crowds. Just a few locals nursing drinks and not much else.

Two men seated near the door eye me as I walk in. I keep my expression blank, my stride casual, and move toward the bar, careful not to make eye contact. I don’t know what I’m looking for. A familiar face. A flicker of recognition. Maybe just someone who saw something they shouldn’t.

I slide onto a barstool halfway down the counter. The bartender—a woman with a silver braid and muscular arms in a sleeveless plaid shirt—gives me a look.

“What’ll it be?”

“Coke. No ice.”

She nods, and a moment later, she sets the glass down with a dull thunk. I curl my fingers around it, grateful for something to do with my hands.

I wait a beat. Then lean in slightly, pitching my voice low.

“I was here a few weeks ago,” I say. “With two guys. Tall, both dark hair. One of them—uh, Damian—he plays pool? Kind of cocky?”

She shrugs, not offering much.

“There was a man,” I add, carefully. “Older. He came up to me. Called me by name. I didn’t know him.”

The bartender’s gaze sharpens—just a flicker, then it’s gone.

“Don’t remember,” she says flatly.

But I saw it. That flicker.

I look down the bar. A man in his thirties, tan from working outside, sits two stools down with a half-finished beer and a pleasant, weathered face. Not bad-looking. He notices me looking and straightens a little—subtle, but there. Not leering. Just hopeful.

I pick up my glass and slide onto the stool beside him.

“Mind if I sit?”

“Not if you want to.” He smiles and straightens his shirt a little. Glances at my legs.

I keep my voice quiet.

“I was here a little while ago,” I say. “With a couple friends. A guy came up to me—older, said my name like he knew me.”

His brow furrows slightly, like he’s trying to place something.

“Then later, I found out someone took a picture of me. From inside the bar.”

He straightens a little, tension entering his shoulders.

“Wasn’t me,” he says quickly.

“I’m not accusing you,” I say, managing a tight smile. “I just thought—maybe you’re a regular. Have you noticed anyone new hanging around? Somebody…off. A little strange.”

He glances toward the bar again. The bartender is standing close to us, bent over her phone, but I can feel her listening.

“Strange how?” he asks. “This place draws a few different kinds.”

“I don’t know. Someone who wasn’t here to drink. Someone who watched more than they talked.”

He frowns, rubbing a hand over his jaw. Doesn’t speak right away. Maybe he’s thinking. Maybe he’s debating whether to get involved.

“You remember what the guy looked like?” he finally asks.

“Mid-forties. Looked like he worked a desk. Dress shirt and tie. Here alone.”

The guy shakes his head slowly. Regret, maybe. Or self-preservation.

“Sorry, sweetheart. I keep to myself. Don’t get involved in other people’s business.”

I nod, but disappointment settles in my chest.

“That’s okay,” I say. “Was worth a shot.”

He goes quiet. The bartender puts her phone in her pocket, snaps her head up, and walks away.

A flicker of unease pulses in my gut. I glance at the clock behind the bar, deciding I’ve been here long enough. I drain the last of my Coke and wish the man beside me a good night—just as the door opens, carrying in a wave of warm night air.

Two bikers step inside.

It’s obvious from the second they cross the threshold. The boots. The cuts. The attitude. They don’t belong in this bar—and they don’t care.

One is tall and heavy-set, with a long beard worked into a tight braid and mirrored sunglasses still on, even at night. The other’s much shorter. Wiry, with a wound-up, kinetic energy. Both wear worn leather vests stamped with a patch I recognize instantly.

Grave Sons MC.

My heart stops. The noise of the bar fades like someone pulled a plug.

Grave Sons is a support club for the Order of Disorder. Billy calls them “little brothers”—loyal, eager, and never smart enough to ask questions.

This isn’t a coincidence.

They’re here for me.

There’s no question. No maybe. Not after the bounty post. Not with that patch.

I thought I could sneak in, ask questions, and slip away unnoticed. But I’m not slipping away from anything. Not now. I’ve walked myself straight into it.

And this is the moment I realize I’m going to lose everything—Damian, Wyatt, Jake, Ryder…the garage, safety, the chance to start over.

I turn back around, heart pounding, mind scrambling for a way out.

“You okay?” the guy beside me asks.

I don’t answer.