Page 10 of Lock

Rowan wanted to pretend nothing happened?

Fine.

I’d take the one thing he couldn’t ignore.

I wasn’t proud of it. If Saint were awake, he’d probably call me an idiot and tell me to find another way. But he wasn’t awake. And every hour that passed with no answers made it harder to sit on my hands and play nice. This wasn’t about breaking an omega. It was about breaking a man who thought he could hurt one of ours and walk away.

After Wraith left the office to rally the others, I stayed where I was for a minute. Palms flat on the desk. Breathing through the worst of the anger so I didn’t take it out on the wrong person.

Saint should’ve been here.

He should’ve been pacing this room, ranting, throwing ideas at the wall. Instead he was hooked up to machines, and I was planning a kidnapping.

I pushed off the desk and scrubbed a hand over my face. No turning back now.

When I stepped into the hallway, the clubhouse felt different. Tighter. Hushed. Word always moved fast in a club like ours. Maybe they didn’t know the plan yet, but they could read the signs.

No drinking. No music. No shit-talking over pool. Everyone was at half-volume and full alert.

Grim, our Enforcer, stopped me halfway down the hall, leaning against the brick with a folder under his arm.

“Got the hospital update,” he said quietly. “Saint’s stable. Still out.”

I nodded once. Jaw tight. “Thanks.”

“Doc says next forty-eight hours matter most.” Grim studied my face. “We doing this tomorrow?”

“Prep starts now,” I said. “We leave tomorrow night.”

He nodded. “Alright, then.”

“I know it’s tight but there can be no mistakes.”

“No mistakes.” Grim didn’t ask for any more details. He just peeled off toward the meeting room to get his team aligned.

As I kept walking, a prospect almost ran straight into me, juggling a crate of kitchen supplies and dropping a bag of tortillas at my boots. “Shit, sorry, Prez,” he blurted, scrambling to pick them up. The smell of whatever they were making—tacos, probably—floated out from the kitchen. On another night, there’d be music, guys crowding the bar, someone yelling about hot sauce. Tonight, the salsa station was quiet and everybody was moving like we were already halfway to war.

The weight of what we were about to do didn’t really land until I stepped outside into the cool air. Bikes in rows. Men moving with purpose. The hum of engines being checked and rechecked. Oil. Leather. And that low buzz of anticipation.

Wraith stood by the picnic table going over gear. He gave a low whistle when he saw me. “Fuse is getting us cutters. Says they’ll slice that fence like paper.”

“Good.” I scanned the lot. “Where is he now?”

“Inside, bitching about the wiring again.” Wraith’s mouth twitched. “Said if the Reapers still have the same grid, he’ll eat his own boots.”

I snorted. “Tell him I want video if that happens.”

“Already planning to,” Wraith said.

He jerked his chin toward Slate—Crosby “Slate” Vance, my road captain. Slate was crouched beside his bike with a map spread over his knee, phone in one hand, pen in the other.

“Slate’s on the route, the cameras, back roads, all of it,” Wraith said. “You know him. He’s in deep.”

Of course he was. Slate didn’t do anything halfway.

The crunch of gravel made Wraith look over his shoulder. Ember stood there wrapped in a light jacket, her expression softbut tight with worry. She glanced at me, then stepped close to her husband.

“You’re going out?” she asked quietly.