Page 13

CHAPTER TWELVE

Tildie

The club feels too quiet after Ruger and his brothers leave.

I pace the length of our apartment, counting each step, trying to focus on anything but the knot of dread tightening in my stomach.

Two hours of waiting, and I can't stand the silence anymore.

Moving to the window, I stare out at the yard where prospects patrol the perimeter.

They may be young and stupid, but they're armed and watching for anything.

It should be slightly comforting, but it isn’t. I know they’ll protect me—everyone here at the club—but no one protects me the way Ruger does.

Speaking of him, I have no updates.

He promised to text when they arrived at the warehouse, but so far, not even a peep.

"He'll be okay," I mutter to myself, though the words sound hollow even to my own ears.

A knock at the door startles me.

I find Kinsey standing there, looking as anxious as I feel.

She hovers in the doorway. "Any word?"

I shake my head. "Nothing."

She enters hesitantly, like she's still not sure of her welcome.

She might have gotten off on the wrong foot with the club, but I feel a strange kinship with her.

We're both outsiders here, both victims of men who claimed to love us while controlling our every move.

"They should have been there by now," she says, checking her watch. "The warehouse isn't that far."

"I know."

"My father won't go down easily," Kinsey finally says, sitting on the edge of the couch. "He hates losing even more than he hates being wrong."

"Ruger's smarter than him," I counter.

"Smart doesn't always win against desperate." She touches the bruise around her eye, now a sickly yellow-purple. "And my father's very desperate."

I study her, seeing beyond the designer clothes and attitude she arrived with. "How long did it take you to see through him?"

She looks up, surprise flickering across her face at the direct question. "Too long. I was so desperate for a father that I ignored all the red flags." A bitter laugh escapes her. "Even when Rookie tried to warn me, I wouldn't listen."

"Have you seen him? Rookie?"

"Briefly, thanks to you." Her expression softens. "He wouldn't even look at me at first. Can't say I blame him."

Another knock interrupts us—this time it's Ellie, carrying a tray with coffee and sandwiches.

"You girls need to eat something," she announces, setting down the tray. "No use starving yourselves while we wait for news."

Ellie's eyes linger on Kinsey's bruise, and it’s almost like she knows who did it.

She's never met this girl before, yet there's something unspoken between them.

"Have you heard anything?" I ask, taking the coffee she offers.

"Nothing yet." Ellie settles beside me. "But that's normal. They wouldn't risk talking to us until they're fully in position."

I catch Kinsey watching Ellie with curiosity. "You're Striker’s wife," she says suddenly. "Which makes you... what to me?"

Ellie considers this. "I suppose technically I'd be your step-mother, considering I’m still married to the old bastard. I really need to do something about that. Tildie, when this is over don’t let me forget I’m in dire need of a divorce."

"You got it. It’s been long enough."

"Yes." Ellie's voice hardens slightly. "For far too long."

An awkward silence falls, broken only when the door opens again to reveal a woman I recognize as Porter's ol’ lady, Sarah.

I guess our apartment is turning into the club women's watering hole.

She's in her early-thirties, with streaks of copper in her dark hair.

"Thought I'd find you all huddled together," she says, closing the door behind her. "Any word?"

Ellie shakes her head. "Nothing yet."

Sarah nods, unsurprised. "Porter always says the waiting's the hardest part." She glances at Kinsey. "So you're Striker's girl. Got more of your grandmother's look about you than his, thank God."

"You knew my grandmother?" Kinsey asks.

"Met her once, years back. Fierce woman. She'd have knocked some sense into her son if she'd lived longer."

Sarah settles into an armchair like it’s natural to her, but she’s been with the club for a while now.

I realize I know almost nothing about her, even though I see her at Sunday dinner.

She’s the only ol’ lady in the club, besides Bloodhound’s—but that feels more like a rumor. I’ve never seen his woman here at all.

"How long have you been with the club?" I ask her.

"Thirteen years." Pride colors her voice. "Since Porter was a prospect. We were young lovers, everyone told me to leave him, and I never did."

"You must have seen a lot of changes," Kinsey observes.

"More than most." Sarah's eyes find mine. "Two different Presidents. A lot of women going in and out of the door, a lot of changes. Ruger’s the best change the club has had in a long time."

"How so?" I find myself genuinely curious about how others see my man.

She isn’t careful about her choice of words, even with Striker's daughter present. "He rebuilt this club from the ground up after Striker nearly destroyed it."

"Our home," Ellie adds softly.

Sarah nods. "This land has been Saint's Outlaws territory since the beginning. These buildings, this compound—it's all built on the blood and sweat of coal miners who formed the first charter."

"Miners?" My interest piques. "I thought motorcycle clubs started with veterans."

"Eh, not all of them," Sarah acknowledges. "Ours began with miners who'd returned from war and found their only employment option was going back into the ground they'd fought so hard to leave. They formed the club as much for protection as for brotherhood."

"Protection from what?" Kinsey asks.

"Mine owners. Company men. Anyone who'd exploit them," Sarah explains. "These hills have a long history of labor disputes that turned bloody. Having a brotherhood at your back meant you weren't fighting alone. I guess kind of like a union if you think about it, before they were a thing."

As she speaks, I find myself drawn into the history of this place that's becoming my home. I'd never considered the club's roots beyond the typical outlaw stereotype.

"The founding members were smart men," Sarah continues. "Knew these mountains better than anyone. Used that knowledge to their advantage."

"Is that why they built this compound so far from town?" I ask.

A small smile plays at Sarah's lips. "Partly. But they had other insurance policies too."

Before she can elaborate, the sound of a motorcycle approaching draws our attention.

We all tense, moving to the window to see Rookie pull in, his face grim as he dismounts.

Ellie murmurs, already moving toward the door. "Something's wrong,"

We follow her outside, anxiety building with each step.

The prospect's eyes find us immediately. "Any word?"

"Nothing," I confirm. "What's happened?"

He runs a hand through his hair, clearly distressed. "I was supposed to meet them at the checkpoint, but they never showed. Tried calling—no answer."

Ice forms in my gut. "How long ago?"

"Forty minutes. I circled back to check if they returned here."

Sarah’s voice is calm, much calmer than how I feel right now. "Could they have changed routes?"

"Maybe." Rookie doesn't sound convinced. "But Prez was clear about checking in. Something's not right."

As if summoned by our fears, another motorcycle roars up the drive—this time it's Bloodhound, furious as ever.

He kills the engine, eyes scanning our gathered faces. "We've been played."

Ellie’s the first to speak. "What do you mean?"

"Warehouse was empty. No Striker, but the Vultures showed. Striker left a fuckin’ note."

I barely recognize my own voice. "What did it say?"

Bloodhound's eyes meet mine, " 'Goodbye, nephew. By the time you read this, I'll have what I came for. '"

Reality crashes through me like a wave. "Marco's coming here."

"Already on his way," Bloodhound confirms. "Viper was the one to warn us—it seems Striker's been playing both sides longer than we thought. They've been planning this from the beginning. I don’t think he was ever going to be there."

"A diversion," Sarah realizes. "Send the men to the warehouse while they hit the compound."

"Where are the others?" Ellie asks, fear threading her voice. "Where's Ryan?"

"Scattered. We can’t get a signal—someone's jamming them. I broke off to warn you while Ounce and the others try to circle back."

A distant rumble of engines sounds from beyond the trees—too many to be returning brothers.

"Get inside," Bloodhound orders. "Rookie, rally the prospects. Sarah, get the women to safety."

"There's only four prospects here," Rookie points out. "Not enough to hold them off if it's a full crew coming."

Sarah straightens, decision made. "Bloodhound, buy us some time. Five minutes. That's all we need."

He nods, like he knows exactly what she’s doing. "Be careful."

"What's happening?" Kinsey asks as Sarah herds us back toward the clubhouse.

"We're leaving," Sarah says simply, guiding us not toward Ruger's apartment but toward the main building.

"Leaving? How?" I demand. "They'll have the roads blocked."

A small smile crosses Sarah's face. "Who said anything about roads?"

Once inside, she looks at Wrenleigh and Sadie Jo, Coin’s little girls.

They’re not that little, though. Wrenleigh’s fifteen, and Sadie Jo is turning thirteen in a couple of weeks. “Girls, come with us.”

They don’t ask questions, just follow Sarah’s orders.

She leads us through the common area and down a hallway I've never explored before, ending at what appears to be a storage room.

"Close the door," she instructs Ellie, who complies without question.

The room is cluttered with boxes, club memorabilia, and old furniture.

Sarah moves toward the back wall, sliding aside a heavy bookcase to reveal what looks like solid concrete behind it.

"What are you doing?" Kinsey asks, voicing my own confusion.

Sarah doesn't answer, just presses her palm against a seemingly random spot. To my shock, a section of the wall slides inward.

"What the hell?" I breathe.

"Insurance policy," Sarah says, echoing her earlier words. "The founding members were miners, remember? They knew how to dig more than just coal."

Beyond the hidden door lies a narrow passage, rough steps leading down into darkness.

"Is that?—"

"A tunnel," Sarah confirms, already pulling out flashlights from a hidden compartment. "One of three. They run under the compound and up into the mountains. Lead to safe houses the club's maintained for decades."

"Does Ruger know about this?" I ask, stunned.

"Of course. All Presidents do. But it's not common knowledge—only shared on a need-to-know basis." She hands each of us a flashlight. "And right now, you all need to know."

Gunfire erupts outside, distant but unmistakable.

"Time's up," Sarah says grimly. "Ellie, you know the way. Take them to Cabin Two. I'll catch up."

"Sarah—" Ellie starts.

"I need to grab something first," she insists. "Go. Now."

The urgency in her voice means there’s no time to argue.

Ellie nods, gesturing for Kinsey and me to follow her into the passage.

"What about Bloodhound?" I ask, hesitating at the entrance. "The prospects?"

"They know to hold as long as they can, then use the north tunnel," Sarah explains. "I promise you, they know what to do and when to do it, Tildie."

More gunfire and it gets closer now.

The sound of shattering glass reaches us.

"Go!" Sarah pushes me gently toward the passage. "I'll be right behind you."

I step into the tunnel, immediately engulfed by cool, damp air.

Ellie leads the way, her flashlight beam cutting through darkness that seems to pulse with each distant gunshot.

The passage is narrow but tall enough to stand in, supported by timber beams that remind me this was created by men who knew their craft.

The dirt floor slopes downward, taking us deeper beneath the compound.

"How far do these tunnels go?" Kinsey asks, her voice echoing slightly.

"Almost two miles," Ellie answers. "The main passage branches in three directions about a quarter-mile in. Each leads to a different cabin."

"And the men know about this?" I confirm.

"The officers do. Part of club protocol for emergencies."

We reach a junction where the tunnel splits, concrete markers with numbers embedded in the walls. Ellie doesn't hesitate, taking the middle passage marked with a faded "2."

"Why aren't these used more often?" Kinsey wonders.

"They're a last resort," Ellie explains. "Using them reveals their existence. That's not something the club wants widely known."

Reality settles in a little deeper—if we're using them now, the situation above must be dire indeed.

We're maybe half a mile in when the sound of footsteps behind us makes us pause.

I swing my flashlight back, relief flooding me when Sarah's figure appears.

"Keep moving," she urges, catching up. "They've breached the clubhouse."

"Bloodhound?" I ask.

"Holding," She doesn't elaborate, which tells me nothing good. "But we don't have much time."

We pick up the pace, moving as quickly as the uneven ground allows.

The tunnel begins to slope upward now, the air gradually becoming fresher.

"We're heading up the mountainside," Ellie explains, noticing my confusion. "The cabin sits on a ridge overlooking the compound."

"Of course it does," I mutter, trying to imagine the planning that went into creating this escape network decades ago.

Sarah falls into step beside me. "You holding up okay?"

I’m trying to be funny, but it doesn’t come out that way. "As well as can be expected when running for my life through secret mining tunnels."

She squeezes my shoulder. "Ruger will find us. He knows where we're going."

"If he's okay," I can't help adding.

"That man is too stubborn to be anything but okay," Sarah assures me. "Trust me, I've known him since he was a rowdy teenager. Nothing keeps him down for long."

I want to believe her, need to believe her, but Marco's return has unearthed all my old fears, reminding me that even the strongest people can be hurt, can be taken away.

A low rumble shakes the tunnel, dust raining down from the beams above us.

"What was that?" Kinsey asks, freezing in place.

Sarah's expression darkens. "Explosion. They're trying to flush out anyone still hiding."

"Or block the tunnels," Ellie suggests, quickening her pace. "We need to move, and fast."

We break into a jog, the uneven ground making it treacherous.

Another explosion sounds, closer this time.

The tunnel shudders more violently.

"They know about the tunnels," I realize with growing horror. "How is that possible?"

"Marco's been working with Striker for months," Sarah reminds me. "No telling what information has changed hands."

My stomach drops at the thought. Marco knowing about the tunnels means we need to anticipate he knows about everything—the one safe escape route we had might not be safe at all.

"Almost there," Ellie calls from ahead. "Another quarter mile."

The tunnel begins to narrow as it continues upward, the timber supports giving way to natural rock in places.

We're deep in the mountain now, the compound far behind us.

Sarah suddenly stops, head tilted. "Listen."

We fall silent, straining to hear whatever caught her attention.

At first, there's nothing but our own breathing, then—voices.

Distant but distinct, coming from behind us.

"They're in the tunnels," Kinsey whispers.

"Move," Sarah orders, pushing us forward. "Hurry!"

We abandon caution, scrambling up the increasingly steep path.

My lungs burn, each breath coming in ragged gasps.

Another rumble—this one so close the ground shifts beneath our feet.

Kinsey stumbles, crying out as she falls.

I grab her arm, hauling her up. "Keep moving!"

The voices grow louder behind us.

Men shouting directions, flashlight beams bouncing in the distance.

"There!" Ellie points ahead, where a faint rectangle of lighter darkness suggests a door or exit.

We surge forward, hope giving us fresh energy.

The exit grows clearer—a wooden door set into the rock face, secured with a heavy padlock.

Ellie fumbles with keys while Sarah stands guard, a pistol I hadn't noticed before now gripped in her hand.

We keep the girls in front of us, making sure they’re the first ones through the door.

"Hurry," I urge, watching the bobbing lights grow closer.

"Almost got it," Ellie mutters, fingers shaking as she works the lock.

The door swings open, revealing a star-studded night sky beyond.

Cool, fresh air hits my face as we all spill out onto a small clearing.

A rustic cabin sits twenty yards away, dark and silent.

Beyond it, through the trees, I can make out lights in the valley below—the compound, partly obscured by smoke.

"Get inside," Sarah orders, pushing us toward the cabin. "I'll secure the tunnel."

We're halfway across the clearing when a shot rings out from the tunnel entrance.

Sarah cries out, stumbling forward.

"Sarah!" I turn back, seeing her clutch her side, blood already seeping between her fingers.

"Go!" she shouts, raising her gun and firing back into the tunnel. "Get to the cabin!"

Ellie grabs my arm, dragging me toward the cabin door. "She's right. We need cover!"

"We can't leave her!" I protest.

"I've got her," Kinsey says, already running back to help Sarah. "Get the door open!"

Ellie fumbles with another key as I watch Kinsey reach Sarah, looping an arm around her waist for support.

They stagger toward us as more shots ring out from the tunnel.

Wrenleigh and Sadie Jo are shaking like scared dogs, and the second we get this door open, I’m shoving them inside.

Nothing is going to happen to these girls, not on my watch.

Men emerge from the opening—three of them, guns raised.

Marco isn't among them, but I recognize one as the man who came to the bar asking about "Elizabeth."

Ellie finally gets the door open, pushing the girls and me through. "Inside!"

The cabin interior is basic but well-maintained—a main room with a kitchenette, doors leading to what I assume are bedrooms, and a large bay window overlooks the valley below.

Kinsey helps Sarah inside, lowering her to a couch as Ellie secures the door.

Blood has soaked through Sarah's shirt, her face pale but she seems okay, kind of, but who am I kidding? I’m not a damn doctor.

"First aid kit," she gasps, pointing to a cabinet. "Under the sink."

I retrieve it, hands shaking as I open the plastic case. "What do I do? I don't know how to?—"

"Pressure first," Sarah instructs through gritted teeth. "Clean towel."

Kinsey finds one in the bathroom, returning to press it against Sarah's wound.

The white fabric turns crimson almost immediately.

"They know we're here," Ellie says, moving to the windows to check the perimeter. "And there's only one way in or out of this cabin."

"Not quite," Sarah manages, grimacing with pain. "Basement has an emergency exit. Leads to a ravine on the east side."

"Of course it does," I mutter, helping Kinsey bandage Sarah's side.

The wound is a through-and-through gunshot to her lower abdomen, bleeding heavily but seemingly having missed vital organs.

"Will you be able to move?" Kinsey asks her.

"Give me a minute," Sarah insists. "Just need to catch my breath."

A barrage of gunfire erupts outside, bullets shattering the front windows.

We drop to the floor, the girls screaming as glass rains down around us.

"So much for catching your breath," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "Where's this basement?"

Sarah points to a rug near the fireplace. "Trapdoor. Hidden."

Ellie moves quickly, pushing aside furniture and rolling back the rug to reveal a wooden hatch set into the floor.

She pulls it open, revealing a ladder descending into darkness.

"Wrenleigh, Sadie Jo and Kinsey first," Sarah directs. "Then Tildie. Ellie and I will follow."

"You're injured," I protest. "You go first."

"Not happening, I’m the best shot we have right now." Sarah's voice is steel despite her pale face. "Go. Now."

The authority in her tone means no one is going to dare to argue with her.

Kinsey descends the ladder, disappearing into the darkness below.

More gunfire peppers the cabin, wood splintering as bullets find their marks.

A man's voice shouts from outside—too muffled to make out words, but the threatening tone is unmistakable.

"Your turn," Sarah tells me, pressing a small handgun into my palm. "Know how to use one of these?"

"Point and shoot," I say, remembering Marco's impromptu lessons years ago. One of the few useful things he ever taught me.

"Safety's off. Don't hesitate if someone follows who isn't us." She squeezes my hand. "Go."

I slip over the edge of the trapdoor, finding the ladder rungs with my feet.

As I head down, I hear the cabin door splinter, men's voices suddenly clear.

"Where is she?" a voice demands—familiar, terrifyingly so.

It’s Marco.

My heart sinks into the pit of my stomach.

He's here, so close I could almost touch him if I climbed back up. The man who haunted my nightmares for months, who stole years of my life through manipulation and abuse.

"Who?" Sarah asks.

"Elizabeth. I know she's here." Marco's voice grows colder. "Where is that fucking bitch?"

"Don't know any Elizabeth," Sarah replies. "And the only women here belong to themselves."

A slap echoes through the floor—the unmistakable sound of a hand striking flesh.

"Search the place," Marco orders someone. "She's here somewhere."

I reach the bottom of the ladder, finding Kinsey waiting in what appears to be a root cellar carved into the mountain itself.

A single bulb provides dim light, revealing canned goods, water jugs, and emergency supplies lining the walls.

"We need to move," she whispers, pointing to a narrow passage at the far end. "That must be the exit."

Above us, furniture crashes. Footsteps thump across the floor, drawing dangerously close to the trapdoor.

I grip the gun tighter, aiming upward, prepared for the worst.

A scuffle breaks out—Sarah's voice crying out in pain, Ellie shouting something indistinct.

Then a gunshot that makes my blood run cold.

"Sarah," I whisper, horror washing through me.

"We can't help her by getting caught ourselves," Kinsey says, tugging my arm. "Come on."

She's right, but leaving feels like we’re betraying them.

Still, I follow her toward the passage, knowing our best chance is to escape and find help.

The exit tunnel is narrower than the one from the compound, forcing us to crouch as we make our way through.

It slopes downward sharply, loose rocks shifting underfoot.

"How far?" I whisper.

"No idea," Kinsey admits. "But it can't be more than a few hundred yards if it leads to a ravine."

Behind us, muffled shouting continues. I strain to hear Ellie or Sarah's voices but catch nothing distinct.

We reach what feels like the end of the passage—a crude door made of wooden slats covered with dirt and vegetation from outside.

Through cracks between the boards, cool night air seeps in.

Kinsey pushes against it, but it doesn't budge. "It's stuck."

"Let me try." I shoulder the door, using my weight.

It gives slightly but remains stubbornly in place. "Together."

We both push, wood creaking in protest until finally, it swings outward.

We tumble with the girls outside, dirt and pine needles cushioning our fall.

We're on a steep hillside, trees providing cover.

Below, a narrow ravine winds its way down the mountain.

Above and behind us, the cabin's lights twinkle through the trees, deceptively peaceful from this distance.

"Which way?" Kinsey asks, scanning our surroundings.

I point downhill. "Follow the ravine. It probably leads to a road."

Before we can move, the crack of gunfire echoes from the cabin.

Not the sporadic shots of before, but a sustained exchange—multiple weapons firing at once.

"That's not Marco's men," Kinsey realizes. "Too many guns."

Hope surges through me. "Ruger. It has to be."

We hesitate, torn between fleeing to safety and returning to help.

The decision is made for us when headlights appear at the base of the ravine, vehicles grinding up the rough terrain toward us.

"Marco sent men to cover all exits," I guess, pulling Kinsey behind a fallen tree. "He knew about the escape tunnels."

"How?" she whispers.

"Striker. Fuck!"

The gunfire at the cabin intensifies.

Through the trees, I can make out new vehicles arriving—motorcycles, their familiar rumble cutting through the night.

The club is here, but are they in time?

I look down at the gun in my hand, then back toward the cabin where Sarah and Ellie might still be alive.

"I'm going back," I decide.

"That's suicide," Kinsey objects.

"I'm done running from Marco." I refuse to be that sad, pathetic girl anymore. "It ends tonight, one way or another."

She studies me for a long moment before nodding. "Then I'm coming with you."

The girls.

Fuck…

Wrenleigh is terrified, but Sadie Jo is shaking wildly, terrified.

I glance around, looking around for anything, that’s when I see it—we could hoist them up in the trees, and if they climb up a little ways, the pine will cover them.

“Girls, I need you both to do something for me right now. I know you’re being brave, but…Kinsey and I are going to help your dad and the rest of the brothers. We’re gonna get on our backs, and then hoist you up in that tree.” I point to the specific pine tree I think is concealed enough. “You’re going to take my phone, and then stay there until we come get you—when this is all over.”

I hand my phone to Wrenleigh, and Kinsey gets Sadie Jo up in the tree.

It’s only a matter of minutes when the girls are both up, both safe, “Climb up two or three limbs, stay quiet, and do not come down unless it’s one of the club members.”

Wrenleigh gives me a nod. “Be careful.”

“I will, sweetheart.”

Kinsey and I head back up toward the cabin, using trees for cover.

The gunfire has died down, replaced by shouts and the occasional single shot.

We're halfway there when a figure emerges from the trees above us—tall, built like a mountain, and I know exactly who it is—Ruger.

Relief crashes through me so powerfully my knees nearly buckle.

He hasn't seen us yet, his attention focused on the cabin ahead.

"Ruger!" I call, keeping my voice low enough not to carry beyond him.

He whips around, gun raised, then freezes when he recognizes me.

In three long strides, he's beside me, pulling me against his chest so tightly I can barely breathe.

"You're okay," he murmurs into my hair. "Thank fuckin’ God."

I cling to him, savoring his solid presence. "Sarah's hurt. Ellie's still in there. We have the girls hiding away in a tree so they stay safe. Marco’s?—"

"I know." He releases me, eyes hardening. "We dealt with his men outside. Bloodhound's clearing the cabin now."

"How did you know?" Kinsey asks.

"Striker fucked up," Ruger explains grimly. "Left a note. Striker was tryin’ to set us up again."

"What about him?"

Ruger's expression darkens further. "Still out there. But not for long."

A shout from the cabin draws our attention.

Bloodhound appears in the doorway, waving us forward. "All clear!" he calls.

Ruger keeps me close as we approach, his body tense, ready for any threat. "Marco?"

"Gone," Bloodhound reports. "Must have slipped out when we arrived. Left his men to cover his escape."

"Fuckin’ coward," Ruger mutters.

Inside, the cabin is a disaster of broken furniture and shattered glass.

Ellie kneels beside Sarah on the floor, pressing blood-soaked towels to her wound.

"She needs a hospital," Ellie says, her own face sporting a vicious bruise along the jawline. "Now."

Ruger barks orders, and brothers materialize to carefully lift Sarah onto a makeshift stretcher.

She's conscious but barely, her skin paler than before.

"Did I... hold them off... long enough?" she asks, voice faint.

"You did great," I tell her, squeezing her hand. "We're safe because of you."

A small smile touches her lips before her eyes flutter closed.

As they carry her out, Ruger pulls me close again. "This isn't over," he warns. "Marco and Striker are still out there."

"I know." I lean into his strength, allowing myself this moment of comfort before facing what comes next. "But we're not running anymore. Any of us."

Coin comes rushing up, looking around, and I know what he’s looking for.

“Kinsey and I put them up in the trees, away and out of sightlines,” I tell him, relief immediately flooding his face.

“Thank you. Which direction?” Coin asks.

Kinsey offers, “I’ll take you.”

The two of them head out to go get his teenage girls, but from the doorway, Bloodhound calls out, "Prez, we found something you should see."

Keeping an arm around me, Ruger moves to where his Sergeant at Arms stands, holding a phone.

"Striker's been communicating with someone inside the club," Bloodhound says grimly. "Someone besides Rookie."

Ruger takes the phone, scrolling through messages with growing fury. "Son of a bitch," he mutters. "There's another traitor."

"Who?" I ask, dread pooling in my stomach.

He shows me the screen—a string of messages detailing club movements, security rotations, even the location of the tunnels. The contact name simply reads "B."

"Who the hell is B?" I ask.

Ruger's expression grows cold, deadly. "Someone who's not going to live to see tomorrow."

Then it hits me.

B.

B is for Bailey.