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Kyle

O nce the briefing wrapped up and we had a solid understanding of what we were up against, the weight of the last few weeks finally hit me like a freight train. My body ached, my mind felt drained, and I wanted nothing more than to crash somewhere far away from the chaos.

“Let’s get you to your room,” Preacher suggested, already holding the door to Church open.

I hesitated for half a second before following him out. As we climbed the stairs, an uneasy feeling began to creep up my spine. It wasn’t exhaustion, it was something deeper, something I didn’t want to acknowledge. By the time we reached the door to my old room, the feeling had solidified into full-blown dread.

“No fucking way!” I stopped dead in my tracks, pointing at the door like it had personally offended me. “Fuck knows who’s done what in there, so, no.”

I wasn’t naive. I knew exactly what kind of shit went down in MC clubhouses. What people did behind closed doors wasn’t my problem, but this room? This room had been mine since I was born. Every night I’d spent at the compound, I had slept in that bed,in that space. And now? Now, I had to assume it had been turned into a goddamn porn palace, and the thought of stepping into whatever had gone down there made me want to gag.

Preacher just smirked and, with unnecessary theatrics, pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. “Relax,” he ordered as he pushed it open.

I felt Duke and a few of the other guys watching from behind me. Sighing, I forced myself to move forward, stepping into the room with cautious suspicion.

“No one’s been in here unless it’s been to clean it since the day you left, Kyle.”

I took a slow turn, eyes scanning every inch of the space. Everything was exactly where I had left it. The bed, the furniture, the pictures on the walls, it was like walking into a frozen moment from my past. Even the old sketch of my dream bike was still taped up, its edges curling slightly with age.

The tension in my shoulders loosened just a fraction. I nodded and dropped my bag beside the bed before sitting down heavily, absorbing the familiarity of it all.

“I’m glad to have you back,” Preacher muttered. I glanced up to see him rubbing the back of his neck, the awkwardness clear in his stance.

“Thanks.”

For a second, just a second, I thought that might be it, but then he asked, “Are you ever going to call me Dad again?”

The question hit the air like a gunshot.

I didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. My voice was steady, emotionless, as I met his gaze and asked, “Do you think you deserve it?”

Silence stretched between us. He held my stare for a moment longer before shaking his head and walking out, the door clicking shut behind him. A crack formed in the cold stone inside my chest. It happened occasionally, but I wasn’t about to dwell on it.

With a sigh, I kicked off my boots and lay back on the bed. The familiar comfort of the mattress wrapped around me, the pillow top and memory foam molding to my shape. Once upon a time, this had been the best night’s sleep I’d ever had.

The peaceful moment was short-lived.

“K-k-k-k-Kaaaaiiiii,” Smokey sang, drawing out my name like a damn cartoon villain as he dropped onto the couch beside my bed. Mack and Hammer flanked him, grinning like jackasses. Duke had stayed in the room after Preacher had left, but he remained standing, as always, arms crossed like the ever-watchful sentinel he was.

“So, tell me your stories,” Smokey said with a smirk. “We saw some shit from Data, but I wanna hear it from you.”

I smirked back, knowing exactly what would get a reaction out of them. “I’m getting a new rifle.”

“The fuck?” Just like that, the tension eased. The exhaustion was still there, but for now, it could wait.

A girl could never have too many rifles and scopes—fact. And today? Today, I was getting my hands on one of the holy grails of the sniper world. “The Canadians agreed to send over a TAC-50.” The words felt almost reverent as I said them, knowing exactly the kind of reaction they’d get.

“The fuck you say?” Hammer snapped, just as expected. The man had a sixth sense for sniffing out high-caliber firepower, and this was the equivalent of dropping a steak in front of a starving wolf.

Grinning—something I didn’t do often—I nodded slowly. “Arrives manana , Chico.”

Duke’s lips twitched as I glanced at him, though I didn’t miss the flicker of green-eyed envy in his gaze. They all knew the unspoken rule: unless the world was burning down around us, no one touched my weapons. And so far? That level of emergency had never happened.

Before Hammer could work himself up into a proper tantrum, Duke cut in, his voice shifting into that no-bullshit tone I’d known my entire life.

“Right, fill me in. What the fuck happened to your ribs?” Straight to the point, as always.

I exhaled sharply, rolling my shoulders as I filled them in on the incident that had been gnawing at me since it happened. I laid it out, how we had just barely caught sight of the soldier setting up with an RPG, and how we had managed to dive for cover at the last second. But the part that wouldn’t leave my mind—the part that felt like acid burning a hole in my gut—was what I said next.

“They shouldn’t have known we were there, Duke. There was no way they could have known our location. If we hadn’t noticed him before he fired, he would’ve hitusinstead of that mud wall.”

Duke’s gaze darkened as he stared at the blank wall in front of him, his mind clearly racing in the same direction as mine.

“Unless someone told them,” He mused.

“Exactly.”

That was the conclusion I’d come to the moment it happened. The idea that there was a rat in my unit—in myteam of men I had handpicked myself—made my blood boil. Not knowing who I could trust outside of Indigo made it worse. While I was here working with the Knights, I had another mission of my own: to find the leak. Someone had tipped off the enemy, and I was going to find out who.

The familiar burn of whiskey slid down my throat as I sat at the bar, lost in thought. Around me, the guys carried on with their usual banter and nonsense, but I had long since tuned them out. After years of hearing the same bullshit, I’d mastered the art of selective hearing. Instead, I focused on the bottle in my hand, a gift from one of the Irish guys before we’d left. When he’d handed it to me, Match and I had practically cried laughing at the name—Bushmills Black Bush.

“I didn’t peg you for a whiskey drinker.”

The deep voice pulled me from my thoughts. I glanced over my shoulder and found Jagger leaning against the bar, watching me with that unreadable expression he seemed to favor.

Wordlessly, I turned the bottle so he could read the label. His reaction was priceless.

“The fuck is that?”

“A gift from an Irishman.” I smirked, lifting my glass. “Not bad, actually. Once you get past the initial shudder of drinking something called Black Bush .”

Jagger’s throat worked as he threw his head back and laughed, the deep rumble of it sending an unexpected shiver down my spine.

“To be fair,” I added, smirking, “it could be a blonde bush or a brown bush, and it would still make you shudder.”

Still chuckling, he reached for the bottle, snagging a glass from behind the bar before pouring himself a small measure. He held it up, giving me a look that was half-amused, half-challenging.

“At least it wasn’t a red bush.”

And just like that, the tension from earlier faded, the weight of the mission temporarily forgotten in the warmth of whiskey and unexpected company. I choked hard on the whiskey, the burn of it shooting straight down the wrong pipe. Instantly, my lungs ignited in protest, and I started coughing, trying to clear the fiery liquid while simultaneously resisting the urge to scream at the pain radiating from my ribs. Each hacking cough felt like a knife twisting into my side.

“Ribs…” I wheezed out between coughs, wincing as I clutched my aching torso.

“What?” Jagger leaned in closer, his voice low, his breath warm against my cheek. I’d be lying if I said he didn’t smell damn good—clean, masculine, like leather and a hint of spice, and a stark contrast to the Knights I had known in the past. Most of them reeked of cigarettes, motor oil, and enough sweat to fry an order of fries in their greasy hair.

“She busted her ribs,” Smokey, the ever-nosy bastard, chimed in, leaning past me to address Jagger directly.

I watched up close as Jagger’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in irritation. Before I could react, he reached out and lifted the side of my tank, exposing my bruised side. Normally, I’d have broken his hand for a move like that, but maybe the damn Black Bush was making me more tolerant. Or maybe it washim.

His sharp intake of breath was followed by a slow, angry hiss. Yeah, he’d seen the damage. The scratches were healing, but the deep bruising that stretched across my ribs told the real story, one that still hurt like hell.

“Someone did this to you?” His voice was low, rough, tight with barely contained fury.

I shrugged, reaching for my whiskey and nudging Smokey out of the way to grab the bottle. “Perk of the job.”

“Who?” The single word was a challenge and an offer. He wasn’t asking for clarification—he was asking for a name so he could go and personally rearrange someone’s face.

“A guy had an RPG and fired at them,” Smokey jumped in again, clearly enjoying the show. “It hit the wall, and if it hadn’t been for Match jumping on top of her”—he motioned toward Match, who was now glaring daggers in his direction— “I reckon we’d have been visiting her in the ICU.”

That was a bit dramatic, in my opinion, but I wasn’t about to start debating life-and-death scenarios with strangers. So, I stayed quiet, sipping my whiskey and letting the burn settle in my stomach while trying to push the past few weeks out of my mind.

Duke had given clearance on what we could share with the Knights, but I still preferred to keep my shit locked down and only discuss things like this with Indigo. At the end of the day, this guy—in fact, this whole MC—belonged to Preacher. I didn’t trust Preacher with jack shit, so why the hell would I trust any ofthemwith information that could blow back on my team?

Jagger’s fingers drummed lightly against the bar as he studied me, spinning his glass idly. “Why do you do it?”

I tilted my head slightly, assessing him. “There are things out there that the public will hopefully never know about,” I kept my voice quiet but firm. “Things that would keep you awake for weeks. I’ll fight until my last breath to make sure they never hit our shores.”

His eyes flickered at that, something unreadable shifting behind them.

“The public doesn’t even know the surface of it,” I continued. “Then there’s the trafficking. I can help with all of that, so I do.”

Jagger nodded slowly, taking in my words. There was something about the way he looked at me in that moment, like he understood more than he was letting on. Like he wasn’t just hearing my words but feeling them.

Then, with a smirk, I downed the last of my whiskey and grinned at him. “And I get to play with fucking awesome toys.”

Jagger exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he lifted his own glass in a silent toast before taking a sip.

Pushing up from my stool, I grabbed the bottle of Black Bush and waved it at him as I turned toward the hallway. “See you around, whiskey snob.”

I heard the faint sound of his chuckle behind me as I made my way toward my room, my body already screaming for sleep. I needed at least eight hours tonight, double what I usually got, and then I’d be ready to go again.

Footsteps followed behind me, and I didn’t have to turn around to know it was Match. After missions, it was our unspoken rule—we bunked in the same room, watched each other’s backs through the nightmares that shadowed us. Those bastards were brutal, and I felt for the soldiers who didn’t have someone to keep them anchored when the demons clawed their way into the dark.

One of my friends, Hunter, had lost a couple of men on his last mission. He’d barely made it out himself after getting caught in a car bomb. I couldn’t imagine the hell his nightmares put him through, but I knew they had to be soul-crushing. Whatever was left of him that hadn’t already been destroyed in the explosion was probably being eaten alive from the inside out.

I made a mental note to call him, to check in.

Pushing the thoughts away, I headed into my room while Match made up the couch. Sleeping in this space was going to be weird as hell, but for the first time in a long time, I had a real bed, and no matter how messed up my head was, that was something I could work with.

Getting into bed, I turned out the light once Match was settled, pulling the blanket up as I buried my head into the pillow. The exhaustion from the day should have been enough to knock me out, but my mind had other plans. The images from past missions bled into old memories of this place, a jumbled mess of violence, heat, and familiar walls.

And then, cutting through it all, was Jagger’s laughter.

I clung to that image, the sound of it, letting it override the chaos in my head. If I focused on that—on something real, something grounding—sleep would come. And eventually, it did.

JAGGER

Watching her walk away, I couldn’t shake the way she’d reacted when Smokey spilled about the RPG incident. The way she had brushed it off like it was just another day on the job, and the way she had survived it at all.

Shuddering, I turned away and made my way to Preacher’s office, knowing I’d find him exactly where I expected, buried in reports, going over every scrap of intel we’d gathered.

Kyle needed to know the truth. She had to hear it fromhim.

It was like she was throwing herself into the fire, daring the world to take her out. And I got it, I’d done the same damn thing when I’d first patched into my old man’s chapter. I lived reckless, rode fast, partied harder, anything to escape the shit in my head. Then Preacher accepted my transfer, sat me down, and gave me some hard truths that I hadn’t wanted to hear, but ones I hadneededto. I saw the same self-destruction in a lot of the younger guys now. We let them burn it out, then hit them with wisdom when they were ready to listen.

TheKnights MCwasn’t about chaos and indulgence anymore. We weren’t just a gang playing out biker fantasies—we were boots on the ground, helping people who had no one else to turn to.

This human trafficking case wasn’t the first time the government had reached out to us for help, but it was by far the biggest and most dangerous. These weren’t just back-alley criminals slinging dope or running guns for clout. These were men designing weapons meant to kill involume, selling them to street kids who didn’t even know what they had in their hands. The drugs? We’d already covered that earlier, but if you’ve ever seen a child dead from rat poison-laced heroin, or a girl so high she gnawed through her own arm, you’d understand the kind of hell these bastards were creating.

And then, the worst of it—human trafficking.

Tiny kids, teenagers, women, all sold off like fucking livestock to be used, broken, and sold again. Some never made it past the first transaction. The ones who did? Well, their nightmare only got worse. This was a war we’d never walk away from.

But now, with theGhostsbacking us? We had a shot at actually making a dent in it.

Reaching Preacher’s door, I rapped my knuckles against it, waiting for his inevitable gruff response before stepping inside. He barely glanced up at first, still focused on the papers in front of him, but when he caught the look on my face, his pen hit the desk. His full attention was on me now.

“You need to talk to Kyle.”

I stood rigid, arms crossed. Normally, I’d show a little more deference when talking to our president but today wasn’t normal. My blood was running hot over the guy’s daughter, and I wasn’t about to bite my tongue about it.

Preacher ran a hand across his chin, messing up the usually neat edges of his beard. “Why?”

I sighed and moved to the chair across from him, settling in. The moment he heard what I had to say, it’d behimpunching walls, and I figured making myself a smaller target was a good idea. I’d thrown hands with Preacher before, and he was like the fucking Hulk when he got worked up.

But at the end of the day, onlyhecould fix this. And if we were going to take down the bastards we were up against, we couldn’t afford to be fighting our own demons in the process.