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MONTANA

The low growl of my Harley shatters the morning stillness as I pull into the prison’s visitor lot. I’ve made this ride more times than I can count, but the weight in my chest never lessens—guilt, rage, and the hollow ache of injustice all tangle together.

Mom is in there because of me .

Because she fought back.

Because she killed the man who would have killed us both.

And the system, blind and merciless, locked her away instead of saving her.

I drag in a breath, my gaze settling on the cold, gray walls ahead—a building with no soul yet filled with more suffering than it could ever contain.

My jaw tightens.

My pulse kicks up.

I force myself to move, killing the engine and swinging my leg off the bike like muscle memory. Helmet in one hand, I rake the other through my red hair, trying to steady the storm inside me.

But there’s no calming this.

There never is.

And still, I go inside.

Because we’re riding high from taking down Governor Marshall. It was a major win for the club, and I can’t wait to share the news with my mom. She’s been my rock through everything, even from behind these walls.

As I approach the entrance, the guard gives me his usual suspicious once-over, eyeing my cut like it might spontaneously combust. I’m used to this dance by now—I remove my knife and place it in a locker before he pats me down.

“You know the drill, Montana,” he grumbles, his voice flat.

“Always a pleasure, Reynolds,” I reply cockily with a forced smile.

The reception area is the same as always—gray walls, uncomfortable plastic chairs, and the smell of industrial cleaner doing a poor job of masking the institutional odor. Behind the bulletproof glass sits the always effervescent Rhonda, smacking her gum with practiced indifference.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite redheaded pain in the ass,” Rhonda drawls, barely glancing up from her magazine. “Back again, Montana? You just can’t stay away, can ya?”

I step up to the window, forcing a smirk. “What can I say? The hospitality’s unmatched.”

She snorts. “Uh-huh. And yet, I still remember you losing your damn mind in here like it was yesterday.”

I place a hand over my heart. “ That? That was passionate advocacy.”

“That was you throwing a hissy fit because you didn’t check the damn visitor list,” she shoots back, finally looking up. “So? Here to see Valerie Drake, or did you finally wise up and come to see me instead?” She waggles her brows at me.

I grin. “Would it kill you to admit you miss me, Rhonda?”

She smirks, flipping a page, and continues to smack her gum. “Nah. But letting you believe it might.”

Softly chuckling, I sigh. “How’s she doing?” I ask, dropping my playful banter and leaning closer to the glass.

Rhonda’s gum-chewing slows, and her eyes flick briefly to the guard standing nearby before returning to me. “Same as always. Processing the new batch that came in last week. Lotta tension in the yard these days.”

The way she says it—careful, measured—makes my stomach tighten. “New batch?”

“Women from all over the state system. Transfers.” She lowers her voice slightly. “Your mama’s been… busy.”

That’s not what I wanted to hear.

My mom’s been in this place for years and survived by keeping her head down and aligning with the right people.

New inmates mean shifting alliances and shifting alliances mean danger.

“Sign here,” Rhonda snaps loudly, sliding a clipboard through the slot. I scrawl my signature and push it back. She buzzes me through, but as I start to walk away, she adds, “Tell your mama to watch herself, red.” The warning sends a chill down my spine, but I nod in acknowledgment before heading into the visitation preparation area.

Another guard pats me down again before I’m led into the visitation room. The space is filled with tables, each surrounded by plastic chairs. A few other visitors are already seated, waiting for their loved ones. I take a seat at an empty table in the corner, my knee bouncing with nervous energy.

The door on the far side of the room buzzes, and inmates file in, each scanning the room for their visitors. My mom enters, and my breath catches. She looks thinner than the last time I saw her, the prison jumpsuit hanging loosely on her frame. Her red hair, so similar to mine, is tied back in a simple ponytail, and there are new lines around her eyes. And it’s only been ten days since Bea and Haven were in here with her last.

This much deterioration in this short amount of time means that something is one hundred percent going on. But it’s the way she’s walking that concerns me most—slightly hunched, eyes constantly scanning the room before landing on me. There’s a wariness to her movements that wasn’t there before.

When she spots me, she straightens, a smile breaking across her face that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Noah,” she chimes, embracing me briefly before taking a seat. “Twice in one month? What’s the occasion, sweetheart?”

I force a laugh, trying to keep things light. “Good news for once. Thought you might want to hear it in person.”

She gives me a tired smile. “I could use some good news. What’s going on?”

“We took down Governor Marshall,” I state, keeping my voice low. “The bastard’s going away for a long time. Proof of corruption, human trafficking, the works.”

For a moment, genuine joy lights up her face. “You’re kidding? That’s—” She stops herself, glancing around the room again. “That’s amazing, Noah. I’m proud of you. Of Bea and Haven, of the club.”

But the tension doesn’t leave her shoulders, and her eyes keep darting to a group of women sitting at a table across the room.

My eyes follow her line of sight, and then I glance back at her. “Mom…” I lean forward. “What’s going on? And don’t tell me nothing. It’s obvious something’s wrong.”

She sighs, scrubbing her hands over her face. “It’s just prison politics. Nothing for you to worry about, sweetheart.”

“Rhonda mentioned new transfers, tension in the yard. Said you’ve been… busy.”

Mom’s eyes flash with annoyance. “Rhonda talks too much.”

“Maybe she’s concerned? Hell, I am, too, now that I am here.” I reach across the table, but she subtly shifts her hands to her lap. Something she never does. We always break the rules here and hold hands across the table when I visit.

This tells me something is very, very wrong.

She doesn’t want the women in here to know how important I am to her.

This is bad.

Real fucking bad.

My concerned eyes meet hers. “Mom, if there’s something going on in here—”

“Noah,” she interrupts, her voice firm. “I’ve survived in this shithole for seven years. I know how to handle myself—”

“Is it connected to Atlas? The shit he was organizing in here before we…” I avoid finishing the sentence, just in case any of his left-over minions are in here, while I watch her carefully.

Her reaction is immediate—a slight widening of the eyes, a tightening of the jaw. “Why would you ask that?”

“Just a feeling. Before we took him out, along with the Cartel, he said you were making waves in here, that you needed to stop . Remember that?”

She glances around once more, then leans in, her voice barely above a whisper, “Before Atlas left us, he established connections in here. Women loyal to him and whatever he was building. We thought once he was gone, the drug gang he was connected to would disband, but they’ve been causing problems. Recruiting others.”

Inhaling sharply, I hesitate, my pulse kicking up as unease coils in my gut. I don’t want to ask. I already know I won’t like the answer, but I push forward anyway. “What kind of organization?”

She exhales, a flicker of hesitation in her eyes. “I don’t know all the details, but they’ve got a hierarchy. A code. And they all have the same mark, a small tattoo behind their ear. A series of dots in a V-formation.”

My throat dries. A chill slides down my spine, slow and insidious. A V-formation. Something about it jabs me, but my brain refuses to piece it together.

She absently touches her own ear. “They’re trying to establish a foothold, and I’ve been resistant.”

My jaw tightens. A dull pounding starts behind my eyes. The air feels thinner, harder to pull into my lungs. The knot in my stomach twists, sharp and unrelenting.

I swallow hard. “Mom, are you in danger?”

She gives me a sad smile. “Sweetheart, I’m in prison. Danger’s part of the package.”

“This is different, and you know it. If these women are connected to Atlas—”

“I have people watching my back,” she insists. “There’s a group of us standing together. We outnumber them for now.”

“For now?” I blurt out.

She hesitates. “The new transfers, they’re all marked. It’s like they’re being deliberately placed here.”

A cold dread spreads through me, and my veins instantly freeze. “Why? What’s the endgame?”

“I’m not sure yet. But they’ve been talking about some big move coming, something that’s going to change everything. Their words, not mine.” She reaches across the table, finally taking my hand. “Noah, I need you to be careful. Whatever’s happening in here might not stay in here.”

Before I can respond, a guard approaches our table. I recognize him. Officer Miller—one of the few decent ones in this place. But something about his stance, the tension in his shoulders, sets my teeth on edge.

“Time’s almost up, Drake,” he states, his tone tight with urgency.

My pulse instantly spikes.

Mom squeezes my hand, her grip firm, steady—the kind of strength she’s always had, even when life tried to break her.

Even when it did break her.

The calluses on her fingers are rough against my skin, etched into her like battle scars. Each one is a marker of the sacrifices she’s made.

For her.

For me.

And yet, she’s the one who paid the price.

“I love you, Noah. Stay safe out there.”

Her voice is steady. Mine is anything but. “Mom—”

“I’ll be fine,” she insists, cutting me off before standing with a conviction that feels too much like a lie. It’s like she needs me to believe it so she can believe it too. “Just focus on keeping yourself, your Old Lady, and the club safe. You promise me, Noah.”

A promise.

A fucking impossible one.

I nod, but it feels like my head is moving through wet cement because how do I promise something I already know I can’t control?

She pulls away.

And then turns.

One step.

My stomach knots, twisting so tight I can’t breathe.

Two.

My hands curl into fists under the table. My nails bite into my palms, grounding me. Or maybe it’s keeping me from rampaging to stop her exit.

Three.

My pulse is a thunderous roar in my ears. Louder than it was that night.

The night they took her away from me.

The night I watched my mother walk out the door and into a squad car while my father’s blood dried under my nails.

The night I couldn’t stop them.

And now, it’s happening all over again.

I’m sitting here. Watching. Doing nothing.

Miller strides beside her, his stance controlled, protective.

Too protective.

Like he knows what’s coming.

Like he’s already bracing for the worst.

And if Miller is worried, I should be fucking terrified.

Just as they reach the door, he leans in, murmuring something I can’t hear.

She stops. It’s a second. Maybe less. But it’s long enough to hollow me out.

Because she nods. Slowly. Resigned. Like she’s accepting something she doesn’t want to say out loud. And then she turns back to me.

That look.

That fucking look.

It’s not just worry, it’s finality. Like she’s already making peace with something.

Like she knows this might be the last time we see each other.

I feel it in my bones.

It’s the same feeling I had when I was ten years old, standing in that doorway, screaming for her as they dragged my mother away. The same feeling I had when she turned back with those haunted eyes, silently begging me to be strong.

And now, I’m here again.

Trapped in this same fucking cycle.

A boy who can’t stop it.

A man who still can’t.

My stomach lurches, and I push up from my seat, the fragile plastic slamming against the harsh concrete, but it’s too late—s he’s already gone.

The door seals shut behind her.

I can’t move.

I can’t breathe.

The air around me thickens, crushing down on my chest like a pile driver.

Rolling my shoulders, I try to shake it off, but there’s no shaking this. With every step she took, something inside me cracked. And now, it’s splintering into something I won’t be able to put back together.

Because this isn’t just another visit.

This is the moment I realize I might not get another.

And there’s not a damn thing I can do to stop it.

My stomach knots so tight it’s painful. Something is happening in here, something she won’t tell me. And I’m stuck on the outside, watching, knowing, but powerless to do a damn thing to stop it.

My nostrils flare, my hands curling into fists. Every instinct in my body screams at me to storm those fucking doors, tear through every last one of these motherfuckers to get to her.

But I can’t.

I know how this works.

I lose my temper, I make a scene, and all I do is put a bigger target on Mom’s back. I force down the rage threatening to claw its way out. I need to be smarter. I need information.

I exhale sharply, forcing my legs to move, even though every step away from her feels wrong. But just as I move to turn, Miller reappears. His expression is unreadable, but his movements aren’t.

A subtle nod. A quiet order.

Follow.

Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I glance around, making sure no one is paying attention.

No cameras.

No wandering eyes.

Then, I move.

Miller leads me to a small alcove near the exit, tucked away from sight. The air feels heavier here. Like we’re standing on the edge of something unknown.

His voice is low, measured. “Your mother’s a tough lady.”

I let out a bitter laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “I know that. What I don’t know is what the hell is going on. She’s not telling me everything.”

Miller shifts, glancing around, making sure we are alone. Then he meets my gaze. “There’s been an unusual movement among certain inmates.” His voice drops even lower. “Women are being transferred in from other facilities. All appearing with the same distinct marking.”

“Mom mentioned a tattoo, some kind of V-formation?”

Miller nods. “It started small, just a few women. But in the last two weeks, we’ve had more than a dozen transfers. They all seem connected somehow.”

Furrowing my brows, I fold my arms over my chest. “Connected to what?”

“That’s just it, we don’t know. But they’re organized, disciplined. They appear to be preparing for something.” He hesitates, then adds, “Two of your mother’s allies were jumped in the laundry room last week. Could have been killed if a guard hadn’t intervened.”

Rolling my shoulders, I curl my top lip at him. “Why wasn’t I informed?”

“Your mother insisted. Said you had enough on your plate.” Miller shifts uncomfortably. “There’s something else. Before his death, Atlas established a network within the prison system. These women, the ones with the marks, they all have connections to him or to the people he worked with.”

My stomach begins to churn as I crane my neck to the side. “The drug gang,” I mutter, pieces starting to click into place.

“Maybe. We can’t be sure. But whatever’s happening, it’s coordinated, methodical. And your mother’s standing right in the way.”

“I need to talk to the warden,” I snap, already planning my next move.

His hand reaches out, gripping my shoulder to stop me. “He’s aware of the situation,” Miller assures me. “But there’s only so much he can do without concrete evidence. These women haven’t broken any major rules, just small infractions, nothing that would justify isolation.”

“Then I’ll find some damn evidence,” I grunt out the words, shrugging his hand off me. “Just keep a fucking eye on her for me. Can you do that, at least?”

Miller nods. “I’ll do what I can. But be careful, Drake. Whatever’s brewing, it’s bigger than simple prison politics.” He exhales, his eyes turning somber. “I feel like this shit…” Miller sighs. “If news of it breaks, the tentacles are going to leech further than anyone can predict.”

Gritting my teeth, I run my fingers through my hair. “Thanks for the heads up, man, but I gotta go.”

He slaps my shoulder again, this time with a sympathetic smile. “I’ll do my best. I swear, Drake.”

Simply nodding in reply, I spin on my heels, suddenly feeling the need to run like fucking hell to get back to my bike.

Today was supposed to be a day of celebration.

We took down the fucking Governor of California—I mean, that is goddamn huge.

But that’s the thing about my life, right?

Whenever I get a win, a really big fucking catastrophe hits straight after.

And last time, that win put my mother behind bars for life.

I’m fucking dreading what a win this big is going to rain down on us.

Rushing like a madman, I make my way back through processing, my mind racing. As I collect my belongings, Rhonda gives me a concerned look. “Everything okay, hothead?” she asks, seeming genuinely worried.

“Just trying to ride the wave of another fucking storm,” I mutter sarcastically, pocketing my knife as I go to walk out of the building.

“Hey, Drake,” Rhonda calls out, gaining my attention.

Peering back over my shoulder, I raise my brow, waiting for her to continue.

She exhales, slow and steady, her gaze fixed on me longer than it should be. “Funny thing about storms…” Her voice is quieter now. Too quiet. “They don’t hit all at once. First, the air shifts. Pressure builds. Things start moving…” She tilts her head like she’s remembering something, as if she’s already seen this storm before.

“The smart ones?” Her lips press together, her eyes narrowing on me. “They don’t wait. They know when to break from the flock.”

My brows furrow at the seriousness of her tone. Something inside me tightens, coils up like a wire pulled too damn taut.

The way she said it—it was not just words.

It’s something else.

She studies me like she’s waiting for me to get her warning. Like I should already understand.

Then Rhonda continues, “But the ones who don’t, Drake?” She pauses just long enough for my unease to set in the pit of my gut. “They think they’ve got time.” She shakes her head, slow, deliberate. “And that’s how they end up missing when it’s all over. When it’s too late.”

A sharp pulse beats against my ribs. I shift my stance, flexing my fingers at my sides, trying to shake the restlessness crawling up my spine. She leans back, folding her arms like the conversation is already over, as if she didn’t just drop something heavy between us.

“Be careful, Noah.” Her tone is different now.

Not sharp.

Not sarcastic.

Just…

… final.

And the fact she called me Noah—not Drake, hothead, or red—is what really unsettles me.

Her gaze flicks to the exit, a split-second move, too fast to be casual, then back to me.

A silent command telling me to go.

But I catch it, and instantly, a wave of dread slams through me. A cold sweat pebbles over my skin as Rhonda abruptly turns away, leaving me standing there, pulse hammering, her words circling in my head like something I should already fucking understand.

But I don’t.

I don’t understand any of this.

Rolling my shoulders, I try to shake it off, but I know I won’t.

So, I turn, rushing outside. Her words follow me every damn step I take like a noxious weed crawling its way under my skin.

I don’t know what the fuck is going on in there, but what I do know is I can’t face this alone.

Reaching my bike, I immediately pull out my cell and dial Alpha’s number, my foot tapping anxiously on the concrete. He answers on the second ring, the sounds of the celebration party in full swing blast down the line. “Montana?” His voice is relaxed, still riding high on our victory against the Governor. “What’s goin’ on?”

“I’m not sure yet,” I tell him honestly, mounting my bike. “Just leaving from seeing my mom. Something’s happening in the prison, Alpha. Women with markings being transferred in, all connected to Atlas somehow.”

“Atlas?” Alpha’s tone shifts, becoming more serious. “He’s dead, Montana. We made sure of that.”

“I know. But whatever he was building, it didn’t die with him. These women, they’ve got some kinda organization, a hierarchy. They’ve been targeting my mom and her allies.”

There’s a pause on the other end. “You think this is connected to Atlas’ drug lab we raided in the asylum?”

“I don’t know. But it’s too coordinated to be a coincidence. Mom says there’s been talk about some big move coming, something that’s going to change everything . And with all these marked women suddenly being transferred in—”

“It means someone’s pulling strings,” Alpha finishes. “Setting pieces on the board.”

“Yeah, but for what?” I kick-start my bike. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Alpha.”

“Get back to the clubhouse,” he states, his voice hardening. “We need to talk to the others, figure out what the hell is going on.”

“What about my mom? She’s obviously in danger.”

“I’ll call the warden as soon as we get off the call, see what kind of protection we can arrange. But discreetly. We don’t want to show our hand until we know what we’re dealing with.”

The tension through my body eases, but only slightly. “All right, I’m on my way,” I tell him, ending the call.

As I pull out of the prison parking lot, I can’t shake the feeling that we’re standing on the edge of something dark. The victory over Governor Marshall suddenly feels hollow, overshadowed by this new, unknown threat.

I thought shit with Atlas was done.

I thought my mother was safe, even though it’s a hell hole.

For fuck’s sake, I thought the club having a win over the Governor meant we could sit back for just twenty-four motherfucking hours and breathe.

I guess life just doesn’t work that way.

Twisting the throttle, I hammer down, pushing my bike faster. The wind whips against my face as I race back to the clubhouse, my mind filled with questions. Atlas’s prison network, the marked women, my mom’s warning—it’s all connected somehow, pieces of a puzzle I can’t quite decipher yet.

The road stretches ahead of me, the urgency building with each mile. I’ve never been one to back down from a fight, but this time, the enemy is in the shadows, moving invisible pieces on this chessboard in a game we don’t even know we’re playing, and my mom is caught in the middle of it.

Whatever’s coming, we need to be ready.

But how do you prepare for a war when you don’t even know who the fuck you’re fighting or their next move, especially when the pieces on the board are invisible?

You can’t.

That’s the answer.

And it is fucking terrifying!