Page 6 of Motorycle Daddies

“What is it?” he says. I can practically feel the guy shaking behind me.

“I’m going to be honest with you. The next few moments of your life are going to be hell. Hold on tight, lean with the bike, and don’t make a fucking sound. Do you understand me?”

He doesn’t answer. So I yell it again. “Do. You. Understand. Me?”

I feel a nod. “Yes. I understand.”

At least he has the wherewithal not to ask any stupid questions right now. “Here we go,” I mumble under my breath.

With the traffic, there’s not much of an opening, and for all I know, this was manufactured.

Someone has tipped these assholes off. And I don’t even know who the hell they are.

One of the fun things about not being an officer—I’m a ranking member, so I’ve been around the block a few times, but officers are the only ones to get that insider information. Sometimes, I’m just a dog hired to fetch.

I grit my teeth and gun it, willing my eyes to stay open. It’s not the first time I’ve done this, but it’s been a while. There used to be an adrenaline rush. But I’m no longer in my twenties.

My whole body groans with the bike as I push it to its limits, speeding in and out of traffic. I try to block out all the honking, the yelling through people’s windows. I have to do this. I have to get away. And hopefully, there’s no cop dumb enough to follow me if someone reports me. I’m going way too damn fast for any of that.

I’ll be lucky if I don’t throw myself off the bike. Hell, I’ll be lucky if I don’t ruin the bike, for that matter.

I feel the machine between my legs fighting me as I keep gunning it, a sigh of relief coming to my chest as I spot the ramp onto the highway. If I can get on there and get lost in traffic, I can get off at a random exit. And then I can make it into Vegas to get to the compound on the other side of town. I can take back roads if it’s necessary, ones almost no one knows about.

That’s the one good thing about sending me—I know the area well, like the back of my hand. Maybe that’s why Grizzly chose me.

The thing is, there’s supposed to be two decoys. I came in with them, and then we split up. Apparently, whoever’s after us and this damn informant, they’re smarter than we imagined. They must have some kind of surveillance on Tag. Grizzly is not going to be happy about this when I tell him.

I gun it, Tag screeching behind me before he catches himself and hangs on for dear life. I weave around an F-150 on the ramp, and then I get all the way to the left lane. I’m still going at top speed, weaving into the HOV lane at the last minute.

I don’t quite remember where this exit is, but at least we can’t be followed as inconspicuously as before. Though, I do spot it. The car that was following us.

It’s a top-of-the-line sports car. Black. Almost as conspicuous as you can get. I don’t know what game they think they’re playing, but they’re in the lane to the right, trying to get to us.

I eyeball the spikes that keep us in this lane, and I watch every sign, hoping they don’t go by too fast for me to see where my best exit might be.

There. I spot a good place to get off. When I see an opening, I don’t hesitate.

I cross five lanes of traffic, three cars in front of the one following us, likely surprising them.

I get off at the exit and go, running a red light just in time to avoid being hit by another sports car. I take a left and then a right and then another right. I’m down to ten miles an hour over the speed limit, finally able to slow down. I don’t think they’re able to follow me here, but I don’t want to risk it.

“I’m gonna get us back as fast as I can, but it’ll be a little bit longer than I expected because I have to weave around so they can’t find the path,” I tell Tag. “The last thing we want is them finding the clubhouse.”

When he doesn’t respond, I don’t make him. He’s probably scared shitless. Might have even messed his pants, and I wouldn’t blame him.

In another twenty-five minutes, and worse for the wear, we’re skidding into my parking spot at the clubhouse. I’m ready to lose my shit as I get off my bike, almost forgetting Tag entirely.

I march up the steps and then remember. He’s presently ready to kiss the ground, a little bit unsteady on his feet. I get behind him and put a hand on his back to guide him up the stairs.

“We’re here. I hope the information you have was worth all that.”

It was a rhetorical question, but he nods anyway. So whatever it is, it’s big. Even he knows it.

As soon as I open the door, Brander is there. Good. He should know what went down. Normally, this would be something he would do. He’s got the name for a reason, and he’s a damn good enforcer. But he was dealing with something else.

One of our members has a daughter who was being stalked. We don’t play with that shit, and he went to let the guy know that he was messing with the wrong girl. Probably marked him too, and let him know she has an entire MC behind her who aren’t afraid to bury him if it comes down to it.

“Whoa. What the hell happened?” he asks as he looks at us. I don’t want to know what he sees. Probably my beard and mustache, my dark hair windblown and fucked-up. And Tag, he looks like he’s seen a ghost.

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