Page 93 of Property of the Hellfire Riders

Tank’s sighs, scratching the scruff growing on his jaw. “This has been the absolutely craziest week of my life.”

“Tell me about,” I mutter, sinking down on the ground.

“Do you want me to take you to the clubhouse?” Hawk asks me.

“No. I’m fine. I’m seeing this through.”

“Damn right you are,” Tank says, squatting down in front of me. He brushes a strand of sweaty hair off my face. “You’re a fucking badass.”

“Thanks, but I owe you both my life.”

Hawk shrugs. “I’d do it again for you.”

Tank nods in agreement. “I’d do anything for you, Izzy. Take as many bullets as I need to.”

Hawk shoots Tank a look I can’t decipher. They both sit down on either side of me. Hawk puts an arm around my shoulders, and Tank takes my hand.

I’m beyond grateful for them.

“You know, we make a good team,” Tank says, giving me a smirk.

I lean my head on his shoulder.

“Don’t start getting sappy with me right now.” I tease.

“I’m serious. You, me, Vance and Hawk... we’re like the four stupidest fucking musketeers.”

Hawk chuckles, and I can’t help but laugh.

Hawk leans back, his arms crossed. “Once we get this all sorted out with the cops, we need to lay low for a bit. Take care of the club.”

Tank shoots me a playful wink. “You know, we do have some unfinished business to tend to when we get back to the clubhouse.”

My cheeks flush immediately at what he’s playing at, but Hawk stands then brushing the dirt away from his jeans.

“I hear the sirens. Let’s get this over with.”

“I just want to make sure that bastard never sees the light of day again,” I whisper under my breath.

“We will,” Hawk says firmly. “The police will have everything they need to lock him up for good.”

Minutes stretch into what feels like hours as we wait. The distant sound of sirens grows louder, signaling the approach of the authorities. I stand up, my legs feeling like lead.

Finally, the police cars arrive, their lights flashing in the dim light of dawn. Officers pour out, weapons drawn and ready. The lead officer approaches us, his expression serious. Immediately, all three of us raise our arms.

“Who’s in charge here?” he asks.

Hawk steps forward. “I am. We’ve got Detective Reynolds secured. He’s the one behind all of this. The Puppeteer.”

The officer nods, motioning for his men to move in. He extends a hand to Hawk. “I’m Detective Mason. We’ll take it from here. Thank you for your cooperation.”

We watch as the officers enter the warehouse, their flashlights cutting through the gloom. Moments later, they emerge with Reynolds in tow, his hands cuffed behind his back.

His face is a twisted mask of rage and frustration, the realization of his defeat etched deeply into his swollen, red and bloodied features. As he approaches, he locks eyes with me, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of us.

“You think this is over?” Reynolds spits, his voice a venomous hiss. “You have no idea what’s coming. You’re all pawns in a game you don’t even understand.”

“It’s over.”

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