Page 95 of Single Mom's Bikers

I force a breath and double-check my Glock. One in the chamber. Safety off. Tonight, there’s no room for hesitation. No space for second-guessing.

“We move fast,” Rick says, voice steady, commanding. The voice of a man who’s done this before. “Get in, get Draven, get out. Anyone gets in our way?—”

“They don’t get back up,” Zane finishes, slamming a clip into place.

A grim agreement settles between us. No hesitation. No mercy.

My fingers flex around my knife. The cold steel is familiar, a comfort in the chaos.

Rose stands near the table, arms crossed. Her usual sharp tongue is absent, her face set in something raw. She’s vibrating with tension, but she stays silent. Draven is her person. Losing him isn’t an option. Her fingers dig into her arms like she’s holding herself together by sheer willpower.

“Stay in the van,” Rick tells her, voice softer than I expect. “Run point. We need eyes on exits.”

She wants to argue. I can see it in the way her fists clench, in the way her chest rises and falls just a little too fast. But she doesn’t. Instead, she nods once, sharp and final. “Bring him back,” she whispers.

We don’t make promises. Not in this life. But we all know we will.

The warehouse looms ahead, squat and ugly under flickering streetlights. The smell of rust, gasoline, and something acrid burns my nostrils. Zane moves first, slipping through the shadows. I follow, my heartbeat a steady drum in my ears.

Rick signals. One finger up. Two fingers forward. Move.

We take out the first two guards without a sound. My blade slides clean, warm blood coating my fingers before the body slumps to the ground. There’s a faint gurgle before silence. The way he struggles for air before the end.

Zane handles his just as fast. Clay and Kip drag them behind a stack of crates, making sure the path stays clear.

Rick’s voice is in my earpiece. “Front secure. Move.”

Inside, the air is thick with diesel fumes and sweat. My boots barely make a sound on the concrete. The warehouse hums with a low electrical buzz, the kind that makes your skin prickle.

Draven is on his knees, wrists zip-tied, blood dripping down his cheek. The cut above his brow is deep, and his right eye is swollen nearly shut. His breathing is rough, like he’s been hit in the ribs more than once.

Marcus stands over him, smirking. His cheap leather cut barely hides the arrogance oozing off him.

“Took you long enough,” he sneers.

Rick steps forward, gun raised. His finger twitches near the trigger. “Let him go.”

“You know that’s not how this works.” The man’s smile widens. His stance is too relaxed, too confident. “Your friend here is just the beginning. We’ll take them one by one until she gives herself up. The woman, the girls—they belong to someone else.”

Something in me snaps. I don’t think. I move.

Zane beats me to it. He lunges, gun up, but Marcus anticipates it. A sharp whistle and his men react instantly. Guns drawn. Chaos erupts.

The first shot rings out, deafening in the enclosed space.

Draven throws his head back, his forehead smashing into the guy behind him. The man stumbles, and Draven uses that second of distraction to twist, yanking at his bindings. His breathing is ragged, wild—but he’s fighting.

Rick’s shot takes the man’s shoulder. He crumples, screaming, clutching at the wound. More gunfire erupts from multiple directions.

“Down!” I tackle Zane as bullets strafe the wall behind us.

Pain explodes in my side. A burning, tearing sensation that feels like fire licking through my ribs.

I try to suck in a breath, but it’s like inhaling razor blades.

Warm wetness spreads across my shirt.

I hit the ground hard, knees buckling. My head smacks the cold concrete, vision blurring at the edges.

---