Page 74 of Single Mom's Bikers

Haven’t I?

I rush into the gallery, already super late. The front door’s locked, blinds drawn—unusual for this time of morning. Sarah stands at The Den’s entrance, her expression tight as she spots me.

“Where are they?” I ask.

“Downstairs,” she answers quietly.

Through the stairwell, voices drift up—tense, angry. I catch fragments as I move closer to my desk.

“Three more sightings,” Clay’s saying. “All Sacramento plates.”

“Same pattern?” Rick’s voice is strained. “Near the schools?”

I freeze at the bottom step, not meaning to eavesdrop but unable to move. Teller is bent over a map spread across the table while my men and Clay surround him. None of them notice me yet.

“They’re daring,” Teller says. “Professional surveillance. These aren’t random drive-bys anymore.”

I should announce myself. Instead, I watch Rick run a hand through his hair—a gesture I recognize as pure stress. Chase’s shoulders are rigid while Zane paces near the wall.

“We’ve increased patrols,” Clay says. “Put eyes on every?—”

He spots me then, words cutting off. The others turn, tension shifting as they realize I’ve overheard.

“Morning.” I try for normal, moving toward my desk. “Sorry I’m late. School drop-off was?—”

“Meeting’s over.” Teller starts gathering papers, but not before I glimpse photos of black sedans. “Clay, handle those patrols.”

I pretend to focus on my computer, on doing normal gallery business, but I feel their concerned looks. Their careful attempt to shield me from whatever trouble’s brewing.

If they only knew what kind of trouble’s really coming.

“Coffee?” Chase offers, but I shake my head. The basement’s stale air is already making my stomach turn.

They file upstairs, voices lowered now, leaving me with questions I can’t ask. With fear I can’t show.

Because those Sacramento plates can only mean one thing.

Luca’s getting closer.

28

RICK

The abandonedairstrip comes alive at midnight, but I’m not here for the races. Clay and I watch from the shadows as bikes line up under portable floodlights, keeping our focus on three Death’s Head members clustered near a sleek black Ducati.

“That’s the one,” Clay murmurs. “Third time she’s raced for them. They’re using her as cover.”

The female rider he’s pointing out moves with professional grace, all lean muscle and careful confidence. Not their usual type.

“She’s good,” I observe as she takes practice runs. “Too good for club racing.”

“Exactly.” Clay passes me his phone, showing surveillance photos. “She shows up at races across three states. Always with different Death’s Head escorts.”

Something cold settles in my gut as I study the images. Young women appearing at races, then disappearing. Routes that cross state lines, using MC culture as cover for something darker.

“They’re expanding operations,” I say, watching another group of Death’s Head members arrive. “Using the racing circuit for recruitment?”

“Among other things.” Clay’s voice holds disgust. “Perfect cover for moving product. Or people.”

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