Page 8 of Maverick's Code

I'm running toward something. I just hope I'm right about what that something is.

The ride takes about twenty minutes, each passing mile ratcheting up my anxiety. We leave the city center behind, heading toward the outskirts where the buildings get sparse and the roads less maintained.

The clubhouse comes into view - a two-story bar with weathered wooden siding and neon signs that aren't yet lit for the day. Several bikes are already parked outside, their chrome glinting in the morning sun.

My stomach churns as I recognize some of the bikes. I've spent enough time staring at surveillance photos in the Outlaws' war room to know who they belong to.

Their faces have been burned into my memory from countless hours studying the "Most Wanted" wall in our clubhouse. The men we were supposed to fear, hate, eliminate if given the chance. Now I'm about to walk right into their territory and ask for their help.

Maverick slows the bike, and I feel his muscles tense under my hands. He must be as nervous as I am, though he hides it better. When we stop, he doesn't immediately get off, instead turning his head slightly toward me.

"Last chance to back out," he says, voice low enough that only I can hear.

I swallow hard, staring at the Iron & Blood logo painted above the bar's entrance.

"Would you? Back out, I mean? If you were me?"

He's quiet for a moment.

"No," he finally says. "But I'm not you. And you've already been through enough without adding this shit storm to it."

A harsh laugh escapes me. "Bit late for that." I swing my leg off the bike, proud that I manage to hide most of the pain themovement causes. "Besides, what's the worst that could happen? They kill me? Jake's going to do that anyway if he finds me."

Maverick dismounts, his expression darkening at my words. "Nobody's killing you. Not while I'm around."

"Big promise," I murmur, but something warm unfurls in my chest at his certainty.

The rumble of approaching motorcycles makes us both turn. Three bikes roar around the corner, and my heart nearly stops as I watch them pull in.

It's them - Butcher, Wrath, and Crow. In person, they're even more intimidating than their photos suggested. Butcher's massive frame towers over his bike, his scarred face set in a hard frown. Wrath lives up to his name, his expression murderous as he spots me. And Crow... his calculating eyes are already scanning me, probably cataloging every detail for later analysis.

"Well," I straighten my spine, ignoring the protest of my bruised ribs. "Guess it's showtime."

Maverick moves closer, his presence solid and reassuring at my side.

"Remember what I said - stay close to me."

"Trust me," I say, watching the three men dismount and stalk toward us, their expressions shifting from confusion to recognition to anger. "I'm not going anywhere."

As they approach, I can't help but think about how surreal this is. These men have been my bogeymen for as long as I can remember. Now they're going to decide my fate. And all I've got on my side is one of their members, and some information I pray is worth enough to keep me alive.

God, I hope I'm not making a terrible mistake.

"What the actual fuck, Mav?" Butcher's voice booms across the parking lot. His eyes, cold and hard, are fixed on me like crosshairs. "You better have one hell of an explanation for this."

I resist the urge to step behind Maverick as they close in. If I'm going to do this, I need to show strength even if every instinct is screaming at me to run.

"Inside," Maverick says firmly, his hand moving to rest on my back. The touch is light but grounding. "This isn't a parking lot conversation."

"Oh, it's about to be whatever kind of conversation I say it is," Wrath snarls, stepping forward. "That's an Outlaw standing in our territory."

"She has information," Maverick cuts in before Wrath can get closer. "About Jake. And the other leader who escaped."

That stops them. I watch as they exchange loaded glances. The mention of Jake's name has shifted something in the air.

"Information?" Crow speaks for the first time, his voice deceptively soft. His eyes rake over my bruised face, taking in the split lip and the marks that peek out from under my borrowed clothes. "Looks more like she's running from something. Or someone."

I lift my chin, meeting his gaze. "Maybe it's both."

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