Page 67 of Hammer

I stepped outside, the evening air cool against my face as I surveyed the compound.Brothers moved with purpose between buildings, securing entrances, checking sight lines.I spotted Ghost speaking with Warden, probably coordinating security positions.Good.Whatever his feelings about my decision, he wouldn’t let it interfere with protecting Amelia and the boys.

The thought of them sent a tightness through my chest that had nothing to do with age.I’d never been the sentimental type, had spent more years than not convinced I was better off alone.Yet somehow, in the space of a few turbulent weeks, these people had become essential to me.Had become mine in a way nothing ever had before.

Brothers began filing out of the clubhouse, heading for their bikes parked in formation at the gate.Engines roared to life, one after another, the sound echoing off the surrounding buildings like a war cry.I made my way to my own Harley, running my hand over the familiar handlebars before swinging my leg over.

Savior pulled up beside me, his face half-hidden by the gathering dusk.“You good?”

I nodded once.“I’m good.”

“Remember the objective,” he said, not quite a warning but close.“We push them out.Make a statement.This isn’t about personal vendettas.”

We both knew it was a lie even as he said it.For the club, yes, this was strategic.For me, it was entirely personal.I didn’t bother responding.Some things didn’t need saying between men who’d ridden together as long as we had.

Savior gave the signal, and twenty bikes rolled forward in precise formation, headlights cutting through the growing darkness.As we passed through the compound gates, I caught a glimpse of Ghost standing watch, his gaze following my back until I turned the corner.

My last thought before focusing entirely on the road ahead was of Amelia’s face when I’d kissed her goodbye.Not tearful or pleading, but fierce.Understanding.She hadn’t asked me to stay, hadn’t tried to change my mind.She’d simply pressed her lips to mine and whispered, “Make him pay.”In that moment, I’d known with bone-deep certainty that I’d found exactly the woman I needed -- strong enough to understand that some threats could only be answered one way.

And I intended to keep my promise to her.

* * *

We rolled toward the barricade like a black tide, our engines a synchronized growl that echoed off the abandoned buildings at the town’s edge.The last rays of sunlight caught on chrome and steel, painting everything in blood-orange hues that seemed fitting for what was coming.I rode three bikes behind Savior and Saint, my position giving me a clear view of the makeshift barrier the Minions had constructed -- vehicles parked at angles, debris piled between them, men with rifles visible behind the improvised fortress.My focus narrowed to a single figure standing front and center: Piston, his face still showing the damage I’d inflicted days ago.

Savior raised his fist, and as one, we slowed, then stopped, our formation an arrowhead pointed directly at the Devil’s Minions’ barricade.The rumble of engines died away gradually, leaving an unnatural silence broken only by the pinging of cooling metal.I heard a flutter of wings and looked to my right, spotting three turkey vultures.Fitting audience for what was about to happen.

Dust kicked up by our arrival hung in the air, mixing with exhaust fumes and the acrid scent of fear.You could smell it on them even from this distance -- sweat and tension and the desperate bravado of men who knew they were outmatched but too proud to back down.Twenty Minions, give or take.Roughly our number, but numbers didn’t tell the whole story.The difference was in the eyes, in the stance, in the invisible weight that separated men who fought for territory from men who fought for family.

Most of the Minions carried handguns or shotguns.A few had rifles.At least one had what looked like an AK slung across his back, which was concerning.The rest of us remained on our bikes, engines off but keys in the ignition, ready to move at a moment’s notice.

My hand rested casually near my waistband, fingers just inches from my Glock.Warden had positioned himself to my left, Prophet to my right.Both men sat unnaturally still, the kind of stillness that came before explosive violence.

Savior stood with his hands visible at his sides, making no move toward the weapons we all knew he carried.His voice carried across the no-man’s-land between our groups, calm and measured, yet loud enough to reach the back row of Minions.

“You’re in the wrong town,” he called to Piston.“Take your men and head back to Florida.This doesn’t have to get ugly.”

Piston stepped forward, limping slightly -- another souvenir from our previous encounter.Even from this distance, I could see the mottled bruising around his left eye and the split in his lip that hadn’t fully healed.Good.Every twinge of pain was a reminder of what happened when he put his hands on what was mine.

“Fuck you,” Piston shouted back, his voice carrying a strained edge that hadn’t been there before I rearranged his face.“You Reapers attacked our clubhouse.Burned three of our businesses to the ground.You think we’d just let that slide?”

Interesting.Either he was lying to rally his men, or someone had figured out we’d orchestrated the hit, even if we weren’t present.Looked like we were getting the credit.Either way, it worked in our favor.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Savior replied evenly.“But I know you came to our town, put hands on a Reaper’s wife.That’s why we’re here.To make sure you understand the consequences.”

Piston spat on the ground, the gesture visible even at this distance.“That bitch was never his wife.Those boys are my blood.I’m taking what’s mine, and I’m not leaving without them.”

My fingers twitched toward my gun.Beside me, I heard Warden’s sharp intake of breath, felt the ripple of tension run through our formation.Brothers who’d been relatively relaxed moments before now sat straighter, hands moving subtly toward weapons.

“Only thing you’re taking is a message back to your chapter,” Savior continued, his voice hardening slightly.“The woman and boys are under Dixie Reapers’ protection now.You come near them again, we’ll wipe the Devil’s Minions off the map.Every chapter, every clubhouse, every man who wears your colors.”

A murmur ran through the Minions’ ranks.Several exchanged glances, clearly weighing whether this beef was worth the price Savior was threatening.Piston noticed too, turning to glare at his men before facing us again.

“Big talk from an old man and his retirement community,” Piston sneered, raising his voice for his brothers’ benefit as much as ours.“You attacked us first.Burned down our businesses.Don’t think we don’t know it was you.”

“We didn’t hit your clubhouse,” Saint interjected, his tone reasonable, almost conciliatory.“But we have friends who might have.Friends who feel the same way we do about men who beat women and children.”

Another ripple ran through the Minions’ ranks, more pronounced this time.From my position, I could see faces turning toward Piston, expressions questioning, suspicious.The accusation had hit home, revealing a crack in their unity.Savior noticed too, pressing the advantage.

“You’ve got thirty seconds to turn around and start riding back to Florida,” he said, his voice carrying the absolute authority of a man who meant every word.“After that, we stop asking nice.”

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