Page 18 of Stitch & Steel
“They picked the wrong fucking hill,” I said.
The first shot cracked through the trees like a whip. Missed us by a foot.
I dove behind my bike, returned fire fast and clean—one in the air to scatter, another low. Tar flanked left. Wrench and Mason took the ridge.
Another shot, closer.
I heard Mason shout something, then curse loud. Someone was hit.
We didn’t wait.
MC protocol in hostile terrain? You finish it fast or you bleed slow.
I charged the trees, boots pounding over the earth, pistol raised. One of them tried to run—skinny, patches half-ripped, meth-jitter in his movements. I clipped him in the thigh.
He went down with a yelp.
I slammed him against a stump, gun to his throat.
“Who sent you?”
He spat blood, sneered. “Just passing through, man.”
“Bullshit.”
He looked past me toward the tree line, eyes widening like he saw something worse behind me than I could ever be.
That’s when I knew.
Someone had put them here. Planted them. Like bait.
My gut twisted.
Bella.
Gran.
Their cabin wasn’t far. Hell, the ridge trail split less than a mile from the path she was clearing yesterday.
“You come near that mountain again,” I growled, shoving the barrel harder under his chin, “I won’t leave you breathing long enough to crawl back.”
He nodded fast.
We let him limp away, stripped his colors, and sent him back to whoever pulled his strings with a message:
The Appalachian Outlaws don’t play defense. We burn it all down.
Back at the Clubhouse, adrenaline still thrummed in my blood.
But I couldn’t shake the thought—they were too close.
Too damn close toher.
Bullet caught my eye when I stormed in. “Everything good?”
“No,” I said, stripping off my gloves. “They were scouting.”
“Territory?”
