Page 51 of Claimed By The Club
Viper gives a shaky nod. “All right. Let’s do it.” He pockets the phone. “We take one of the trucks, keep it quiet. We approach from the back roads, no headlights once we’re close.”
Adrenaline pulses in my veins. I gather my jacket, slipping out the door into the brightening morning. The compound stirs with minimal movement—only a few prospects on patrol. They’re used to me wandering, but Viper leads me to a dull gray pickup, partially hidden behind some storage crates. We climb in, hearts pounding with the weight of what we’re about to do.
We roll out quietly, the truck’s engine rumbling at a low pitch. My stomach churns as we leave the compound gates behind. The knowledge that we’re disobeying Frost’s direct instructions chews at me, but I can’t ignore the dread in my gut. If the Reapers arrived in force, the MC might be in trouble.
The desert stretches ahead, an endless expanse of dust and prickly scrub. The route Viper takes bypasses main roads, winding through narrow dirt trails. The sun peeks over the horizon, washing everything in pale gold. Despite the rising heat, I feel a chill. We’re driving straight into the unknown.
After thirty tense minutes, Viper cuts the headlights. We maneuver up a rocky slope, parking near a vantage point overlooking the highway below. The engine goes silent, dust settling around us. We exchange a charged look, then step out, crouching behind some boulders.
From our elevated position, the blacktop stretches in a ribbon. Half a mile ahead, I see the vague shapes of motorcycles, parked in a cluster. It must be the MC’s hidden staging area, though I can’t see Frost or Ghost. My pulse spikes when I notice a group of bikes further down the road—most likely the Reapers. They appear to be milling around, as if uncertain whether to proceed.
Viper and I creep along the ridge, taking cover behind scraggly shrubs. A sense of déjà vu sweeps over me—same desert hush, same threat of violence. Only this time, I’m not locked away. I’m here, braced for whatever might unfold.
Down below, two vantage lines stand opposite each other across the highway. I spot Axel’s silhouette at one end, partially hidden behind a rock formation. Then I see Ghost’s ash-blond hair near the other side, gun in hand. Anxiety gnaws at me—where is Frost?
A hush blankets the scene. For a long stretch, no one moves. The Reapers idle, exchanging wary glances. Then a van crawls into view, an older model with tinted windows. My breath catches. That must be the “bogus shipment,” driven by a couple of trusted members. If the Reapers suspect an ambush, they might hold back. Tension thrums in the air so sharply I feel it in my teeth.
Sure enough, as the van stops, a handful of Reapers approach, brandishing weapons. A short exchange ensues—shouts drifting up to us, too far to distinguish words. Something feels off. They haven’t been lured fully in. Frost must be waiting to see if they commit to an attack. Where is he?
Suddenly, gunfire cracks the stillness, echoing across the desert. My pulse skyrockets. The Reapers either discovered the trap or decided to shoot first. A chaotic dance unfolds—MC riders burst from hiding, engines revving, guns firing. Dust plumes in every direction.
Viper curses under his breath. “They’re engaged. We gotta?—”
We hear more shots. The Reapers scramble, some taking cover behind their bikes, others returning fire. In the haze, I spot one rider sprinting behind a cluster of rocks near the van, raising his gun at an unsuspecting MC member. A wave of horror hits me—this is the real war zone, and I’m witnessing it from above, powerless.
“No, we can’t rush in,” I whisper, voice trembling. “We’d be shot in crossfire.”
Viper grits his teeth. “We can at least pick off any Reaper flanking from our side.” He glances at me. “Stay low. I’ll try to help from here.”
He raises a rifle he stashed behind the seat. My heart slams at the realization we might be forced to shoot from this vantage point, risking friendly fire. But the chaos below intensifies. The Reapers regroup near the van, bullets pinging off metal. One of our men is pinned behind a rock, pinned down by a hail of gunfire.
Desperate, I scan for Frost. Through the haze, I catch a glimpse of him near the van’s passenger door, exchanging shots with a tall Reaper. Relief washes over me, followed by fresh fear. He’s alive, but for how long if they’re pinned?
Then I spot it, movement on the left side, behind a boulder. A figure in Renegade Cross colors, creeping with a pistol aimed at Frost. My breath snags.Could it be the traitor?Everything moves too fast. They’re about to line up a shot.
Viper curses, also noticing the threat. “The turncoat?”
We can’t see who it is clearly, but they’re definitely pointing a weapon at Frost’s back. My heart hitches. I can’t let him die like this. Without thinking, I scramble forward, picking up a stray sniper scope Viper left in the truck bed. With unsteady hands, I direct it at the hidden figure. My worst fear is confirmed: it’s Lance.
Lance, or who we call Snake, aims. My fingers shake on the scope. “He’s going to shoot Frost.”
Viper steadies his rifle, aiming down. But the angle is lousy, Lance partially hidden. A wave of helplessness crushes me. I watch as Lance adjusts his aim, about to pull the trigger.
In a frantic burst, Frost spins, noticing movement in the corner of his eye. Shots ring out, impossible to track who fired first. My vision wavers. The figure collapses, Lance or maybe Frost’s bullet. The chaos intensifies, Reapers panicking as more MC riders flank them from the right.
Viper lowers his rifle, exhaling shakily. “We gotta go down. The Reapers are breaking.”
I nod, heart pounding. Carefully, we pick our way down the slope, guns drawn but pointed low. My ears ring with the echoes of gunfire. By the time we reach the highway, many Reapers have dropped their weapons. Some lie injured, moaning in the dust. Axel and Ghost converge on a cluster of them, forcing them to surrender.
I spot Frost near the van, kneeling over a figure sprawled on the ground. My breath stops. I rush forward, ignoring Viper’s shout to be careful. Dust stings my eyes as I skid to a stop beside them. Lance’s body is half-turned, a single bullet hole in his chest. Blood seeps onto the sand. He’s gone, eyes vacant.
Frost’s face is grim, sweat and dust smeared across his cheeks. “He was aiming at me,” he says, voice hollow. “I had no choice.”
My stomach churns. A traitor, a ife ended. All for what—money, power, or fear? I lay a trembling hand on Frost’s shoulder. He’s breathing hard, shock in his eyes. He saved himself, but the cost is heavy. Another betrayal from someone we didn’t suspect.
Across the road, the MC closes in on the remaining Reapers, confiscating guns and binding wrists. Ghost stalks among them, scanning for hidden threats. Viper comes up behind me, resting a hand on my back. “You two okay?”
I swallow. “Yeah, I think so.” Then I look at Frost, his expression ravaged by guilt and anger. “You’re not hurt?”
