Page 23 of Her Savior Biker
“Just you,” Red confirms. “I’ll cover your tables.”
The walk to the back room feels like a death march. Past the pool tables, past the hallway lined with photographs of motorcycles and brotherhood, to the door marked “Private.”
Tank is already seated at the head of a long conference table, a silver coin dancing between his fingers. He doesn’t invite me to sit, just studies me with pale eyes that miss nothing.
“Close the door,” he says. I do, the click of the latch echoing. “Sit.”
I take the chair across from him, hyperaware of how small I feel in this space designed for club business.
“Military police were back in town yesterday,” Tank says. “Asking more questions, showing more pictures. They’re not giving up.”
Ice floods my veins. “Pictures of us?”
“You and the boy. Clear as day, according to Grizz.” He catches the coin, holding it steady. “They’re closing in, Shannon. It’s only a matter of time.”
“What does that mean for him? For the club?”
Tank leans back. “It means we’ve got a problem. Federal heat, questions about harboring fugitives—the kind of attention that gets brothers locked up or worse.”
Each word is a hard truth. This is what I was afraid of—that I would put them all in danger.
“I never meant—”
“Doesn’t matter what you meant. Matters what is.” He starts flipping the coin again, the soft click of metal the only sound.“I’ve called in a favor. An old friend of mine is coming to personally escort you and your boy to safety.”
“Where?”
“Stone’s Throw, Michigan. His name’s Rector—used to roll with the Roarer’s MC back in the day, but now he runs a legitimate business. Tattoo shop called Skin Sins.” Tank’s expression softens slightly. “Good man. He’ll keep you safe.”
Michigan. The word echoes in my head, a thousand miles away.
“There’s a job waiting for you if you want it. The Rector and his wife have a four-year-old daughter—they can help you get set up and get your son enrolled in school. Fresh start, clean slate.”
“When?” The question is a whisper.
“He’ll be here in five days.”
Five days. I grip the edge of the table to keep my hands from shaking.
“That’s generous,” Tank continues, “considering the heat. Most men wouldn’t risk their necks for someone they barely know.”
“Is that what Reyes decided?” The words slip out, full of a hurt I can’t hide.
Tank’s expression doesn’t change. “This is my decision. My call as president.”
“But does he know?”
“He will.”
The non-answer tells me everything. This will blindside him as much as it does me. And just like that, the goal line for a happy, safe life gets moved again.
“There’s no reason for you to stay,” Tank says, watching my face. “Is there?”
The question hangs between us, loaded. Is this Reyes’s way of making the choice easier for both of us?
I don’t answer. I don’t know what the truth is anymore.
“Michigan’s a good place to disappear,” Tank continues. “Clean air, honest work. The kind of life where a woman can raise her son without looking over her shoulder.”
