Page 25 of Mason

"Double-check your rides," I continue. "If we gotta move, we do it like shadows. No trace."

They nod and agree without question. They're warriors in leather cuts. We've been through hell's fire before, but this time it's different.

"Dagger," I call out, my eyes landing on my VP, "you got the east wall?"

"Covered," he grunts, knuckles cracking as he clenches his fists.

"Good. And Tank, those traps better sing when tripped."

"Like a damn choir, Pres," Tank replies, a twisted grin splitting his face.

"Let's sharpen our knives, load our guns. Tonight, we will prepare. Tomorrow it's war."

Boots stomp, hands slam on tables, the clubhouse shakes with warrior cries. This is it—the calm before the storm.

"Pres, talk to me," Hammer says, his eyes searching mine for something I’m not sure I have anymore.

"Talk?" I scoff, the word tasting like ash. Talk won't keep my brothers safe, won’t shield Carlie from the hell about to raindown. "Actions speak louder than words." It's all I can muster, my throat tight with unsaid fears.

"Pres, we’ll follow you to the gates of Hell itself," he insists, loyalty fierce in his gaze.

"Hope it don't come to that," I growl, barely above a whisper. But it might. I feel it in my bones—the doubt, the dread. What if this time I can't protect them? What if...

"Mason," Hammer presses, snapping me back to now. "We trust you."

The clock's ticking, each second a heartbeat closer to war. Each heartbeat screaming Carlie's name. My gut twists. Did I choose right? The club over her? There's no answer in the silence. Just the sound of my heart waging its own battle.

I stand at the head of our war room table, the map spread out before us marking Walker's turf, his moves, his potential strikes. It's a spiderweb, and we're caught in the dead center.

"Spotters say Walker's boys are mobilizing," Tank grunts, slamming his fist down. "East side, maybe forty deep."

"Forty," I echo, my voice steady despite the ice water in my veins. We've faced worse odds, haven't we?

"Mason, we hit 'em fast, hit 'em hard." Shadow's words cut through the murmurs, decisive as a guillotine's drop. His hand is steady on his knife, always ready.

"Hit 'em hard," I repeat. That's all we can do. It's all I can promise.

"Tonight, brothers," I announce, my eyes scanning the faces of my family. These men, these warriors—they'll follow me into the abyss without a damn question. "We ride at midnight. "Ride hard,"

"Ride free," the entire club finishes solemnly. We’re all feeling it, the dread hanging in the air. We’re a club of retired military and men who’ve been through hell and back. We’ve seen worse, but it was never this close to home.

Night falls like a curtain, and the world shrinks to this moment, this mission. Engines rumble to life, a symphony of impending storm. We mount up, leather creaking, hearts pounding against ribs like prisoners rattling bars.

"Move out!" My command slices the stillness, and Iron Reapers surge forward, a tidal wave of steel and resolve.

Our formation cuts through the dark streets, engines thundering a battle cry. "Stay sharp," I bark into the comm, every sense strung tight. The road blurs beneath us, time compressing, each second a drumbeat toward destiny.

"Contact!" The word crackles in my earpiece, and adrenaline spikes. This is it.

"Positions!" I shout, throttling up, the night air ripping past. We fan out, a spearhead piercing the heart of enemy territory.

Headlights glint ahead, a serpent coiling for a strike. Walker's club is waiting. My grip tightens around the handlebars. "Iron Reapers, now!" I scream into the wind. We collide, our bikes going sideways as we get up and throw hands.

"Fight, brothers, fight!" My voice is lost in the noise, but it doesn’t matter. They know what to do.

We're Iron Reapers—this is our road, our war. For family, for loyalty, for love. We ride, not just to survive, but to claim the freedom that's ours. I’m tired of these fuckers thinking they have a claim on our territory, our town. It’s not that this place isn’t big enough for both of us, it’s not, but that’s not the point. They’re bringing trash into our lives. We worked hard to clean Jackson up and they’re trying to dirty it up again. Not on my fucking watch.

"Mason!" Skinner’s voice breaks through urgently.

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