Page 33 of Mason

“I will,” Skinner promises. “Hang tight. We’ve got this.”

The call ends, leaving me standing alone in the empty clubhouse, gripping the phone like it’s the only thing holding me together. Outside, the world is spinning into chaos, but all I can do is wait, and pray that Mason will come back to me.

MASON

Gunshots rip through the air, shredding the silence like paper.I'm moving before the echo fades, my boots pounding on the grimy floor of Walker's hideout. Dust and debris dance in the dim light as the Iron Reapers close in, our brotherhood an unbreakable chain.

"Pres, left side!" Dagger shouts, his warning slicing through the gunfire.

I pivot, instinct honed by years of survival guiding me. One of Walker's boys springs from the shadows, gun aimed at my heart. Time slows, my finger squeezing the trigger, and he crumples to the ground instantly.

"Push forward!" My voice is a growl, serrated and commanding. We're a force of nature, unstoppable as we advance through the narrow corridors.

A siren call of vengeance propels me, each fallen enemy a step closer to the endgame. Walker's men are dropping, but they're not going down easy. It’s a relentless battle of bullets and bloodshed.

Then, through the haze of adrenaline, I spot him—Walker, that bastard, slinking away like a rat deserting his club. His stocky frame is unmistakable even in the chaos.

"Cover me!" I bark, my focus narrowing to the man who has brought this war upon us.

Feet pounding, I give chase, bursting through the back exit of the hideout. Walker's desperate to slip away, but I'm like a hell hound on his trail. He glances over his shoulder, those cold eyes meeting mine for a split second, and I see it—the fear. He knows I’ve got him.

"Can't let you do that, Walker," I snarl, closing the distance between us.

"Go to hell, Blackstone!" he spits back, but there's a tremor in his voice that wasn’t there before.

"Already been. Didn't like the company," I shoot back, gaining ground.

Our deadly race spills into the open, the night air sharp against my sweat-drenched skin. Walker's running out of options, and I'm running out of patience. Every muscle screams, but I don't slow down. This ends tonight—one way or another.

The sound of my brothers’ guns still echoes behind me, a symphony of retribution. But right here, right now, it's just me and Walker. Man to man. President to President, if you can call him that. And only one of us will walk away.

Walker's boots skid on the grimy pavement as he rounds the corner into the alley. His breaths come in ragged gasps, but mine are steady—controlled. I've been riding the edge of fury and focus all night.

"End of the line, Walker," I rasp out, my voice echoing off the brick walls that trap us both.

He whirls around, his back against a rusted dumpster, eyes wild like a cornered animal. But there's a smirk on his lips, a dark glee in those calculating eyes. "You think you've won,Pres?" Walker sneers, using my club name like a curse.

"Shut up and fight," I growl, squaring my shoulders. The smell of trash and stale urine assault my senses.

With a sudden lunge, Walker launches himself at me, fists swinging wildly. I block an overzealous right hook and slam my palm into his chest, pushing him back.

I hammer him with a series of punches. His lip splits open, blood painting his teeth like a sick, twisted grin.

“Come on!” he taunts, staggering back but refusing to fall. “Is that all the great Mason Blackstone’s got?”

I dodge his next wild swing, my breath coming in hard and fast. “It’s never been about being the best, Walker,” I say between gasps. “It’s about being right.”

“Right?” He wipes the blood from his mouth, sneering. “Look around, Mason. There’s no right here. There’s just you and me.”

“Enough talk!” I growl, the anger boiling over. With a burst of strength, I tackle him into the wall. The bricks shudder, dust raining down on us as we crash into the cold, hard surface.

My fist connects with his cheekbone, and I feel something crack beneath the skin. Walker howls, a raw, animal sound that echoes off the alley walls.

“Give it up, Walker,” I breathe heavily, gripping his jacket and slamming him back into the wall. “It’s over. You’ve lost.”

“Never,” he snarls, his eyes wild as he headbutts me with a surge of desperation. Pain explodes through my skull, and for a second, the world spins dangerously. But I’ve been through worse. I’m the president of the Iron Reapers MC, and I won’t let some scum like Walker take me down. Not now. Not ever.

We pull apart, circling each other, our breathing ragged. It’s just us now, two men with nothing left to lose but the twisted, bitter honor of outlaws.

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