Page 11 of The Biker's Single Mom
Hawk doesn't ask questions, just follows me out to where our bikes wait. I fire a quick text to Blade, who responds that he and Victor are already en route to intercept.
We take the back roads, cutting through the pine forest that borders Fox Ridge.
We reach County Road 17 in eight minutes, pulling onto the gravel shoulder where Blade and Victor wait, bikes idling. Devil's already there too, his massive frame propped against his Harley.
"Three vehicles," Blade confirms as we kill our engines. "Tinted windows, city plates."
"They're getting bolder," Devil says, his voice tight with controlled rage. "Coming straight into our territory in daylight."
"Good," I growl. "Let's give them a proper welcome."
We position ourselves in a loose formation across the road, a blockade of leather, chrome, and lethal intent. I feel the familiar cold clarity settle over me, the absolute focus that comes before violence. But beneath it runs something hotter, more personal than usual. The image of Violet's small hand in Daisy's, both of them trembling as they faced Ricci's men in my garage.
"Remember," Blade says quietly, "we're sending a message, not starting a war. Not yet."
I nod, though every instinct in my body is screaming for blood.
The first SUV appears around the bend, followed closely by the other two. They slow when they spot us, but don't stop—a fatal mistake.
Blade revs his engine once. The signal.
We move as one, roaring toward the approaching vehicles in a coordinated charge that forces the lead SUV to swerve onto the shoulder. The other two scatter, one veering left, one right.
I peel off after the one that turns right, Hawk close behind me. The SUV fishtails as the driver overcorrects, then skids to a stop when he realizes he's boxed in by trees on one side and bikes on the other.
I dismount in one fluid motion, pulling the steel baton from my belt as I approach the driver's side. The window lowers, revealing a man in an expensive suit, his face a mask of artificial calm.
"This is a private road," I inform him, voice flat.
"Public highway," the man counters smoothly. "We're just passing through."
"No." I tap the baton against my thigh. "You're looking for someone who doesn't want to be found. And you're trespassing on Riders territory to do it."
His eyes narrow. "We have business with Mrs. Ricci and her daughter. Family business."
Family business. The words taste like poison. I picture Violet's trusting and innocent face when she handed me her broken toy. I see Daisy's eyes, fiercely protective yet haunted. This man wants to drag them back to the nightmare they escaped.
"Her name is Daisy Scott. And her family is under our protection now."
The man's hand moves toward his jacket. I react without hesitation, smashing the baton through the window in a shower of safety glass. My other hand darts in, grabbing his wrist before he can reach whatever weapon he's carrying. I twist hard, feeling tendons strain beneath my grip.
"That was stupid," I tell him as he gasps in pain.
The passenger door flies open, and another suit emerges, gun already drawn. Hawk's boot connects with his wrist before he can aim, the weapon spinning into the dirt. What follows is brutally efficient, Hawk driving the man to his knees, me dragging the driver through the shattered window and onto the asphalt.
I hear engines revving, shouts, the meaty thud of fists connecting with flesh. The Riders handling the other vehicles.
The driver struggles beneath me, reaching for something at his ankle. I pin him with one hand on his throat, the other searching. My fingers close around a small pistol in an ankle holster. I remove it, check the safety, and tuck it into my cut.
"Listen carefully," I say, leaning close enough that he can feel my breath on his face. "I'm only going to say this once. Daisy Scott and her daughter are off-limits. They're under Riders protection. That means if Carlo Ricci wants them, he has to go through us."
The man tries to speak, but my grip on his throat tightens. I can feel his pulse hammering against my palm, see the fear starting to bleed through his professional veneer.Good.
"I'm not finished," I continue, my voice deadly quiet. "Tell your boss that if one more of his men sets foot in Fox Ridge, we won't be having a conversation. We'll be digging graves."
I release him, standing in one smooth motion. The man gasps, clutching his throat.
"You don't know who you're dealing with," he wheezes.
