Page 82 of Santa's Girl
From Bear the man…
To Bear the President.
The guy who makes the calls.
And bleeds for them.
We rolled into the clearing off Timberline, where four bikes and two trucks were already idling, their taillights glowing red in the dark like coals. My men were waiting, cut-clad, armed, silent. Ready.
I stepped out.
The wind hit my face like a slap, but I didn’t flinch. Snow in my beard, mud under my boots. My kutte felt heavier tonight.
So did the weight of what was coming.
“Talk to me,” I said, nodding to Grease.
“Scouts saw three Scorpions setting up a drop half a click west. No guards, no firepower visible. But we know better.”
“Bait,” I said.
Grease nodded. “Or a message.”
“Fine,” I said. “We send one back.”
I pointed to Pico and two others. “Shadow the drop. Do not engage. I want eyes only.”
Then I turned to Jinx.
“You and me,” I said. “We’re going to say hello to their backup crew. If they’re sniffing around our borders, they’re gonna know who they’re dealing with.”
He cracked his neck. “Love it when you get poetic.”
“Poetic’s for funerals,” I said, climbing back into the truck. “Let’s make sure we’re not planning one for any of ours.”
As we drove deeper into the woods, I reached for my sidearm and racked it once, the sound loud in the silence.
One life with Becca.
One life with the patch.
Both real.
Both mine.
But only one I was born into.
And tonight?
Theoutlawin me had work to do.
I don’t raise my voice.
Don’t need to.
Not when every man around me knows I mean what I say, and I’ll bleed beside them if it comes to that.
We pulled up on the Scorpions' convoy just past Hollow Creek — four SUVs, blacked out, plates covered, parked in a V like they were waiting for a damn parade. But they weren’t waiting for a parade.
