Part I – The Call to Arms
(POV: Cole)
The storm had passed, but the world still smelled like rain and gunpowder.
Morning light bled through the clouds, turning the puddles outside the cabin into shards of dull silver. Cole stood on the porch, mug of black coffee cooling in his hands, the radio crackling faintly on the table beside him. The night's message still burned in his head: They've taken one of ours.
Inside, voices murmured—Deke and the remaining brothers, counting supplies, checking ammo, making ready. There was a different sound under the words, though—a thrum of anger that didn't need saying.
The door creaked open behind him. Deke stepped out, leather cut half-zipped, eyes bloodshot from no sleep. "It's confirmed. They got Red."
Cole turned, slow. "Alive?"
"Last report, yeah. Some contact saw him loaded into a truck out past Logan's Yard. That's Vulture ground."
Cole nodded once, jaw tight. "Then we go get him."
Deke's look said what he didn't speak: It's suicide to walk in there now.
Cole finished his coffee and set the mug down. "We've lost too much ground already. They hit our bar, took our man, made it personal. So we make it personal right back."
Voices rose inside the cabin, arguing, the sound of boots and anger. Cole stepped in, every head turning toward him.
"Listen up," he said, and the noise cut clean off.
"They've got Red. That makes this simple: we ride, we bring him home, we burn whatever stands in our way." His voice stayed low, steady—the kind that carried more weight than a shout.
One of the younger brothers, Spence, crossed his arms. "Prez, what about the girl? She's a target now. We can't drag her into another war zone."
Cole's eyes narrowed. "She's not your concern."
"With respect," Spence pushed, "every time they come for her, it's us bleeding. Maybe we draw a line before more of us die for—"
The sound of Cole's fist slamming the table stopped him cold.
"Watch your mouth." His tone was flat, dangerous. "You think I don't count the names of the men we've buried? You think I don't bleed with them?"
Silence. Only the ticking of the rain on the roof.
Cole leaned closer. "Red's family. She's under our roof. Both are ours to protect. We don't choose between them."
Deke broke the silence with a short nod. "You heard the man. Saddle up. We leave in twenty."
As the crew scattered to pack, Cole stayed where he was for a moment, letting the tension drain from his clenched fists.
He caught sight of Elena standing near the back of the room, half-hidden by the doorway. She'd heard everything. Her eyes met his—uncertain, but something burned behind them.
Cole started to speak, but she turned and walked away before the words could form.
He exhaled through his teeth, muttering, "Hell of a morning."
The engines would roar soon. The road was waiting, and with it, blood and answers.
---
Part II – The Ride and the Reckoning
(POV: Elena)
The sound came first — engines growling awake in the mist, deep and animal, vibrating through the walls of the cabin. Elena sat on the edge of the narrow bed, lacing her boots with shaking fingers. Every thrum of the motor outside sent a pulse through her ribs.
They were leaving for war.
Cole hadn't said it, not in so many words, but she'd heard enough through the half-open door to know. Someone was taken. The Vultures again. The name alone sent cold down her spine — the same crew that had hunted her, that would burn whole towns to send a message.
She should've stayed out of it. Stayed behind. Hidden like she had before. But that wasn't her anymore.
Elena stood and grabbed the small duffel that never left her side — a single change of clothes, a knife, a photo folded at the corners. She pulled on her jacket and caught her reflection in the cracked mirror above the dresser.
Her eyes weren't soft anymore.
Outside, rain misted the air as the brothers loaded their bikes, movements efficient, almost ritualistic. Deke barked orders, Spence cursed about the mud, someone revved an engine just to feel the thunder.
Cole stood apart from them, arms crossed, scanning the horizon like he was already halfway there. He looked carved out of stone — that quiet kind of fury that didn't need a voice.
Elena walked toward him. Boots in the gravel, heart somewhere near her throat.
He turned as she approached, jaw tightening. "You should stay."
"No."
"Elena—"
"I said no." Her voice surprised even herself — steadier than she felt. "I know their faces, Cole. You'll need that."
He gave a short, humorless laugh. "You think I'm taking you into that mess?"
"I think you don't have time to argue." She stepped closer, rain catching in her hair. "You told them you don't choose who to protect. So don't start now."
That hit him. He didn't answer, just looked at her, long and hard, like he was trying to find a reason to say no — and couldn't.
Finally, he exhaled, slow. "Fine. But you stay on the truck. You don't move unless I tell you. Got it?"
She nodded. "Got it."
He muttered something under his breath, maybe a curse, maybe her name, and turned toward the bikes.
Moments later, the convoy rolled out — engines snarling through the fog, leather and steel cutting across the wet road. Elena sat in the back of Deke's truck, watching the asphalt blur by. The air smelled like fuel and rain and fear.
The deeper they rode into the outskirts, the quieter it got. Abandoned gas stations, burned-out warehouses, the kind of places where screams didn't echo far.
Then Cole's voice came through the radio.
"Eyes open. Vulture territory starts here."
Deke glanced at her in the mirror. "You sure you're ready for this, girl?"
Elena's hand tightened around the photo in her pocket.
"No," she said softly. "But I'm here anyway."
Lightning flashed somewhere ahead, and for a second, the whole world looked silver — the bikes, the storm, the men riding into hell.
They were ghosts on the road, chasing one of their own.
And Elena was done running.
---
Part III – The Ambush
(POV: Cole)
The sky had gone the color of bruised steel.
By the time they reached the outskirts of Logan's Yard, the rain had thinned to a spit of mist that clung to the leather on Cole's jacket and made the air taste like rust.
He cut the engine first, raising a hand — the signal. One by one, the other bikes rolled silent, headlights fading into the dark. Only the low tick of cooling engines filled the air.
Ahead of them: a half-collapsed warehouse, tin roof bent inward, smoke curling from a burn barrel near the gate. Vulture territory.
Cole's eyes swept the perimeter — shadows moved where they shouldn't. "They're watching," he muttered into the comm. "Positions, low and slow."
Deke's voice crackled back, "Copy that. I count six, maybe seven."
Cole unholstered his pistol, slid it along his thigh. "That's six too many."
He turned to check the truck. Elena sat inside, tense, eyes locked on the warehouse like she could see straight through it. He met her gaze, gave the smallest nod — stay down.
She nodded once in return. Brave. Stubborn. He didn't have time to admire it.
The crew spread out, shadows slipping through the rain. Cole led the middle line, boots sinking in the mud, every sense stretched thin.
Something felt off. Too quiet.
He signaled a stop. "Deke, you smell that?"
Gasoline.
Cole barely had time to curse before the world erupted.
A fireball roared to life behind the warehouse — the truck went up first, a blinding bloom of orange that swallowed sound and sense. The shockwave threw him sideways into the dirt. Shouts split the air, the crack of gunfire cutting through the flames.
"Elena!" he shouted, coughing smoke. He pushed up, vision swimming, hand gripping the gun like a lifeline.
Figures moved through the haze — Vultures, laughing, firing wild. Deke was already returning fire, dragging one of their own to cover.
Cole's mind split — half in command, half in panic. He spotted the truck flipped near the ditch, flames licking the frame. For a second, his chest locked up.
Then — movement. A door kicked open, and Elena crawled out, coughing, covered in soot but alive.
Relief hit like pain. He ran.
Bullets sparked against metal as he reached her, pulling her behind the ditch. "You good?"
She coughed, voice hoarse. "Define good."
He almost laughed — almost. "Stay here. Don't move."
"Cole—"
But he was already up, gun raised, firing into the smoke. The world narrowed to targets and heartbeat, the air thick with grit and vengeance.
The Vultures had planned this, drawn them in with bait and fire. But they'd made one mistake—
They didn't finish the job.
Cole's voice came low over the comm, cold and certain: "We hunt them all. No one walks away."
And through the firelight, with rain hissing on the flames, Elena watched him move — calm, relentless, a storm made flesh.
The night belonged to the Vultures once.
Now it belonged to him.