Chapter 4 Chapter four

The Iron Wolves clubhouse squatted on Route Forty-Seven like a wounded animal, all rough timber and metal siding, surrounded by motorcycles that probably cost more than my entire year's salary. A hand-painted sign declared it "Wolf Territory," and the setting sun cast long shadows across the gravel parking lot that made everything look vaguely menacing.

I sat on my Ducati across the street, helmet still on, trying to convince myself this wasn't the stupidest decision I'd ever made. The smart play would be to run. Leave Coldwater, change my name, start over somewhere the Death Dealers and Snake and Dax Steele couldn't find me.

But running meant abandoning Murphy, whose garage had given me a second chance when no one else would. It meant letting my father's memory be buried under lies. It meant admitting that Ghost Rider, the fearless racer who'd dominated those underground tracks was just a mask for a coward.

I'd already lost everything once. I wasn't going to lose myself too.

I kicked the Ducati's stand down and dismounted. The clubhouse door opened before I reached it, and Dax stepped out. He'd changed since this afternoon, he worn jeans instead of leather pants, a faded Iron Wolves t-shirt that clung to muscles I tried not to notice. His dark hair was down now, falling past his shoulders.

"You came," he said. Not surprised, exactly. More like satisfied.

"I came to see your so-called proof. That's all."

"That's all I'm asking." He held the door open. "After you."

The clubhouse interior was exactly what I expected and nothing like it at the same time. Yes, there was the mandatory bar along one wall, the pool table, the leather couches that had seen better days. But there were also photographs covering every available wall space not just club photos, but family pictures. Kids at birthday parties. Graduation ceremonies. A wedding.

These weren't monsters. They were people.

That somehow made everything worse.

"Most of the club's out on a run," Dax explained, leading me past the main room toward a hallway. "Dutch is in Pittsburgh on business. I wanted you to see this.

"Sit," Dax commanded as the lock disengaged with a heavy, motorized thud. He gestured toward a worn leather chair in front of a massive mahogany desk. The office was a chaotic blend of a war room and a mechanic’s sanctuary. Blueprints for custom engine parts were pinned to the walls next to detailed maps of the state's highway systems marked with red ink.

"I’ll stand," I snapped. My muscles were coiled like overtightened springs. I didn't want to be comfortable here. I didn't want to sink into the luxury of their leather and forget that I was standing behind enemy lines. Dax didn’t waste breath arguing. He moved with a focused, predatory grace to the desk, his shoulder muscles bunching under his black t-shirt as he leaned over the keyboard. He tapped in a rapid sequence, and three high-definition monitors flickered to life, bathing the dark room in a cold, artificial blue light that made his eyes look like polished obsidian.

"The night your father’s garage was torched," Dax whispered. His voice was low, vibrating through the floorboards. "The police report said it was an accidental electrical fire. Faulty wiring in an old building. They were paid exactly fifty thousand dollars by an anonymous donor to write that lie."

I moved closer, drawn to the screen despite the scream of my instincts telling me to run. The footage was grainy, black-and-white security feed from a shop across the street from my father's old place. I watched, my breath hitching in a throat that felt like it was filled with broken glass, as two shadows moved through my father’s workshop. They weren't wearing Iron Wolves cuts. These men had the jagged, blood-red crest of the Death Dealers embroidered on their jackets. One of them held a galvanized steel canister, splashing liquid across the very workbench where my father kept his most prized tools the ones he'd used to teach me how to gap a spark plug when I was barely tall enough to see over the fender of a truck.

"Look at the man by the door," Dax said. He stepped away from the desk, moving behind me. I could feel the heat radiating off his massive frame, a wall of solid warmth that made the fine hairs on my arms stand up. "The one standing watch. Look at his silhouette when the first match is struck."

The screen flared white as the gasoline ignited. For a split second, the man in the doorway was perfectly back-lit by the destruction. He was wearing an Iron Wolves vest.

"That’s Snake," I breathed, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. "He didn't just come to collect a debt. He was there when it started. He watched it burn."

"He was the bridge," Dax said. I turned to face him, and realized too late how close he had moved. He was inches away, forcing me to tilt my head back to meet his heavy gaze. I could see the faint, jagged scar near his temple and the way his eyes searched mine with an intensity that felt like a physical weight.