The desert highway looked like it was on fire.

Late afternoon sun slammed into the asphalt of Route 66 just outside Flagstaff, Arizona, turning the blacktop into a shimmering river that seemed ready to melt the soles off a man’s boots. Heat ghosts danced above the lanes, wavering in the distance like something alive and waiting.

Marcus Reeves walked straight through it.

His shadow stretched long and thin beside him, stitched to the shoulder of the two-lane highway that cut across the American Southwest like an old scar. Eighteen-wheelers screamed past every few minutes on their way to California, buffeting him with waves of hot wind and diesel exhaust, but nobody slowed. Nobody offered a ride to a stranger with three days’ stubble, a faded prison tattoo half-hidden under his sleeve, and the kind of look in his eyes that said he’d seen more than he ever wanted to.

The strap of his duffel bit into his shoulder. Inside were the last pieces of a life that didn’t exist anymore—three threadbare T-shirts, one extra pair of jeans, a toothbrush whose bristles had given up the fight months ago, and a creased photograph of his little sister Emma taken on a pier in Santa Monica, the Pacific Ocean blazing behind her. She’d been laughing when the camera caught her, one hand up to block the sun. Sometimes, when the nights were bad, Marcus convinced himself he could hear that laugh.

Most nights, he just heard the sound of sirens.

He lifted the warm water bottle from the side pocket of his pack and swallowed the last mouthful, grimacing at the stale plastic taste. Two years of running had taught him how to ration, how to make a dollar stretch, how to disappear in a country that loved cameras and paperwork. None of that had been on his list of life goals when he was seventeen.

“Keep moving,” he muttered, the words ripped away by the wind from a passing semi.

His parole officer back in Phoenix had pounded a different phrase into him.

“You can’t outrun the system forever, Reeves,” the man had said in a windowless office that smelled like burned coffee and old paper. “You do your time. You keep your head down. You follow the rules. That’s how you win.”

Two nights later, after a fire in a low-rent complex and a bad decision that wasn’t really a decision at all, Marcus had watched the red-and-blue lights flicker against Emma’s bedroom window and known with bone-deep certainty that the system had never been built to protect people like them.

By morning, he was gone. State line. Different name on the motel receipt. Head down, always moving.

A green highway sign appeared up ahead, warped by the heat.

RIDGE REST TRUCK STOP – 5 MILES
GAS • FOOD • SHOWERS

Five miles felt like fifty in that heat, but the promise of air conditioning and coffee pulled him onward. He adjusted the duffel on his shoulder, flexed his fingers, rolled his neck. The skin on the back of his neck already felt tight and burned, his shirt sticky with sweat. The desert on either side of the road stretched wide and pale, dotted with scrub and the occasional wind-gnarled tree. There was nowhere to hide out here.

Which was why he heard them long before he saw them.

The low thunder of motorcycles rolled across the desert, distant at first, then steadily louder, eating up the silence that had wrapped itself around the highway. The hairs on his arms stood up like they’d been charged. That sound lived in his bones now. There’d been a time, long before Phoenix and parole officers and file folders, when the rumble of a Harley had meant freedom to him.

Now it meant danger.

He cut his eyes toward the empty shoulder, scanning for anything that could serve as cover. Fifty yards ahead, an abandoned gas station sagged beside the road, windows smashed out, roof half-collapsed. A “Route 66 Souvenirs” sign, sun-bleached and cracked, tilted at a sick angle above two dead pumps.

Marcus stepped off the highway, boots crunching over gravel, and slipped into the shadow of the ruined building. From there he could see the road without being seen. The smell of baked dust and old motor oil clung to the air, familiar and faintly comforting.

The pack swung into view around the curve, chrome glinting like knives in the sunlight.

At least a dozen bikes, all black and low, thundered down the highway in a tight formation. The men on them wore leather vests, the backs emblazoned with the same patch: a grinning black skull wearing a crooked crown, big MC letters under it.

The Black Skulls.

Marcus’s jaw tightened. He’d heard their name whispered in county jails from Albuquerque to Bakersfield. Drug runs, gun deals, disappearances that never made the evening news. Stories, rumors, half-truths—it didn’t matter. In his world, a patch was a warning label, and the Skulls were the kind you didn’t touch with a ten-foot pole.

The last rider—broad shoulders, bare arms inked to the wrist—turned his head as they roared past, eyes sweeping the ruins. For a second Marcus’s lungs forgot how to work. Then the biker looked away, twisted the throttle, and shot forward to close the gap with his brothers.

The thunder of their engines faded back into desert silence.

Marcus stayed pressed against the cracked concrete wall, counting his heartbeats until they slowed, then stepped out into the sunlight again. The truck stop sign was closer now, its neon cactus and coffee cup faint against the blazing sky. His stomach hollowed out at the thought of real food.

He walked.

The Ridge Rest truck stop sat just off the interstate, a slab of concrete and chrome straight out of some mid-century postcard—wide parking lot, gas pumps lined up like soldiers, a low diner with big plate-glass windows, and an attached convenience store. To a man who’d slept in bus stations and on cheap motel carpets, it looked like heaven.

Cold air slapped him in the face when he pushed the glass door open. The blast of air-conditioning was so intense his skin prickled. Inside, the diner hummed with quiet activity. A couple of truckers in baseball caps occupied the counter, a family of four wrangled kids in a corner booth, and a tired-looking retiree nursed a slice of pie near the window. Country music hummed from a radio somewhere in back, all steel guitar and heartbreak.

Marcus picked a booth near the back wall, his back to the window, eyes on the door. Old habits. Prison had a way of rewiring a man’s brain—always know your exits, always know who’s behind you.

A waitress appeared at his table a moment later, coffee pot in hand. Her name tag read JENNY in cheerful blue letters. The lines at the corners of her eyes said she’d been smiling through long shifts here for a lot of years.

“Coffee?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Marcus rasped, surprised at how rough his own voice sounded. “And whatever breakfast you’ve still got. Eggs, toast… I’m not picky.”

She gave him a knowing look, the kind reserved for drifters and working men and those who lived more on the road than off it. “All-day special’ll do you fine,” she said, pouring his cup. “You look like you could use it.”

He wrapped his hands around the mug, letting the heat soak into his fingers. The first sip scalded his tongue, but he didn’t care. It tasted like coffee and survival.

That was when he noticed her.

Two booths up, near the window, a woman sat alone. In this place full of denim and flannel, she stood out. Auburn hair twisted into a loose bun at the nape of her neck, a few strands escaping to brush her cheek. Delicate features, light dusting of freckles, mouth pressed tight in a line that didn’t match the softness of the rest of her face. She kept looking at the door, then down at her phone, then back at the parking lot, like she was expecting someone who was late.

It wasn’t her face that locked Marcus’s attention. It was her vest.

Over a fitted white T-shirt she wore black leather, snug to her shoulders, with patches sewn on in red and white. On the back, half visible when she shifted, he caught the edge of a notorious logo—winged skull, snarling. Hell’s Angels. Under it, stitched in smaller letters, was a phrase that made something cold slide down his spine.

PROPERTY OF THUNDER.

Of course. An old lady. Not somebody’s girlfriend. Not a groupie. Property. In the outlaw world, the word meant something very specific.

He took another sip of coffee, watching her over the rim of the mug. Her fingers trembled when she checked her phone again. Her leg bounced under the table, vibrating the silverware.

Jenny set down his plate—eggs, toast, hash browns—and followed his gaze, her expression tightening almost imperceptibly.

“Refill?” she asked the woman at the other booth, keeping her tone light.

The woman blinked, dragged herself out of whatever anxious loop her thoughts had been running, and managed a quick smile. “Yeah, thanks.”

“You okay, hon?” Jenny asked quietly, leaning in just a little.

“I’m fine,” the woman lied. “He’s just… late.”

Jenny’s eyes flicked to the parking lot, then back to the woman. “He’ll show,” she said, though she clearly had no idea if that was true. “Coffee’s on the house till he does.”

The bell over the diner door jingled.

The energy in the room changed on a dime.

Three men walked in wearing black leather vests with that same crowned skull patch Marcus had seen on the highway. Black Skulls. Not the full pack he’d watched roll by, but enough.

They moved like they owned any room they walked into—slow, taking up space, taking their time. They didn’t look around because they didn’t have to. The room watched them.

The tallest one, thick neck, sun-leathered skin, and a jaw like a cinder block, scanned the booths. His gaze landed on the woman with the auburn hair and the Angels vest, and his mouth stretched into a smile that didn’t come anywhere near his eyes.

“Well, well,” he said, voice carrying over the clatter of plates and forks. “If it ain’t Thunder’s little lady all alone on the side of I-40.”

Conversation at the counter died. A fork clinked loudly against a plate and then nothing, just the low thrum of the refrigerators and the radio singing about heartbreak.

The woman went pale. Her hand tightened around her coffee mug.

Jenny froze in place behind the counter, a pot of coffee suspended midair.

“Maybe he traded up,” one of the other Skulls added with a wet chuckle. “Presidents get busy. Forget to pick up their toys.”

Marcus felt his jaw grind. He kept his eyes on his plate, the eggs blurring. He told himself this wasn’t his business. Biker politics were a fast track to a shallow grave in the desert. Every convict who’d ever given him advice had said some version of the same thing: stay out of club business that isn’t yours.

So he watched the reflection in the stainless-steel napkin holder instead.

The tall Skull slid into the booth across from the woman without asking, crowding her space, his boots squeaking against the vinyl. The other two stood flanking the table, blocking any escape route like they’d done this a thousand times.

“Thunder sends his regards,” the tall one said, his smile thinning. “Figured we’d come say hello since your boys seem… busy.”

He reached across the table, hand closing around her wrist. His fingers were thick and sunburned, the skin around the knuckles rough and scarred. The woman flinched, trying to pull back, but he tightened his grip until the skin around her bones went white.

“Let go of me,” she hissed, voice shaking but not weak. “My husband will—”

“Your husband ain’t here,” he cut in, leaning closer. “We’re just passin’ the time while we wait on him to decide if he wants to keep his roads.”

The coffee cup slipped from her free hand and hit the floor in slow motion. It shattered on impact, brown liquid arcing over the tiles, splattering the hem of her jeans and the biker’s boot.

No one moved.

Truckers stared down at their plates. The family of four suddenly found their children’s crayons fascinating. Jenny’s lips pressed into a thin line as she disappeared into the back.

Marcus heard Emma’s voice as clearly as if she were sitting across from him.

No one helped me, Marcus. They just watched.

His hand brushed against the shape in his pocket. Eight inches of folded steel, worn smooth from use. He’d carried that switchblade through alley fights, county lockups, and three years in state prison. He’d promised himself the day he walked out those gates that it would never see daylight again.

His fingers shook anyway.

You got out, he told himself. You stayed clean—clean enough, at least. You walk away now, you keep walking. No more heroes, no more stupid decisions.

The tall Skull’s grip tightened. The woman winced, biting back a sound.

Sometimes doing nothing is the worst kind of wrong.

Emma had said that to him in a hospital room that smelled like antiseptic and despair, her face a patchwork of bruises and cuts. She’d been sixteen. The cops had shrugged and said there wasn’t enough evidence, some paperwork word for “we don’t care.”

He pushed his plate away.

The booth seat squeaked as he stood. The sound seemed almost deafening in the hush.

Marcus stepped out into the center aisle, boots loud on the scuffed linoleum. Every instinct he had screamed at him to sit back down, to walk out, to disappear. Instead, he took one step, then another, toward the corner booth where three Black Skulls were slowly tearing apart a piece of someone else’s world.

“Is there a problem here?” he asked.

His voice came out calm, almost conversational, but it cut across the silence like a blade.

The tall Skull let go of the woman’s wrist and turned his head, eyeing Marcus with lazy interest. Up close, the man smelled like cheap cologne, gasoline, and something sour underneath.

“Walk away, friend,” he said, his tone flat, warning coiled in it. “Club business.”

The word friend sounded like a threat.

The woman’s eyes met Marcus’s over the edge of the table. There was fear there, yes, but there was something else too—anger, stubbornness, a refusal to cower.

Around her neck, a silver pendant caught the fluorescent light. Marcus recognized the design from patches he’d seen on the Angels’ backs: three simple letters and a phrase.

AFFA. Forever forward, forever free.

“I think the lady wants to be left alone,” Marcus said.

He kept his stance loose, weight balanced on the balls of his feet the way an old cellmate had taught him. In the yard, the fight started long before hands were thrown. It started in the space between two men, in the way one refused to back down.

One of the other Skulls barked a laugh.

“Look at this,” he said. “We got ourselves a white knight. You know who we are, cowboy?”

He shifted his vest just enough to display the crowned skull patch full on. The letters MC gleamed below it, stark as a warning sign.

Marcus looked at it, then back at the man’s face.

“I know exactly who you are,” he replied. “Question is, do you know who she is?”

For a second—just a heartbeat—the tall Skull’s smile faltered.

Marcus pressed.

“You lay hands on Thunder’s old lady in some truck stop off I-40 where every camera and every trucker sees you,” he said, bluffing with everything he had. “You think that doesn’t get back to him? You really wanna start a war over a cup of coffee and your bruised ego?”

The biker’s eyes narrowed. The other two shifted their weight, glancing at each other. Marcus saw the calculation flicker across their faces. Bikers lived and died on reputation. So did their enemies. You didn’t insult a president’s property in public and expect that to stay quiet.

Then the leader’s hand dipped under his vest.

Time slowed the way it always had whenever Marcus’s world turned violent. His vision sharpened. Every breath, every footstep, every twitch of muscle felt magnified.

The switchblade snapped open in his palm with a click that sounded like a gunshot.

The Skull moved first, muscles bunching as he went for something under his leather. Marcus lunged, not thinking, just acting, driven by muscle memory and reflex and two years’ worth of pent-up guilt.

He knocked the man’s arm sideways as the biker tried to draw, the concealed pistol clattering to the tile. A trucker at the counter swore and dove off his stool.

The second Skull grabbed for Marcus’s jacket. Marcus twisted, drove his shoulder into the man’s chest, and shoved him backward into another table. Plates smashed. Coffee splashed. The family in the corner scrambled backward, the father shielding his kids.

The third Skull’s fist came out of nowhere, connecting with Marcus’s temple in a white burst of pain. The world tilted. He tasted blood as his teeth cut the inside of his cheek.

He staggered but didn’t fall. Prison had taught him how to take a punch. He drove his knee up into the man’s midsection, felt the air leave him in a rush, and shoved him aside.

“Run!” he barked at the woman, his voice raw.

For a half second she stood frozen, eyes wide, then instinct took over. She snatched her bag, vaulted out of the booth, and sprinted toward the door.

The tall Skull, cradling his slashed forearm, shouted something Marcus didn’t catch over the hammering of his pulse. He lunged for the fallen gun.

Marcus kicked it under the counter without looking, grabbed a handful of the nearest man’s vest, and flung him into the path of the others.

Then he was moving, crashing through the swinging door of the diner, the bell screaming above his head as the glass door banged open, and he and the woman exploded into the blinding Arizona sun.

Outside, the heat hit him like a wall. The parking lot stretched wide and flat, the paint on the asphalt faded by a thousand summers. The woman was already running for a faded blue Chevrolet parked at the far end, her boots slapping the pavement.

“My car!” she yelled, fumbling in her bag for keys. “Come on!”

Shouts rang behind them as the Skulls burst through the diner door.

Marcus sprinted after her, lungs burning. His temple throbbed. The world narrowed to the rectangle of blue metal and the keys clutched in her shaking hand.

She dropped them once, cursed, scooped them up again. Marcus yanked open the passenger door and dove inside as she jammed the key into the ignition.

The starter coughed. The engine sputtered.

Nothing.

“Come on, come on,” she whispered, turning the key again.

The engine made a sick grinding sound but refused to catch.

Marcus looked up. The three Black Skulls were halfway across the lot, closing fast, boots pounding, faces twisted with rage. Beyond them, their bikes waited like patient predators, engines silent for now.

“Out,” he snapped. “Now.”

“But—”

“Out!”

He jerked the keys from the ignition and shoved the door open. A white pickup idled three spaces down, its engine running, air conditioner humming. Its driver, a man in a ball cap, stood near the edge of the lot smoking and scrolling his phone, oblivious to the brewing storm.

Marcus didn’t think. He just moved.

He sprinted to the truck, shoved the driver’s door open, and barked, “Emergency, get out!”

The man turned, eyes wide. One look at Marcus’s bleeding temple and the woman’s panic-stricken face behind him, and he slid out of the seat, hands up.

“Hey, hey—”

“I’ll bring it back,” Marcus snapped on reflex, though they all knew he couldn’t promise that.

He slid behind the wheel and slammed the door. The keys dangled from the ignition, a small miracle. The woman scrambled in on the passenger side, slamming her door just as the first Skull reached the Chevy and realized they’d switched vehicles.

“Hold on,” Marcus said.

He dropped the truck into drive and floored the gas.

The tires squealed, smoke curling up from the hot asphalt as the pickup shot forward. The back end fishtailed wildly for a second, then caught traction. The truck lurched toward the exit, engine roaring protest.

A Black Skull lunged for the tailgate, fingers grazing metal before he stumbled, cursing, and rolled off to the side.

In the side mirror, Marcus caught a glimpse of three men scrambling onto their bikes, engines roaring to life like beasts awakened.

The pickup burst onto the highway, narrowly missing a semi, and Marcus yanked the wheel, aligning them with the eastbound lane. Hot desert wind howled through the half-open windows. He jammed his foot down harder, feeling the engine strain as the speedometer needle climbed.

He didn’t know where he was going. He just knew he couldn’t stop.

After a minute, the woman risked a look behind them. Her hair whipped across her face.

“They’re coming,” she said, voice tight. “They’re gaining on us.”

Marcus checked the rearview mirror. Three black dots had already left the truck stop and were streaking up the highway, shrinking the distance with every second.

“Seat belt,” he ordered.

She fumbled for the strap and clicked it into place. His own belt slid across his chest with a harsh snap.

The desert blurred past. Ocotillo and scrub brush turned into green streaks against the red dirt. The late-afternoon sun sank lower, bathing everything in a harsh, beautiful light.

“Who are you?” she asked suddenly, her voice pitched low, more than fear hiding in it.

Marcus’s arm throbbed. Blood had soaked into the fabric of his sleeve, staining it dark. His temple pulsed in time with the hum of the tires. He kept his eyes on the road.

“Nobody,” he said. “Just a guy who should’ve known better than to get between a woman and three men wearing the wrong patch.”

She snorted, a short, incredulous sound. “You’re nobody who just picked a fight with the Black Skulls over a woman you don’t know?”

“Something like that.”

She looked at him like she was measuring his soul.

“I’m Beth,” she said eventually. “Beth Carter. Thunder’s wife.”

He didn’t react, but inside, a few puzzle pieces shifted into place.

Thunder. He’d heard that name murmured in cell blocks and at greasy diner counters across the West. Thunder Carter, president of the Hell’s Angels Ridgerest chapter, the man who controlled a web of highways and backroads stretching from Arizona into New Mexico and beyond, depending on which rumor you believed. To some, he was a criminal. To others, he was a protector. To all, he was dangerous.

The pendant at her throat gleamed when the sunlight caught it as they hit a rise. Forever forward, forever free.

“The Skulls have been trying to push into our territory for months,” she continued, eyes fixed on the mirror. “They hit one of our hangouts in New Mexico last week. Cut a prospect bad. They figure if they can grab me, they might make Thunder blink.”

“He let you travel alone?” The question slipped out before he could stop it. It came out sharper than he intended.

Beth’s head snapped toward him, eyes flashing.

“He doesn’t let me do anything,” she said. “I’m his wife, not his prisoner. I was supposed to meet our road captain at that truck stop. He never showed.”

Her gaze flicked back to the mirror, jaw clenching.

“Somebody had to tell the Skulls where I’d be,” she added softly. “Somebody on our side.”

Betrayal. The word tasted like rust. Marcus knew the flavor. In prison, it got you killed. Out here, it could start a war.

He drove.

Miles ticked away under the tires. The truck ate distance, but the gas gauge slid steadily downward. The radio picked up nothing but static and faded country songs. The sun slipped closer to the jagged line of mountains in the distance.

A green sign flashed by on the right.

RIDGEREST – 42 MILES
NEXT EXIT 30

Beth exhaled like she’d been holding that breath for hours.

“Turn off at the Ridgerest exit,” she said. “Clubhouse is about ten miles up from town. Dirt road. You can’t miss it.”

“Won’t they follow?” he asked.

“They’ll try,” she said. “But they’re not stupid enough to follow us straight to a Hell’s Angels clubhouse outnumbered. They like stacking odds in their favor.”

He didn’t say what they were both thinking: that odds had a way of flipping when betrayal was involved.

Silence settled between them, heavy but oddly comfortable. The roar of the truck and the howl of the wind filled the spaces where conversation should have gone.

After a while, Beth spoke again.

“You saved my life back there,” she said. “You didn’t have to.”

Marcus’s knuckles tightened on the steering wheel.

“I have a sister,” he said quietly. “Had. Emma. She got mixed up with some guys who thought ‘no’ was optional. Nobody stepped in. Nobody called the cops. Nobody wanted to… get involved.”

He swallowed around the tightness in his throat.

“I promised her I’d stop fighting other people’s battles,” he finished. “Turns out some promises are meant to be broken.”

Beth watched him, her expression shifting slowly from gratitude to understanding.

“When we get to Ridgerest,” she said, “Thunder’s gonna want to thank you properly. Angels don’t forget their debts.”

That didn’t comfort him. Being on the radar of a man like Thunder was a lot like standing in a lightning storm holding a steel pole.

They drove on.

The sky turned from blaze-blue to bruised orange and purple as the sun kissed the horizon. Long shadows stretched across the road. The air cooled by degrees, though heat still radiated off the asphalt in waves.

Beth twisted in her seat to check the rear window again.

“They’re falling back,” she said at last, shoulders loosening a fraction. “Their tanks weren’t full. And they’re not built for long-distance chases like this.”

“Good,” Marcus said.

It was the first easy breath he’d taken since the diner.

It lasted about three seconds.

They rounded a gentle bend in the highway and were suddenly staring down a wall of motorcycles.

At least twenty bikes stretched across both lanes ahead, parked side by side, chrome flashing in the dying light. Their riders stood behind them, rows of leather and denim and boots planted shoulder-width apart, arms crossed or resting on handlebars. Some held rifles casually, barrels pointed at the fading sky. Others had nothing in their hands, but the threat was the same.

For one brief, ice-cold second, Marcus thought the Skulls had called in reinforcements.

Then he saw the patches.

Not black skulls and crowns. Red and white rockers. The infamous Death’s Head logo, leering from leather.

Hell’s Angels.

Beth’s hand clamped around the edge of the dashboard.

“Stop,” she said. “Slow. Show your hands.”

Marcus’s foot slammed the brake out of instinct anyway. The truck’s tires squealed, gravel skittering as they fishtailed slightly before coming to rest a dozen yards from the line of bikes.

The pickup idled, engine rumbling. The only other sounds were the soft hiss of cooling metal and the distant hiss of desert wind sliding over sand and rock.

The front line of bikers didn’t move.

Then one man stepped out.

He was big, even at a distance—broad across the shoulders, tall enough to make the men flanking him seem smaller without trying. His beard, long and gray-streaked, flowed across his chest like a weathered flag. Tattoos crawled down his forearms, ink faded by years of sun.

On his vest, above the club patch and the RIDGEREST rocker, one word curved in heavy letters.

PRESIDENT.

Beth’s breath hitched.

“It’s my family,” she said, voice cracking with relief.

For the first time since he’d met her, she didn’t look afraid.

Three riders broke from the line on either side, engines roaring as they rolled toward the truck, forming a loose circle. One of them, a young guy with PROSPECT stitched on his vest, swung off his bike and leveled a shotgun at Marcus’s chest through the open window.

“Hands where I can see ’em,” he ordered, voice steady though his eyes flicked to Beth with obvious recognition. “Out of the truck, nice and slow.”

Beth pushed her door open first, hands up to shoulder height.

“It’s me, Tyler,” she called. “Relax. He’s with me. Black Skulls hit the Ridge Rest diner. He pulled me out.”

The prospect’s grip on the shotgun tightened for a second like his body was still following protocol, then eased. His gaze jumped to Marcus.

“Still want him out,” he said. “Club rules.”

Marcus lifted his hands and stepped out of the truck. The desert air kissed his sweat-damp shirt, cooler now, smelling of sage and gasoline. The dirt under his boots felt different than the smooth highway—less certain, less predictable.

He kept his hands up, aware of every eye on him.

The big man from the center of the blockade was already striding toward them. As he got closer, the heat lines stopped distorting his features. His eyes were a cold, pale blue that didn’t miss much. His presence rolled ahead of him like a physical thing.

Thunder Carter.

Beth broke from the ring of bikes and ran the last few steps. Thunder’s expression cracked open in a rare, raw way as he caught her, lifting her feet off the ground. He buried his face briefly in her hair, big hands skimming her shoulders like he was checking for broken pieces.

“You okay, darlin’?” he murmured. The words were gruff, but they shook.

“I am now,” she said into his chest.

For a moment, the world shrank to just the two of them. President, old lady, husband, wife. No patches, no rival clubs, no rules. Just people.

Then Thunder’s gaze snapped up and found Marcus.

The softness vanished, sucked back like a tide.

He set Beth down but kept one large hand possessive on her shoulder.

“Step closer,” he said to Marcus.

It wasn’t a request.

Marcus walked until there were only a few feet between them. He could feel the weight of every Angel at his back, could feel Beth’s eyes on the side of his face. He held Thunder’s gaze and fought every instinct that told him to look away.

“You Marcus Reeves,” Thunder said, as if he’d pulled the name clean out of the air.

It was less a question than a test.

Marcus’s stomach flipped. He’d given Beth his name because hiding it had felt pointless. Hearing it in Thunder’s mouth, in the middle of an Arizona backroad with twenty outlaw bikers watching, made him realize just how exposed that made him.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

Thunder’s eyes flicked over him. Blood on the sleeve, bruised temple, sunburn, cheap duffel on the seat of the truck.

“You saved my Beth when my own brothers couldn’t get to her in time,” Thunder said after a moment. His voice could have scraped paint off steel. “Tell me why.”

Marcus thought about lying. Thought about saying he’d done it for money, for favors, for some future protection. Something transactional. Something that would make him useful instead of… whatever he actually was.

Emma’s face rose in his mind. Hospital bed. Bruises. Too many apologies that didn’t mean a thing.

“I saw three men put hands on a woman who didn’t want it,” he said plainly. “Last time I watched that happen and didn’t step in, my sister paid for it. I don’t let that happen twice.”

Thunder’s gaze held his.

Behind them, engines idled. Boots shifted. The entire world seemed to lean in.

A few yards away, the rumble of another bike cut through the moment. Marcus glanced sideways and watched as three more riders rolled forward from the original line, these ones coming slow, like they were on parade.

The man on the center bike wore a vice president patch. One of his eyes was swollen nearly shut, a bruise blooming down the side of his face like spilled ink. Dried blood stained his lip. His hands were zip-tied in front of him.

“That your road captain?” Marcus asked quietly.

“Was,” Thunder said.

His ice-blue gaze never left Marcus’s face, but his hand lifted from Beth’s shoulder and signaled. Two bikers peeled off, grabbed the VP by the arms, and dragged him off the bike. He stumbled but didn’t fall. His jaw set like he knew exactly what came next and intended to stand up straight for it.

“You had one job,” Thunder said, finally looking his way. His voice didn’t rise, but everyone heard it. “Meet my wife. Bring her home. Instead, Black Skulls know where she is, and my brothers are racing the desert trying to figure out if she’s alive or dead.”

The VP swallowed. Dust clung to the sweat on his neck.

“I was set up,” he said hoarsely. “Swear it, Thunder. I—”

Thunder held up a hand. The man fell quiet.

“You talk too much,” Thunder said. “You should’ve been there when you said you’d be there. That’s on you.”

The man closed his good eye for a moment, then opened it again and nodded once. Acceptance. No plea. The outlaw world had rules, and everyone understood them.

Thunder’s attention snapped back to Marcus.

“You interfered with club business,” he said. “You pulled a knife in a public place. Stole a local man’s truck. Brought heat on my colors.” A flicker of something like amusement crossed his face. “And in the middle of that, you still found time to bluff three Black Skulls with my name like you’d known me your whole damn life.”

Marcus’s mouth went dry. He’d been so amped on adrenaline in the diner he hadn’t thought about how that part of his bluff would land.

“Seemed like the only card on the table,” he said, honesty costing him nothing now that he was already deep in the hole.

Thunder looked at him another long moment, then did something Marcus didn’t expect.

He laughed.

It was a short bark of sound, surprised more than amused.

“Gotta admit,” Thunder said. “Takes a special kind of crazy to do what you did.”

He turned slightly, addressing his men without taking his hand off Beth.

“Brothers,” he called. “This man had no patch. No backup. No reason to get involved. But when the Skulls grabbed my wife, he stepped in where any one of us would’ve. That counts.”

There were murmurs, low and approving. A few men nodded. The prospect with the shotgun lowered his weapon completely, respect softening his expression.

Thunder looked back at Marcus, the desert wind tugging at his beard.

“You got a choice,” he said. “Two, actually. First: you walk away right now. We forget your name, you forget ours. You go back to whatever lonely stretch of road you were on before fate shoved you into our business.”

“And the second?” Marcus asked.

Thunder’s pale eyes glittered.

“You stay,” he said simply. “You prospect. You earn. You find out if what you did today was a one-time fluke or who you really are.”

The word prospect landed heavy. Marcus knew what it meant. Errands. Work no one else wanted. Eyes on you 24/7. No guarantees. The lowest rung on a ladder that led straight into a world most people spent their lives avoiding.

He also knew what walking away meant.

More highways. More cheap motels where the sheets smelled like bleach and old cigarette smoke. More nights lying awake wondering if the knock on the door was a cop, a bounty, or some ghost from his past come to collect. More running.

He looked at Beth. Dirt on her jeans. A faint red mark around her wrist where the Skull had grabbed her. She met his gaze steady.

“You saved my life,” she said. “Whatever you decide, I won’t forget that.”

He thought about Emma. About every empty promise he’d made to “do better” and “be better” while the world kept kicking the same people in the teeth.

For the first time in years, he’d done something that felt like the opposite of running.

Thunder waited, patient as the mountains.

Marcus wiped the back of his hand across his bleeding temple, smearing the blood into a dark streak. His throat felt tight, but his voice came out clear.

“I’m tired of walking highways alone,” he said. “If the offer’s real… I’ll stay. I’ll prospect.”

Thunder’s hand shot out, big and calloused. Marcus gripped it.

Thunder’s grip was firm, anchoring.

“Then from this moment,” Thunder said, voice carrying to every bike, every brother, “you move under my roof and with my colors. You pull your weight, you follow our rules, you watch our backs, and we watch yours. You screw us, you’re done. You stand with us… you’re family.”

The word hit Marcus harder than any punch.

Family.

Six months later, he still wasn’t used to it.

The sun was sliding down behind the jagged red rock hills of northern Arizona, throwing long shadows across the dirt lot in front of the Ridgerest clubhouse. The air had cooled to something bearable, scented with sage and distant rain. Crickets were already tuning up in the scrub.

Marcus Reeves sat on the front porch steps, boots propped on the railing, watching the desert sky shift from molten gold to deep bruised purple. The wooden boards creaked under his weight, familiar now, the sound as much a part of his life as the rumble of engines or the clink of beer bottles.

The leather cut on his shoulders felt heavier than his old duffel ever had.

His vest was still mostly bare compared to the others—a small prospect patch over the left breast, a name rocker that read MARCUS, and above it, stitched in careful red and white, the Death’s Head logo that had once been nothing but a warning, now something closer to a shield.

He ran his thumb over the stitching, feeling the texture under his calloused fingers.

Six months of early mornings and late nights. Six months of sweeping floors and scrubbing oil off concrete, of wrenching on bikes until his knuckles bled, of being the first to answer when a brother called and the last to sit when there was work to be done. Six months of learning a new kind of law in a country that liked to pretend it only had one.

Inside the clubhouse, the sounds of home spilled out through the open windows. Laughter, low and rough. Classic rock playing from a beat-up speaker in the corner. The clang of pots and pans as someone moved around the kitchen.

Beth.

She had claimed the kitchen the day he arrived, planting herself between the battered stove and the dented fridge like a general on a battlefield. Every Friday night, she cooked enough food to feed the whole chapter—chili that could make a grown man cry, cornbread that disappeared faster than beer, pies that made even the meanest riders grin like kids.

“Family eats together,” she’d said that first week, slapping Thunder’s hand when he tried to sneak a taste before everyone sat down. “Or we don’t eat at all.”

Marcus had never argued with a free meal in his life. These ones came with something extra.

“You brooding or just enjoying the view, prospect?”

Thunder’s voice rumbled from the doorway behind him.

Marcus glanced back as the president stepped onto the porch, the screen door squeaking on its hinges. Thunder moved like a man who’d earned every ache in his bones and didn’t apologize for any of them. At fifty-five, he was the oldest in the chapter, gray cutting through his hair and beard, but his shoulders were still broad, his hands still strong. Tattoo ink crawled down his arms in faded blues and blacks.

“Little of both,” Marcus said, scooting over on the wooden swing to make room.

Thunder sank down beside him with a grunt and a sigh that said the day had been long. The sunset was in full swing now, the sky bleeding color over the silhouette of the hills. Out beyond the clubhouse, the lights of little Ridgerest twinkled faintly, a handful of bars and gas stations on the edge of the interstate, a speck on the map of America.

“Never thought I’d find family with the Hell’s Angels out in the Arizona desert,” Marcus said quietly.

“Never thought I’d let some stray prospect from Phoenix call this place home,” Thunder shot back with a sideways grin. “World’s full of surprises.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a few beats, listening to the first rumble of approaching engines.

Thunder shifted, rubbing his thumb along a scar at his wrist.

“Still can’t believe you jumped three Skulls in a highway diner with nothing but a pocketknife and bad timing,” he said, amusement edging his gravel voice. “Beth ever tell you that story’s grown to six Skulls and a shotgun in some of the retellings?”

Marcus snorted. “I’m hoping by next year it’s a dozen Skulls and a bear.”

Thunder threw back his head and laughed, a low, genuine sound that rolled across the porch.

“That’s the thing about legends,” he said. “They got their own engine. Once they start rolling, they don’t much care about the truth.”

Marcus let his gaze drift to the dust cloud on the horizon, where headlights were winking into view as the rest of the chapter came home. The hum in his chest at the sound was something he still wasn’t used to—a weird blend of anticipation, contentment, and something dangerously close to pride.

Six months ago, he’d walked into this compound with nothing but his duffel and a fresh set of bruises. He’d slept on a cot in the corner of the shop, kept his head down, and waited for the moment someone decided he didn’t belong.

The moment never came.

Instead, he found himself learning how to rebuild carburetors beside a guy named Duke who’d been in the club longer than Marcus had been alive. He found himself listening to stories from an old-timer called Rusty about crossing the country on two wheels in the seventies, when gas was cheap and cops were easier to outrun. He found himself getting yelled at by Beth for stacking the plates wrong in the dishwasher and then hugged ten minutes later for helping a new kid patch a tire for free.

He found himself staying.

The screen door banged open behind them. Beth stepped out, wiping her hands on a dish towel, hair pulled back, a faint smudge of flour on her cheek.

“Dinner in twenty,” she announced. “If those fools aren’t washed up by then, I’m feeding their plates to the dogs.”

“We don’t have dogs,” Thunder reminded her.

“Exactly,” she said. “Make ’em wonder who’s getting their food.”

She leaned down to kiss Thunder’s cheek, then squeezed Marcus’s shoulder on her way back inside.

“Set the table, Marcus,” she called over her shoulder. “You know the drill.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, grinning despite himself.

Thunder watched her go, his face softening in a way he’d stab a man for mentioning.

“Worth every war I ever fought,” he murmured.

Headlights swung into the drive as the first bikes rolled in, the roar of V-twins filling the dusty yard. One by one, they parked in their usual spots, side stands dropping, engines cutting. Helmets came off. Hair got shaken out. Jokes started flying before boots hit the porch steps.

“Better go help before she skins us both,” Thunder said, pushing himself up with a grunt.

Inside, the clubhouse filled quickly—scent of chili thickening the air, country rock cranking up a notch, chairs scraping, voices overlapping. Marcus grabbed plates from the cupboard, stacking them in his arms, moving between the table and the cabinets without thinking. This had become his Friday night—this, and the way every chair around that old wooden table filled with someone who’d bleed for the man sitting next to him.

He set out forks, knives, napkins. Thunder took his usual spot at the head of the table. Beth moved between stove and table like a woman born to feed hungry wolves.

“Prospect,” Duke called, waggling an empty beer bottle. “You forget we get thirsty ’round here?”

“Get your own, old man,” Marcus shot back, though he grabbed a fresh bottle from the cooler and set it down anyway.

By the time everyone was seated, the noise had risen to a comfortable roar. Thunder stood, lifting his beer. The room quieted almost instantly.

“To brotherhood,” he said, voice steady, blue gaze sweeping the table. “To family that chooses you when the rest of the world looks the other way.”

He paused, his eyes finding Marcus’s over the tops of the bottles and plates.

“And to the ones who walked in strangers and stayed when it would’ve been easier to run.”

The warmth that hit Marcus’s chest had nothing to do with the beer. He swallowed hard, lifted his own bottle, and took a long pull.

After dinner, with dishes stacked and Beth finally bullied into sitting for five minutes, the clubhouse shifted into its usual Friday rhythm. Some guys drifted to the pool table, arguing over rules. Others settled onto couches, watching a game on the old flat-screen mounted crooked on the wall. A prospect headed out back to roll trash bins to the road.

Marcus slipped outside.

The night air felt cool on his skin, still holding a faint trace of heat from the day. The sky above the Arizona desert was a black velvet bowl punched through with stars, more than he’d ever seen when city lights had been his ceiling.

The screen door creaked again behind him.

Thunder stepped out, a small box in his hand.

“Got something for you,” he said.

Marcus frowned, curious. “It’s not my birthday.”

Thunder snorted. “If it was, I’d get you a better attitude.”

He handed over the box.

It was simple—matte black cardboard, heavier than it looked. Marcus turned it once in his hand, then opened it.

Inside lay a silver medallion on a thick chain, the metal catching the porch light. The design was familiar—the same symbol he’d seen hanging around the necks of full-patch members, worn smooth by years of sweat and time. AFFA. Forever forward, forever free.

Marcus looked up, startled.

“I’m still a prospect,” he said slowly. “I thought… minimum’s a year. Sometimes two.”

“Club voted before dinner,” Thunder said. “Rule books are guidelines. Life ain’t neat enough for hard lines.”

He nodded toward the medallion.

“That there ain’t a toy,” he went on. “You put it on, you’re not just some stray we picked up on Route 66 anymore. You’re ours. And we’re yours. That means when things get ugly—and they will get ugly—you don’t stand alone.”

Marcus glanced down at the chain again.

He thought about all the highways he’d walked, all the bus station benches he’d slept on, all the thin-walled motel rooms where he’d lain awake and listened to strangers on the other side of plywood talk and laugh and live like the world wasn’t always one step away from taking everything.

He thought about Emma. About that hospital room. About the promise he’d made himself to stay out of trouble and how hollow it had sounded the second he’d said it out loud.

He thought about Beth’s wrist under that Skull’s hand.

Slowly, he lifted the medallion out of the box. It was cool against his fingers, heavier than it looked. He slid the chain over his head. The metal settled at the center of his chest like it had belonged there the whole time.

Thunder’s hand landed on his shoulder, firm and grounding.

“Welcome to the family, brother,” he said.

The word brother, coming from Thunder Carter’s mouth, carried more weight than any judge’s sentence Marcus had ever heard.

From the parking lot, another set of headlights swung into view. A bike he didn’t recognize rolled up—a kid from town who’d been stopping by the shop more and more, eyes wide, hands eager to learn. Behind him, the faint glow of Ridgerest’s strip—the gas station, the diner, the motel—lit the horizon like a low-wattage promise.

Marcus straightened.

The man who had once trudged down a blazing stretch of Route 66 with a torn-up duffel and a ghost for company was still in there somewhere. But he wasn’t running anymore. Not from Phoenix. Not from his past. Not from what he felt when he saw someone weaker being hurt and realized he had the power to step in.

He rested his hand over the medallion at his chest, feeling the metal warming to his skin.

Forever forward, forever free.

As he stepped back into the clubhouse, into the noise and the heat and the easy insults thrown across the room, Marcus knew that redemption didn’t always come in a courtroom or a church or a twelve-step meeting. Sometimes it arrived on a scorching American highway, in the heartbeat between walking away and stepping in, in the choice to stop running and stand your ground beside people who’d stand with you.

Sometimes, the family you find at the end of the road is the only one strong enough to make you believe you deserved one all along.