Page 16 of Crusher's Illusion

I grind my molars together, frustration curling through my ribs like smoke. “You planning to handle this your way, then?”

He doesn’t answer at first. “No one gets to her.”

“Make sure that includes you,” I snap. “Keep your head clear, brother. We’re too close to blow this on pride.”

“I hear you,” he says. But I don’t think he does.

The call ends. I lower the phone slowly, feeling every ounce of pressure shift back onto my shoulders. Crusher’s too close to this. And if he lets the lines blur, we’re all going to pay for it. I glance at City. “Run that plate we scraped from the gas station. Cross-check it with known Iron Cross affiliates. I want names.”

Rock cracks his knuckles. “Are we doing this loud or quiet?”

“We’re not doing anything yet,” I say. “They fire the first shot, we finish the war. Not before.”

My gut’s already twisting with the truth. The shot’s already been fired. We’re just waiting to hear it hit. After they leave, I step out back, light a cigarette, and scan the lot. The wind’s sharp, cutting through the night like teeth. I stare out at the bikes lined up, faithful as always, waiting for the next call to move. “You want a war, Duke? Come knock. We’ll answer.”

This club has survived cartel fire, federal sweeps, and traitors in patched leather. But sometimes, the biggest threat comes from something smaller. A woman. A sentence. A crack in the armor.

I respect what Nevaeh’s trying to do. She’s smart. Fearless. But the kind of fearlessness that gets someone else killed when the bullets fly. The kind that writes headlines without knowing who bleeds for them. It’s not her fallout she’ll be cleaning up.

It’s ours.

EIGHT

THE LEAK

NEVAEH

I wake to a vibrating phone and a sense of wrongness. Not the normal groggy hangover of too much caffeine and not enough sleep. Not even the weight of the unfinished article or the tension of Erik’s last words. This is different.

Dread.

The kind that coats your mouth before your brain catches up. The kind that roots in your gut before your eyes even open.

I fumble for my phone. Notifications flood the screen. Twitter tags, push alerts, even a damn Google mention.

The screen lights up with a message from Bria:Nice hook. We’ll see if they come out of the woodwork.

My gut drops.

I swipe up, heartbeat already spiking as I fumble to open the browser window forThe Midnight Dispatch. The homepage loads slower than usual, of course it does, but the second it does, my heart drops. I see it.

Underworld Angels: Local MC Funds At-Risk Youth Center with Ties to Violence

By Nevaeh Dawn Humphreys

-Midnight Dispatch

No. No. No. No. No.

This cannot be happening. I bolt upright, bare feet hitting the cold floor as I scramble to open the article. My article. Or… what used to be mine. The paper published was the draft. The unedited draft. The version with the Saints Outlaws named. With Erik’s name.

It wasn’t ready. It wasn’t approved. It wasn’t mine.

I scroll to the byline again. My name, glowing like a neon noose. I didn’t even hit publish.

I sit up so fast I nearly knock the laptop off the bed. Fingers flying, I double-check the article’s settings, scheduled drafts, last login time, and edits. All of it.

It was auto-scheduled. Or overridden. Either way, it’s out there, and I didn’t choose that headline.