Page 15 of My Enemy Biker

He hangs up, looks at me. "Marrow took Walt from The Anchor parking lot twenty minutes ago. I have to go."

Walt. I remember the name from my research. Runs the bar, connected to Vigil somehow.

"Go," I say.

He hesitates, studies my face like he's calculating something. "Lock the doors. Don't open them for anyone but me. I'll come back."

"You don't have to—"

"I'll come back." He's already moving toward the door. Opens it, stops, turns back. "You're safe. That's not a question."

Then he's gone, engine roaring to life, gravel spraying as he accelerates out.

I close the door, engage both locks, stand in my kitchen listening to the sound fade.

Marrow threatened me this morning. Now they've taken someone Vigil cares about. This is escalating faster than I anticipated, getting more dangerous, pulling me deeper.

I called Cain. Not the sheriff. Him.

That choice means I've already picked a side whether I'm ready to admit it or not.

My hands are steady now. My pulse has slowed.

I walk to my office, open my laptop, pull up everything I can find about Marrow MC operations, Victor Crane, known associates.

If I'm in this, I'm going to be useful.

That's how I handle fear. Information, preparation, control over what I can control.

And waiting to see if Cain keeps his promise about coming back.

Chapter 5 — Cain

The ride back to the clubhouse takes less than 20 minutes and I use every second to shift modes.

Anna threatened in a parking lot. Sully making contact directly, which means Marrow knows about her, knows about the property, knows she's connected to me.

That's a problem I'll handle after I deal with the immediate crisis.

Walt was taken twenty minutes ago. Clint's voice on the phone was controlled but I heard the edge underneath.

Walt's been with us eight years, runs The Anchor, keeps his head down, isn't operational. Grabbing him is a message.

Marrow's getting bolder.

The clubhouse lot already has bikes when I pull in. I kill the engine and I'm moving before my boots hit gravel.

Inside, the energy is focused. Tate's at the table checking his sidearm, movements automatic from years of military training. Holt's on the phone with someone, getting information. Diesel paces near the bar, controlled violence waiting for direction. Clint stands at the head of the table, arms crossed, face expressionless in that way that means he's furious and channeling it into strategy.

"Cain." He nods once. "Three men, daylight grab from The Anchor lot. Witnesses scared. Nobody got plates but the van was dark blue, commercial."

I'm already pulling my laptop from my bag, booting it up. "Time?"

"Forty-two minutes ago."

Forty-two minutes. They could be anywhere within a sixty-mile radius. I pull up traffic cam access, Route 9 feeds first since that's the primary artery out of Bloomfield heading toward Marrow territory.

"What do we know?" I ask, scanning footage.