Page 34 of Priest

“Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late.”

The rest of the run comes together around us. Nomad checks the gate and the road beyond it, then circles back into formation because the route is his to manage, even when the lead belongs to me. Graves sits heavy on his bike, calm as a loaded gun. Vise adjusts his gloves near the truck and gives Danny grief about the way he stacked the crates, while Switch laughs at something Jonesy says from the passenger side, young enough to show excitement before a run and smart enough to bury most of it when he catches me looking.

“Same route as planned,” I say into the comms. “No detours unless I call it. Eyes up. Keep the truck boxed.”

Acknowledgments come back one by one, low and clean.

Deacon glances over his shoulder. “I’ll ride rear-left. Keep the truck covered through the second stretch.”

“Copy. Anything feels wrong, you call it.”

He gives me a look through the side of his helmet. “No hero shit. I heard you the first hundred times.”

“You say that like you ever listen.”

His grin flashes quick. “IEDs cause hearing loss, I should file disability."

We roll out together, engines waking the morning as the gates slide open. The bikes take their places around the truck, close enough to protect and loose enough to move. Asphalt hums beneath us, the vibration climbing through my boots and into my chest until the noise in my head begins to thin. The clubhouse falls behind. The road opens wider. For the first time in days, I can breathe without feeling like something is sitting on my ribs.

Nomad’s route carries us through familiar roads with small shifts he called in Church, bypassing two stops he no longer trusts and taking the longer cut near the county line. I ride lead, letting the road open in front of me while the truck keeps pace inside the formation. Graves holds the right flank with that steady patience of his, and Vise rides behind him, watching mirrors more than road. Switch stays sharper than I expected, tucked where he belongs, no showboating, no wasted movement. Deacon rides rear-left, exactly where he said he would, keeping the truck in his line and me in his sights.

The miles strip things down. Sadie’s face fades. The clubhouse fades. Blue stays, but on the road her absence changes shape. It becomes something I can carry instead of something that carries me. Wind presses against my chest. The engine answers every shift of my hand. The world narrows to speed, spacing, mirrors, and sun climbing above the trees.

The first town passes clean. The second comes quiet too, maybe too quiet, though that thought slides through me without catching at first. A delivery van sits at a gas station near the edge of town. Two men stand near a service truck with the hood up. A dark pickup idles near the shoulder half a mile later, driver’s face turned away as we pass.

Nomad’s hand lifts, two fingers sharp enough to snap every nerve in my body awake.

“You see it?” Deacon asks through the comms, calm enough to raise the hair at the back of my neck.

“Yeah. Stay tight.”

The road narrows ahead, trees pressing closer on both sides. Engines echo off trunks and shallow ditches, turning familiar noise into something boxed in and wrong. The white truck rolls between us, steady as ever. Danny keeps his lane. Jonesy leans forward in the passenger seat, his head turning toward the shoulder.

The dark pickup surges from behind as the service truck ahead lurches across the lane.

Nomad swears over the comms. “Block!”

Gunfire cracks through the morning.

The first shots hit metal. The box truck jerks hard as Danny fights the wheel. Graves veers wide, drawing fire away from the front. Vise cuts behind him, already reaching. Switch drops back fast, smart enough to use the truck’s bulk instead of open road.

Then the pickup slams the rear corner of the box truck.

The impact throws everything sideways. The truck fishtails, tires screaming, back end swinging toward Deacon’s line. Jonesy’s side window bursts into glitter. Danny fights the wheel, arms locked, but the truck is too heavy and the road gives him nowhere to go. Metal shrieks as it tips, coming down half on the shoulder, half across the lane.

Deacon has a second. Maybe less.

He lays the bike down to avoid the truck’s back end, and the road takes him hard. His body hits pavement in a violent slide that steals every sound out of my head except my own voice tearing through the comm.

“Deacon!”

More shots come from the trees. Nomad returns fire from the front, using the service truck’s engine block for cover. Graves and Vise move with him, controlled and brutal, forcing the shooters to duck instead of advance. Switch gets low behind the overturned truck, dragging his sidearm free while bullets chew into the white paneling above him.

I brake too hard and feel the bike kick under me. It goes down before I can save it, metal grinding sparks across the road as I throw myself clear and roll. Pain flashes through my shoulder, my hip, the side of my face where pavement kisses skin open. None of it matters. Deacon is twenty feet away and moving wrong.

I get to him on hands and knees because standing makes me too big a target. Rounds snap past, close enough to hear their teeth. The smell of hot rubber and leaking fuel burns the back of my throat. Danny is slumped against the wheel inside the truck, blood dark across his chest. Jonesy hangs half sideways against his belt, eyes open and empty. I see them in pieces because my mind refuses the whole of it.