Page 104 of Wraith

“There,” I say, pointing with a hand that won’t stop shaking. “That’s his truck.”

Evan’s motorcycle rumbles to a stop beside Molly’s bike, and the others pull up in a loose formation around us. The house sits at the end of a cul-de-sac — single-story, beige siding, brown trim, an anonymous suburban sameness that disappears into every neighborhood. In the driveway, I see five motorcycles lined up like metal predators.

My hands won’t stop shaking.

Havoc and Mayhem dismount first, both of them moving with the simple confidence that comes from doing violence professionally and, from everything I hear, habitually and leisurely, too. Mayhem’s mohawk catches the early light, making him look like some kind of punk rock angel of death. Havoc stretches, cracking his neck, and when he grins at his brother, it’s a smile that says he’s about to have fun.

I’m so glad they’re on my side.

Bishop arrives in his truck, medical kit already in hand. Breaker and Goldie pull up last, their engines cutting out in near-perfect synchronization.

We huddle near the vehicles like conspirators, our voices low. The neighborhood is still. No one knows that in about three minutes, this quiet suburban street is going to turn into a war zone.

“Gator, brother, I appreciate you taking your oath to the club seriously and calling us about this. What’s the plan?” Goldie says. His voice is calm.

I bet he had his matcha this morning.

“It’s simple. We don’t have time for anything complicated, because the longer we wait, the more likely it is that Wraith dies. Havoc, Mayhem, I want you to take the front,” Evan says. His voice has gone flat and tactical, all emotion stripped away. “Breaker, Goldie, you’re with me on the back entrance. We go in hard and fast. No mercy. These fuckers took my sister, they tortured her, and now they’re doing the same to that asshole in there. So we hit them with everything.”

“Bishop stays out here,” Goldie adds. “Once we’ve secured the scene, we’ll call you in to patch up whoever needs patching.”

“And us?” Molly asks, but I already know the answer from the way Evan won’t quite meet my eyes.

“You two stay out here where it’s safe. Far back. Near the vehicles. If things go sideways, you run.”

I open my mouth to argue, but before I can speak, a scream cuts through the morning air.

It’s distant. Muffled by walls and windows. But I know that voice the way I know my heartbeat.

Wraith.

The sound of him in pain hits me like a fist to the solar plexus. My knees go weak. Because that’s not just pain — that’s agony. That’s someone being destroyed piece by piece.

“Evan…” I say.

“We need to move,” Evan says. “Now.”

But I’m already moving toward Havoc, my legs carrying me forward before my brain catches up. “I need a gun.”

Havoc looks at me as if I’ve just asked him to lend me his favorite kidney. “What?”

“A gun. You have extras. I need one.”

“June, no,” Evan says.

“I’m not arguing about this.” My voice comes out harsh. “You’re going in there. I need to protect myself if someone comes out. If Midnight comes out. If any of them come out. Unless you want me to be helpless if they try to take me again?”

Havoc glances at Mayhem, some silent brother communication passing between them. “I only got three pieces on me. Not really in a position to be handing them out like party favors.”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Molly’s voice cuts through the tension like a blade. She’s holding her shotgun — the one she keeps behind the bar at The Noble Fir for security — and she looks at Havoc like he’s the dumbest person she’s ever met. “Give the girl a gun so she can protect herself, you moron. What’s wrong with you?”

Havoc holds up his hands in surrender.

“Alright, alright. Jesus.” He reaches behind his back and pulls out a Beretta M9, holding it out to me grip-first. “This is basically like a toy. Little kick, but nothing you can’t handle. Safety’s here. Fifteen rounds. Don’t shoot yourself in the foot.”

I take it. The weight settles into my palm. “I know how to use it. Wraith took me to the range a few times.”

The irony isn’t lost on me. He taught me to shoot. And now I might need to use those skills to save him from his own stupidity.