32. River

THIRTY-TWO

RIVER

TWENTY-TWO YEARS OLD

Heavy metal reverberated through the walls of their MC's club where River was slung against the wall in the side alley. He inhaled a deep drag of his smoke before he rocked his head back and exhaled toward the blackened sky. He watched the vapor twist and curl before it disappeared into the nothingness above.

The sound of the city night shouted all around. The howl of the sirens and the blare of horns and the random gunshot that ricocheted through the air.

When he felt the movement, he shifted to cast a glance at the door to find Trent stepping out. Trent was their VP, though River respected him a thousand times over their actual Pres, Cutter, who was a fuckin' psychopath. River had come to the quick realization that he couldn't be trusted.

But Cutter was Trent's father, and since River's loyalty was to Trent, he didn't say much. He kept his fuckin' mouth shut and did his duty. Trent was the one who'd given him and his sister and the rest of his crew shelter when they'd been little more than kids running the streets .

Now they ran the streets.

Taking another drag of his cigarette, he lifted his chin toward Trent. "How's that tat, brother?"

River had been dabbling in the art, taking the sketches he'd drawn for as long as he could remember and bringing them to life with ink.

He had to admit, he found some kind of satisfaction in the work.

Trent dug into his pocket to pull out a smoke, and he leaned against the wall next to River. "It's good fuckin' work, man."

He wiggled his right hand where he'd gotten a skull and rose. "Seems you've got some prospects outside of this life."

River shook his head as he exhaled. "Nah, man, you know this is in my blood."

"You do good at that, too. Ride was clean last night."

It was the one part of this that had never sat right. Running drugs. People were fucked as it was without them being blitzed out of their minds. Families ruined.

His gut twisted, thinking how he'd feel if his baby sister got tangled in something like that.

Trent hesitated, itching as he looked around before he started to speak toward his boots. "Wanted to warn you that I think there might be a shift coming."

Uncertainty squeezed River's chest. "What kind of shift?"

"Some shit's going down. Think my brothers and I are gonna have to split."

"Fuck," River mumbled toward the ground as he ran an agitated hand through his hair. Knew what that meant. The implications.

Last thing River wanted was to be under the thumb of Cutter Lawson.

Trent was the only reason he was there.

"Keep it on the low, yeah? Not sure what's going to happen. Just wanted you to know so you can prepare."

"Of course, brother."

Trent squeezed his shoulder. "Know I can count on you."

Then he pushed from the wall and disappeared back into the club.

River blew out a frustrated sigh, dread pounding through his bloodstream. He straightened and started out of the alleyway and headed out front. He bypassed his bike that sat among the thirty-odd others lining the front of the club.

He needed to walk.

Think.

He shoved his hands into his pockets as he took to the sidewalk. It was after one in the morning, and that seedy drone had taken to the atmosphere. The drone of trucks as they passed on the freeway in the distance, the barking of dogs, those sirens that never ceased.

He took a left and headed down a narrower street. It was lined by shitty apartment buildings and bowed in poverty.

Guilt constricted again. Knowing he was a part of the problem. He did his best to ignore the begging he heard through an open window above.

A woman pleading, "No…please stop…I didn't do it."

He heard the slug that was undeniably a punch.

She wailed. Wailed and begged.

River tried to keep moving. To mind his own business. But he was scaling the fire escape on the side of the building. One second later, he was inside the crummy apartment, looming behind the piece of shit who towered over a battered woman on the floor.

The man went to kick her in the face with his boot, and River was on him without him knowing, his knife drawn from his pocket and flicked open. The man flailed and tried to whirl, but River outsized him at least by double. River pulled the bastard's head back by the hair and he dragged the knife across his throat.

Not one fuckin' hesitation.

The woman screamed and screamed.

River let him go, and the man slumped to the floor.

He turned to the woman who was scrambling back, her screams turning to whimpers as she begged, "Please, no."

Terror blanketed her eyes, and he carefully knelt in front of her as he murmured, "I'm not going to hurt you."

"The fuck are we supposed to do with her?" Theo's voice was hushed where River and his crew were huddled in the corner of the abandoned building down the street. "We can't take her to the fuckin' cops."

She was across the room, shaking where River had wrapped her in a blanket.

"Obviously," Otto said, frustration dripping from his tone.

River dragged both hands over his head. Knowing the situation he'd put his crew in, but that didn't mean he felt any regret.

He'd do it a thousand times over.

Even if it meant he was going to jail for the rest of his life.

"How the fuck we're going to keep her quiet is the question we should be asking," Kane said.

It was Cash who spoke up from where he leaned hidden in the corner that halted the conversation. "We need to get her a new identity. She can't exist anymore. She needs to disappear."

"How the hell do we make that happen?" Theo asked.

Except we all knew.

Cash was Iron Owls' hacker. The one who made whatever he wanted appear…or disappear.

Money.

Cars.

Mostly records of people the club had put in the ground.

"You can do that?" Otto's brow twisted. "Fully do that, and she can start a new life?"

"Yeah. But that means she has to go all in. Accept that it means she is no longer Angela Burkin. And she can never say a fuckin' word otherwise."

"And you trust her to do that?" Skepticism poured out of Theo, and he was looking at River when he asked it.

River hesitated then moved. The woman flinched at his approach, though there was something in her expression that made him press forward. He dropped to a knee in front of her, his voice soft. "You want a new life?"

She laughed like it was absurd. "What do you mean, a new life?"

"To start over. As a different person. We get you someplace else. Set you up. Angela Burkin no longer exists, and neither do we."

He let his eyes convey what that meant.

His life was riding on this, too.

Her gaze dropped then she said, "I had no life. Maybe now, I can."