3. Trap

3

TRAP

I speed up and cut around another vehicle on this old two-lane highway. I look in my mirrors to see if what I think is happening is really happening, and catch a glimpse of Tag on the back of my bike.

At least, that's what we call him. I don't know Tag's real name, and I probably never will. He's one of our informants, and recently he's come across some important information that Grizzly needs—information that's so important I don't even know what it's related to. I was simply sent to pick his ass up and keep him safe.

As I watch a car and another motorcycle weave around the eighteen-wheeler behind me, I know this is about to be a lot more trouble than he might be worth.

But I have orders. I look at the mile marker, and I don't like what I see. My best bet to lose these jackasses is to get on some busy highway and weave in and out until they can't find me, to take some kind of alternate route, but Grizzly sent me into the desert for this shit.

I'm still a good seven miles away—I'll have to book it.

"Well, shit!" I grind my teeth. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a gun lying subtly on the dash of the man behind me as traffic slows.

Maybe there's some kind of animal in the road. Maybe a stopped vehicle. I really don't give a fuck. I need to get the hell out of here.

"Tag," I say with a warning tone. Despite being an informant for an MC, this guy is a chickenshit. I could tell from the way he looked at me when I went to get him. I know it doesn't help that I have these huge muscles and tattoos everywhere, or the fact that I tower over him in stature—but seriously, the guy has had to deal with us before.

Maybe he's just paranoid as hell right now.

"What is it?" he says. I can practically feel the guy shaking behind me.

"I'm going to be honest with you. The next few moments of your life are going to be hell. Hold on tight, lean with the bike, and don't make a fucking sound. Do you understand me?"

He doesn't answer. So I yell it again. "Do. You. Understand. Me?"

I feel a nod. "Yes. I understand."

At least he has the wherewithal not to ask any stupid questions right now. "Here we go," I mumble under my breath.

With the traffic, there's not much of an opening, and for all I know, this was manufactured.

Someone has tipped these assholes off. And I don't even know who the hell they are.

One of the fun things about not being an officer—I'm a ranking member, so I've been around the block a few times, but officers are the only ones to get that insider information. Sometimes, I'm just a dog hired to fetch.

I grit my teeth and gun it, willing my eyes to stay open. It's not the first time I've done this, but it's been a while. There used to be an adrenaline rush. But I'm no longer in my twenties.

My whole body groans with the bike as I push it to its limits, speeding in and out of traffic. I try to block out all the honking, the yelling through people's windows. I have to do this. I have to get away. And hopefully, there's no cop dumb enough to follow me if someone reports me. I'm going way too damn fast for any of that.

I'll be lucky if I don't throw myself off the bike. Hell, I'll be lucky if I don't ruin the bike, for that matter.

I feel the machine between my legs fighting me as I keep gunning it, a sigh of relief coming to my chest as I spot the ramp onto the highway. If I can get on there and get lost in traffic, I can get off at a random exit. And then I can make it into Vegas to get to the compound on the other side of town. I can take back roads if it's necessary, ones almost no one knows about.

That's the one good thing about sending me—I know the area well, like the back of my hand. Maybe that's why Grizzly chose me.

The thing is, there's supposed to be two decoys. I came in with them, and then we split up. Apparently, whoever's after us and this damn informant, they're smarter than we imagined. They must have some kind of surveillance on Tag. Grizzly is not going to be happy about this when I tell him.

I gun it, Tag screeching behind me before he catches himself and hangs on for dear life. I weave around an F-150 on the ramp, and then I get all the way to the left lane. I'm still going at top speed, weaving into the HOV lane at the last minute.

I don't quite remember where this exit is, but at least we can't be followed as inconspicuously as before. Though, I do spot it. The car that was following us.

It's a top-of-the-line sports car. Black. Almost as conspicuous as you can get. I don't know what game they think they're playing, but they're in the lane to the right, trying to get to us.

I eyeball the spikes that keep us in this lane, and I watch every sign, hoping they don't go by too fast for me to see where my best exit might be.

There. I spot a good place to get off. When I see an opening, I don't hesitate.

I cross five lanes of traffic, three cars in front of the one following us, likely surprising them.

I get off at the exit and go, running a red light just in time to avoid being hit by another sports car. I take a left and then a right and then another right. I'm down to ten miles an hour over the speed limit, finally able to slow down. I don't think they're able to follow me here, but I don't want to risk it.

"I'm gonna get us back as fast as I can, but it'll be a little bit longer than I expected because I have to weave around so they can't find the path," I tell Tag. "The last thing we want is them finding the clubhouse."

When he doesn't respond, I don't make him. He's probably scared shitless. Might have even messed his pants, and I wouldn't blame him.

In another twenty-five minutes, and worse for the wear, we're skidding into my parking spot at the clubhouse. I'm ready to lose my shit as I get off my bike, almost forgetting Tag entirely.

I march up the steps and then remember. He's presently ready to kiss the ground, a little bit unsteady on his feet. I get behind him and put a hand on his back to guide him up the stairs.

"We're here. I hope the information you have was worth all that."

It was a rhetorical question, but he nods anyway. So whatever it is, it's big. Even he knows it.

As soon as I open the door, Brander is there. Good. He should know what went down. Normally, this would be something he would do. He's got the name for a reason, and he's a damn good enforcer. But he was dealing with something else.

One of our members has a daughter who was being stalked. We don't play with that shit, and he went to let the guy know that he was messing with the wrong girl. Probably marked him too, and let him know she has an entire MC behind her who aren't afraid to bury him if it comes down to it.

"Whoa. What the hell happened?" he asks as he looks at us. I don't want to know what he sees. Probably my beard and mustache, my dark hair windblown and fucked-up. And Tag, he looks like he's seen a ghost.

"We look that bad, huh?" I say. My voice is more of a growl than I expect it to be, but I'm exhausted and pissed off.

"Why don't you guys come in and sit down at the bar. You both look like you could use a drink." We follow Brander over, and I make sure Tag sits down and doesn't fall over from shock. We all have some scotch and chase it with a shot of tequila.

"So, spit it out. What the hell happened out there?" Brander asks, leaning over the bar.

I shake my head. "Truthfully, I don't fucking know. There were supposed to be two decoys. Nothing was wrong. I was halfway back, maybe more. Then, all of a sudden, there's a car and a motorcycle following us. I was too far from the highway and had to pull some risky maneuvers. Scared the literal shit out of Tag back there."

"I'm sorry for not being there. I really wanted to go. This was my job. But you know what I had going on." He eyes Tag, worried about saying too damn much. It's weird having an outsider in here.

"Nah, man. I understand. Nobody expected this."

We both stare at Tag in silence for a few minutes, and I'm hoping he won't croak before telling Grizzly whatever the hell this is that's so important people want to kill him for it.

Speaking of the devil…the Prez saunters into the room. His casual stance goes stiff as he spots us, and then he comes over. That same resting bitch face he always has when Harlow isn't directly by his side is plastered across his face. It's hard to tell these days when he's actually angry or just being his normal self.

But I know what he's about to be. Furious.

"You're back before the decoys." It's not a question.

I nod.

Grizzly picks up Tag by the collar. "Tell me what the hell is going on here. You owe me some information."

Tag darts his eyes around worriedly, looking for one of us to help him. I scoff, kind of feeling sorry for the guy.

"I usually don't like to speak out of turn, Prez, but he's just been through hell and back."

Grizzly lets go. "Regardless, he's following me into my office and telling me this now before he gets us or himself murdered—clearly something that will happen on the road out there no matter what we do. You can tell me about what happened in the meeting. You're going to be there. Get all the officers rounded up in half an hour."

I'm taken aback by his barking orders and the fact that he wants me at that meeting. I know better than to defy the Prez—and I don't plan on it—but I was kind of hoping to sit this one out since I'm not an officer. I was looking forward to going to my bed and passing the hell out, forgetting this shit ever happened.

I look at Brander, and he just shrugs. "How about I split them with you? I'll go grab Bullwhip, Match, and Colt. You can round up the rest."

We split ways, and I start trudging through the clubhouse. I'm in the mood to get this the fuck over with. I'm already so done with today.