EIGHTEEN
CARLIE
Back at the clubhouse, I’m pacing, my hands twisting together so hard my knuckles are bone-white. The silence feels like a weight, pressing down on me, drowning out everything except the violent images in my head—images of Mason out there, caught in the chaos. My heart pounds erratically, praying he and his boys make it out of this.
The sudden ring of the phone slices through the stillness, sharp and jarring. I practically leap for it, my breath catching in my throat.
“Hello?” My voice trembles, the fear creeping in even though I try to keep it steady.
“Carlie, it’s Skinner.” His voice is low, serious. “Mason asked me to call you.”
My heart skips. Mason asked him? Why? My mind spins with possibilities, none of them good. “What’s going on?” I manage, my throat tight.
“It’s started,” Skinner says, his tone as steady as ever, like he’s done this a thousand times before. “Mason’s leading the charge, just like we thought.”
My stomach clenches. “Is he okay?” I blurt out, not even able to control the words. I’m terrified of what the answer might be.
“He’s fine,” Skinner reassures me, but there’s a weight behind his words. “He’s doing what he always does—taking care of business. Told me to make sure you knew he’s got this.”
The fact that Mason thought to send word to me—it’s both a relief and a fresh stab of fear. “He asked you to call me?” My voice cracks on the question.
“Yeah,” Skinner says, softer now. “He knew you’d be worried. Said he’s coming back to you, just like always.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, holding onto those words like they’re the only thing keeping me upright. “Please,” I whisper, the plea slipping out before I can stop it. “Just keep him safe. Don’t let anything happen to him.”
“You know Mason,” Skinner replies. “He’s a tough bastard. He’ll be alright. We’ll make sure of it.”
But even though he’s trying to reassure me, it feels thin, like hope that could snap at any second. I clutch the phone tighter, trying to hold onto whatever shred of calm I have left.
“Keep me updated,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady.
“I will,” Skinner promises. “Hang tight. We’ve got this.”
The call ends, leaving me standing alone in the empty clubhouse, gripping the phone like it’s the only thing holding me together. Outside, the world is spinning into chaos, but all I can do is wait, and pray that Mason will come back to me.
MASON
Gunshots rip through the air, shredding the silence like paper. I'm moving before the echo fades, my boots pounding on the grimy floor of Walker's hideout. Dust and debris dance in the dim light as the Iron Reapers close in, our brotherhood an unbreakable chain.
"Pres, left side!" Dagger shouts, his warning slicing through the gunfire.
I pivot, instinct honed by years of survival guiding me. One of Walker's boys springs from the shadows, gun aimed at my heart. Time slows, my finger squeezing the trigger, and he crumples to the ground instantly.
"Push forward!" My voice is a growl, serrated and commanding. We're a force of nature, unstoppable as we advance through the narrow corridors.
A siren call of vengeance propels me, each fallen enemy a step closer to the endgame. Walker's men are dropping, but they're not going down easy. It’s a relentless battle of bullets and bloodshed.
Then, through the haze of adrenaline, I spot him—Walker, that bastard, slinking away like a rat deserting his club. His stocky frame is unmistakable even in the chaos.
"Cover me!" I bark, my focus narrowing to the man who has brought this war upon us.
Feet pounding, I give chase, bursting through the back exit of the hideout. Walker's desperate to slip away, but I'm like a hell hound on his trail. He glances over his shoulder, those cold eyes meeting mine for a split second, and I see it—the fear. He knows I’ve got him.
"Can't let you do that, Walker," I snarl, closing the distance between us.
"Go to hell, Blackstone!" he spits back, but there's a tremor in his voice that wasn’t there before.
"Already been. Didn't like the company," I shoot back, gaining ground.
Our deadly race spills into the open, the night air sharp against my sweat-drenched skin. Walker's running out of options, and I'm running out of patience. Every muscle screams, but I don't slow down. This ends tonight—one way or another.
The sound of my brothers’ guns still echoes behind me, a symphony of retribution. But right here, right now, it's just me and Walker. Man to man. President to President, if you can call him that. And only one of us will walk away.
Walker's boots skid on the grimy pavement as he rounds the corner into the alley. His breaths come in ragged gasps, but mine are steady—controlled. I've been riding the edge of fury and focus all night.
"End of the line, Walker," I rasp out, my voice echoing off the brick walls that trap us both.
He whirls around, his back against a rusted dumpster, eyes wild like a cornered animal. But there's a smirk on his lips, a dark glee in those calculating eyes. "You think you've won, Pres ?" Walker sneers, using my club name like a curse.
"Shut up and fight," I growl, squaring my shoulders. The smell of trash and stale urine assault my senses.
With a sudden lunge, Walker launches himself at me, fists swinging wildly. I block an overzealous right hook and slam my palm into his chest, pushing him back.
I hammer him with a series of punches. His lip splits open, blood painting his teeth like a sick, twisted grin.
“Come on!” he taunts, staggering back but refusing to fall. “Is that all the great Mason Blackstone’s got?”
I dodge his next wild swing, my breath coming in hard and fast. “It’s never been about being the best, Walker,” I say between gasps. “It’s about being right.”
“Right?” He wipes the blood from his mouth, sneering. “Look around, Mason. There’s no right here. There’s just you and me.”
“Enough talk!” I growl, the anger boiling over. With a burst of strength, I tackle him into the wall. The bricks shudder, dust raining down on us as we crash into the cold, hard surface.
My fist connects with his cheekbone, and I feel something crack beneath the skin. Walker howls, a raw, animal sound that echoes off the alley walls.
“Give it up, Walker,” I breathe heavily, gripping his jacket and slamming him back into the wall. “It’s over. You’ve lost.”
“Never,” he snarls, his eyes wild as he headbutts me with a surge of desperation. Pain explodes through my skull, and for a second, the world spins dangerously. But I’ve been through worse. I’m the president of the Iron Reapers MC, and I won’t let some scum like Walker take me down. Not now. Not ever.
We pull apart, circling each other, our breathing ragged. It’s just us now, two men with nothing left to lose but the twisted, bitter honor of outlaws.
“Come on, then,” Walker pants, his fists raised, eyes burning with the madness of a man who knows his time is running out. “Let’s finish it.”
“Let’s,” I agree, and we collide one final time, the fury of everything that’s led to this moment exploding between us. This is it—the last fight, the last chance. Only one of us is walking away tonight.
My knuckles are white, grip like a vise on the last vestiges of control. This dance we’re doing, it’s more than just fists and fury—it's a power play, a fight for the soul of the streets we claim as ours. Walker's breaths come ragged and raw as he staggers back, his footing unsure on the gravel-strewn asphalt.
"Pres..." he spits out my name like it's poison on his tongue, but there's a flicker of something else in his eyes—fear maybe, or the dawning realization that this is the end.
"End of the line," I growl, the world narrows down to the man before me, to resolve the hardening like steel in my gut. I lunge forward, every muscle coiled and ready to deliver the last strike.
His guard drops for just a split second, but it's all I need. My fist swings with the weight of the club behind it, a tight hook that lands square against his jaw. There's a crunch and then Walker crumbles, a heap of broken pride and defeat at my feet.
"Mason!" It's Dagger's voice, a distant call from somewhere beyond the alley's confines. But it's clear enough, pulling me back from the edge where rage and retribution blur into something dark and all-consuming.
I stand over Walker, chest heaving, watching the rise and fall of his battered body. He's still breathing, but the fight's gone out of him.
"Let medics deal with this trash," Dagger says, clapping a hand on my shoulder as the rest of the Iron Reapers filter in, their faces grim but victorious.
We leave Walker for the authorities and ride back to the compound, engines roaring like the battle cry of avenging angels. The clubhouse comes into view, a beacon in the gathering dusk, and I can feel it—the weight lifting, this horrible chapter closing.
"Brothers!" I call out as we dismount, the familiar faces of my family gathered in the fading light. "We ride together, we fight together, and today, we've shown what that means."
Cheers erupt, piercing the twilight. "Tonight, we drink to victory, to loyalty, and to the unbreakable bond of the Iron Reapers. Tomorrow, we ride on."
The compound's a mess of cheers and clinking glasses, but I’m not in the mood for celebrating. My boots crunch on gravel as I navigate through the crowd.
"Mason," her voice cuts through the room, soft and strong all at once.
I turn and there she is, Carlie, looking like hope in a world gone mad. Her blonde curls catch the last light of day.
"Hey, Darlin'," I say, my voice rough. The clubhouse fades, it's just her now, her and the ache in my bones.
"Mason," she repeats, and damn if it doesn't sound like a prayer. She steps close, sees the damage written on my skin, reads it like a story of survival.
"Thought I lost you," she whispers, fierce and fragile in one breath.
"Never," I grunt out, 'cause words are too complicated and my throat's full of relief. "Nothing will take me away from you."
She reaches up, traces a line down my cheek, and her touch is like fire and ice. "You're hurt," she says, eyes full of worry.
"Been worse," I admit, shrugging off the pain 'cause her being here, that's all the medicine I need.
"Stubborn," she grumbles.
"Comes with the territory," I laugh, and it stings like hell but it's worth it to see her smile.
"Come here," she murmurs, and pulls me into her arms.
I go willingly, wrapping my arms around her, pulling her tight against me. She's solid and real. "You made it through," she sighs against my chest, her breath warm on my skin.
"Yeah, we did," I confirm, 'cause it's the truth and it's what keeps me going. We're battered, maybe, but not broken. Not even close.
"Whatever's next," she says, looking up at me with those clear blue eyes, "We'll face it together."
"Damn right." The words are a vow, etched deep in my soul.