ups, failures, and all. He stood up joints popping and moved toward the bathroom. At the door he paused. Get some sleep, Ironhead. We've got a long ride tomorrow.
And I've got a feeling Montana's going to ask more of us than just showing up. He closed the door. Clayton lay in the dark and let the tears come. Outside six motorcycles sat silent in the parking lot chrome reflecting the cold stars. Tomorrow they would ride again.
Tomorrow they would carry their dead brother home. And somewhere ahead something was waiting for them in the Montana dark. Day three. Route 89, Montana. The landscape changed as they crossed into Montana.
The world opened up into something bigger, older, harder. Mountains rose in the distance like the bones of the earth breaking through skin. The sky stretched so wide it made you feel small and infinite at the same time. They'd been riding for six hours straight. No stops except for gas.
The formation was tight professional. Ghost in the lead as road captain reading the road and the traffic. Hammer beside him. Then Preacher and Wrench. Lucky and Clayton bringing up the rear.
Seven riders in two columns, a brotherhood on wheels. The CB radio crackled to life on channel six. Ghost's voice. Mile marker 30 coming up. Another hour to Gardiner.
How's everyone holding up? A chorus of clicks, the nonverbal acknowledgement. Everyone was good. Clayton rode and let the highway meditation take him. This was what Sterling used to call the long think.
The place where the miles blurred together and your mind went somewhere deeper than conscious thought. He was thinking about Catherine. His wife dead 14 years now. Cancer took her. Slowly gave them time to say goodbye.
He'd been there at the end holding her hand while she slipped away. She'd forgiven him for the life he'd led. The nights away at club runs. The danger that came with the patch. The fact that she'd always have to share him with the brotherhood. "
I knew who you were when I married you." She'd whispered near the end. " I just wish you'd known it, too." He'd never understood what she meant. Not until now.
The CB crackled again. But this time it wasn't Ghost. It was a woman's voice. Older, steady, clear. " To any riders on Route 89 approaching mile marker 34.
This is Eleanor Thorngate. If you can hear me, it's a trap. They're waiting for you. Don't stop. Don't stop for the old blind woman on the porch.
I'm the bait. Save yourselves." Seven motorcycles slowed in unison. Ghost's voice came back on the CB. " Did everyone copy that?"
Six clicks. Then Clayton's voice. " Pull over now." They coasted to the shoulder. Engines idled rumbling like distant thunder.
Clayton dismounted, pulled off his helmet. The others followed suit. " Play it again." Hammer said. Ghost had a recorder on his radio.
Old-school tech from the trucking days. He rewound and hit play. Eleanor's voice filled the air again. Calm, deliberate, warning them away. " Eleanor Thorngate."
Clayton said quietly. " Jesus Christ." The others looked at him. " You know her?" Ghost asked. "
She's Sterling's widow. Sterling Ironclad, Montana charter founding member. He and I rode together for 30 years. Or Preacher's eyes widened. "" Sterling died what, 12 years back?
Motorcycle accident?" " Or that's what I was told." " I didn't." Clayton's voice went rough. I didn't come to the funeral.
We'd stopped talking by then. Another bridge I burned. And now his widow is broadcasting a warning that someone's using her as bait to kill us." Wrench's accent made the words sound even more ominous. Lucky looked north up the highway. "
Mile marker 34. That's what, 4 miles from here?" " About that." Ghost confirmed. Hammer turned to Clayton. "
What do you want to do?" Clayton stared up the empty highway. Heat shimmers rose from the asphalt. The mountains watched impassive. " She said don't stop.
Save ourselves." " That's what she said." " Sterling used to tell me, when someone gives you tactical advice in a hot situation, you've got two choices. Trust it or question it. But you don't ignore it." "
So we turn back?" Lucky asked. " No." Clayton's voice was flat, hard. " We go forward.
But we go smart." Ghost was already pulling out his phone calling up satellite maps. " If someone's setting an ambush, they'll have the high ground. This area." He zoomed in. "
Route 89 runs through a valley here. Hills on both sides. Perfect kill zone if you're thinking like a military planner." " How many are we talking about?" Wrench asked. "
Unknown. But they're confident enough to bait a trap for seven Hells Angels. That means either they've got superior numbers, superior weapons, or they're dumb as hell." " Or all three." Preacher murmured.
Clayton looked at each of them in turn. These men, his brothers. Men who'd followed him into uncertainty without hesitation. " This isn't your fight." he said. "
Eleanor's warning was for me. Someone wants Ironhead. The rest of you can ride around, take the back roads to Gardiner. No shame in it." Hammer's response was immediate. "[ __ ]
that." " Seconded." said Ghost. " Motion carried." Preacher added.
Lucky grinned. " Besides, when's the last time we got to do anything interesting?" Only Wrench was quiet. He was studying the maps on Ghost's phone with the intensity of a man solving a complex equation. " What are you thinking, Wrench?"
Clayton asked. "" I'm thinking..." The big Norwegian looked up. I'm thinking someone very stupid has threatened a brother's widow. And I'm thinking we should teach them the error of their ways. " With extreme prejudice."
Ghost said quietly. Hammer turned to Clayton. " You know this woman. You trust her judgment." " Sterling trusted her with his life.
That's good enough for me." " Then we ride in. But we ride tactical. Ghost, your point. I want a mile between you and the rest of us.
You spot anything wrong, anything at all, you call it and get clear. The rest of us." He looked at the terrain again. " We'll approach from the high ground. Leave the bikes going on foot." "
We're not as young as we used to be." Lucky pointed out. " Which is why we're smarter than we used to be." Hammer's voice was iron. " We do this right and nobody dies today except the people who need killing."
They remounted. Ghost took point, his black softail accelerating up the highway until he was a dot in the distance. The other six waited. Counting time. Watching the road.
Finally Ghost's voice crackled over the CB. " I've got eyes on a small ranch house. Mile marker 34 just like she said. One woman on the porch. No visible hostiles.
But "But what?" Hammer pressed. " But the birds aren't flying. No insects. And I can see three vehicles parked behind a tree line about 200 yards west of the house.
Trucks, blacked-out windows." " Fall back." Hammer ordered. " Slow and easy. Don't spook them." "
Copy." Clayton felt his pulse steady. Combat calm. The thing that happened when the talking stopped and the doing started. He'd felt it in Kuwait.