Part I — Cole
The road to Clearbend was a graveyard of smoke and silence.
Hours after the ambush, the Reapers rode slow — engines growling low, their headlights cutting through a fog thick enough to choke on. Cole led the line, one hand gripping the throttle, the other pressed against the shoulder Elena had stitched with trembling fingers. The pain was dull now, like a heartbeat buried under the weight of loss.
They reached what used to be a lumber town. Boarded houses. Rusted swings creaking in the wind. The Reapers parked beside an abandoned mill, the Reaper insignia catching in the dying light — black wings on blacker leather.
Lyle's body was wrapped in a tarp on the back of Jax's bike. No one spoke when they carried him to the hill overlooking the road. The ground was hard, the shovel dull. Still, they dug.
Cole watched every motion like it was being branded into his memory. Lyle had been with him since the beginning — when the Reapers were just three men and a dream of surviving a world that didn't want them. Now it was just dirt and silence.
"Say something, boss," Jax muttered, voice rough from smoke and grief.
Cole swallowed. His throat burned.
"Lyle rode hard," he said finally. "He didn't flinch. He didn't fold. He died a Reaper — and the road'll remember his name."
They lowered the body, the sound of earth hitting tarp echoing like distant thunder. A few of the men muttered their goodbyes. Someone left a Reaper patch on the grave. Cole just stood there, the wind tugging at his jacket, eyes burning but dry.
When they were done, the sky was bruised purple. The men drifted back toward camp, engines cooling. Cole stayed behind, staring out at the endless road below.
He hated how quiet it was.
Quiet meant something worse was coming.
A soft voice broke the silence behind him.
"You shouldn't be standing," Elena said.
He didn't turn right away. "You shouldn't be worrying."
"I wasn't," she said, though her tone betrayed her. "You're bleeding again."
Cole exhaled, finally facing her. The bandage on his shoulder was faintly pink. Her face was drawn — pale under the fading light, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. She looked like she'd aged a year in a day.
"Get some rest, Elena."
She shook her head. "Not until you do."
For a moment, he almost smiled. Almost.
Then the wind shifted, carrying the smell of rain and something else — oil, smoke, the faint metallic promise of violence.
He looked toward the road again.
"We're not alone out here," he muttered.
Her eyes followed his. "Vultures?"
"Maybe." He flexed his hand, feeling the pull of the stitches. "Maybe ghosts."
—
Part II — Elena
The rain came just after sunset.
Soft at first — a whisper against the metal roof of the old mill. Then heavier, a steady rhythm that filled the silence the men had left behind. The fire in the corner threw long shadows across the cracked floorboards, painting the room in shades of gold and smoke.
Cole sat on a low bench, shirt stripped to his waist, the edge of his bandage stained again. His back was a map of scars — some faded, some fresh. They told stories she didn't dare ask about, but couldn't stop reading.
Elena knelt in front of him, the med kit open beside her. The air smelled like rain and antiseptic.
"Hold still," she murmured.
Cole's mouth curved slightly. "I'm sittin', aren't I?"
"That's not still."
She dabbed the wound carefully, her fingers steady even as her heartbeat wasn't. The cut wasn't deep, but it was angry — a line of red just below his collarbone. She pressed a clean cloth to it, watched the crimson bloom through the gauze, and swallowed.
"Should've let it rest longer," she said quietly.
"Can't."
"Why not?"
He looked at her then — really looked. The firelight caught his eyes, turning them to bronze. "Because the moment I start restin', someone else dies."
The words hit harder than they should have. She looked away, wrapping the bandage tighter than necessary.
"Lyle's death isn't on you."
He didn't answer, just flexed his jaw. The silence stretched, heavy as the storm outside.
When she finished, she sat back on her heels, wiping her hands on her jeans. He reached for his shirt, then stopped halfway, eyes still on her.
"You ever regret stayin' with us?" he asked suddenly.
The question caught her off guard. "Regret?"
He nodded. "You had the chance to run. Back in Grayson Point. Before the fire."
She exhaled slowly. "I did think about it."
"And?"
"And then I saw what running looked like." Her voice softened. "It looked lonely."
He blinked, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then he gave a low laugh — the kind that sounded more like surrender than amusement.
"Careful," he said. "That kind of talk makes a man forget how dangerous he is."
"Maybe that's not such a bad thing."
The rain deepened, hammering the roof. Neither of them moved. The distance between them — all smoke and silence — was suddenly small enough to cross.
Cole leaned forward slightly, his gaze searching hers. "Elena…"
The name lingered there — half a warning, half a confession.
But before the moment could break, the door slammed open.
"Cole!" Jax's voice cut through the storm. "We've got company — headlights, comin' up fast!"
Cole was on his feet before the echo faded, his calm gone in an instant.
"Stay here," he said, grabbing his gun and jacket in one motion.
"Cole—"
But he was already gone, swallowed by the storm.
Elena rose slowly, her pulse pounding. The world had gone quiet again — that sharp, unnatural quiet that comes before chaos.
She looked at the door, then at the blood still wet on her fingertips.
"Not this time," she whispered, reaching for the small pistol he'd left on the table.
And then she followed him out into the rain.
---
Part III — Cole
The rain turned the world into smoke and steel.
Cole stepped out first, boots sinking into the mud, eyes narrowing against the blur of headlights winding up the distant road. The storm made it hard to see how many — but the growl of engines told him enough. Too many.
Jax came running from the line of bikes, rifle slung across his chest, rain plastering his hair to his forehead.
"Six, maybe seven bikes," he shouted over the wind. "Could be scouts. Could be worse."
Cole's hand went to his gun automatically. His shoulder ached under the fresh bandage, but the pain kept him sharp. "No lights. We move quiet. If they're Vultures, we finish it fast."
Jax nodded, signaling the others. Within seconds, shadows peeled from the dark — Reapers spreading out, weapons glinting. The old mill behind them loomed like a silent witness.
Then a voice called from the rain.
"Cole!"
He froze. It wasn't a shout of warning. It was a challenge — drawn out, mocking.
The headlights flickered closer until figures came into view: seven riders in black helmets, the red insignia of the Vultures bleeding through the storm.
Cole's jaw clenched. "So it begins," he muttered.
One of them cut his engine and stepped forward. The leader — tall, broad-shouldered, scar slashing across his cheek. His voice carried even through the downpour.
"You're a hard man to find, Reaper."
Cole didn't raise his weapon. Not yet. "Not hard enough, apparently."
The man laughed — a dry, cruel sound. "Lyle send his regards?"
That did it.
Cole's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes went cold.
Jax shifted beside him, finger tightening on the trigger. But Cole lifted a hand. "Hold."
He took a step forward, rain running down his face, voice steady and lethal. "You made one mistake, Vulture."
"Oh yeah?"
"You came back."
The first gunshot cracked the silence. Cole fired once — straight through the man's visor. The body dropped before the thunder caught up.
Then the night exploded.
Engines roared. Gunfire ripped through the rain. The world narrowed to muzzle flashes and the sharp, electric sting of adrenaline. Cole moved like a storm — controlled chaos, every shot deliberate. Jax covered the flank. Two Vultures went down in the mud.
Then a sound behind him — lighter footsteps. He turned just in time to see Elena by the mill door, pistol raised, eyes wide but steady.
"Elena, get back inside!"
She didn't listen — fired a shot that clipped a Vulture before he could flank Cole. Her hands were shaking, but her aim was true.
Cole cursed under his breath, swung back to cover her, and took another down with a clean shot.
Within minutes, it was over. The last Vulture peeled off into the dark, his tail light vanishing like a dying ember.
Silence fell again — except for the rain and the ragged sound of breathing.
Cole lowered his gun slowly, eyes sweeping the field. Four bodies. No Reaper dead this time.
Jax kicked one of the helmets aside. "Scouts," he said grimly. "Means the rest ain't far."
Cole looked toward the horizon, where the storm bled into blackness. He felt the weight of the choice pressing in — the road ahead splitting in two: run or fight.
Elena stepped up beside him, rain dripping from her hair, pistol still in hand. "What now?"
Cole's voice was low, certain.
"We don't run anymore."
She looked at him — and saw something final in his eyes. The man who'd carried her out of hell was ready to walk back into it.
He holstered his gun, jaw tight. "Tomorrow, we take the fight to them."
The rain hissed harder, washing blood from the dirt. Somewhere in the dark, thunder rolled like applause.
The Reapers were done being hunted.
---