The rumble grew louder.
It wasn’t thunder. The sky was painfully clear.
It was engines.
A pack of motorcycles roared around the bend in tight formation, chrome flashing in the sun like shards of light. At the front rode a broad-shouldered man with a dark beard streaked with gray, his leather vest marked with the insignia of a Tennessee riding club known as the Iron Brotherhood.
His name was Mason Carter.
Most called him Mace.
Mason had spent six years dismantling Randy Cobb’s operations one rumor at a time, convinced that the official story of his wife’s death didn’t make sense. The hospital records had gaps. The attending surgeon had abruptly relocated. A nurse had once whispered something about a live birth before retracting it in terror.
He had chased ghosts across Tennessee.
When he saw the wrecked truck in the ditch, his heart slammed against his ribs.
He killed the engine before the bike fully stopped and sprinted downhill, boots sliding on gravel. The other riders followed close behind.
