Just enough.
Savannah had been found alive.
The Black Vipers had taken her.
And an eight-year-old boy had stayed with her when grown men would have run.
The message traveled from clubhouse to clubhouse, from roaring bikes at truck stops to dim-lit garages where old riders still kept their cuts hanging on nails.
Mason Cole heard it somewhere outside Knoxville.
He had been riding for nine straight hours, his black Harley eating up miles of highway while rage burned through him hotter than the Tennessee sun ever could. His beard was soaked with sweat, his hands raw around the handlebars.
When his phone buzzed inside his vest, he nearly ignored it.
Continue on the next page:
