Three years ago.
The garage smelled of oil and rust, chrome polish and old leather—the kind of place that used to feel like home when her father was alive. Tonight, it felt like a tomb. Anna pressed her back against the cold metal of her father's workbench, the same surface where he'd taught Jason to rebuild carburetors and adjust timing chains, where he'd shown them both that machines were honest in ways people never were.
Tools hung in neat rows along the pegboard walls—wrenches and sockets organized by size, screwdrivers arranged like surgical instruments. The concrete floor was stained with years of grease and blood from knuckles split during late-night repairs, a testament to the kind of work that built calluses and character in equal measure. Shadows stretched long across the space, broken only by the harsh glare of motorcycle headlights cutting through the open bay door like searchlights hunting prey.
Engines idled outside, their rumble different from the familiar growl of Iron Wolves Harleys. These were sport bikes—high-pitched, aggressive, built for speed rather than the low-end torque that characterized cruiser culture. The sound set Anna's teeth on edge, a mechanical warning that everything was wrong.
Boots stomped closer across the gravel lot, multiple sets moving with the coordinated purpose of a hunting pack. Anna's pulse hammered in her throat as she recognized what was coming through that door—colors that didn't belong here, patches that meant violence and retribution.
The Serpents. Rival bikers from the east side of Vegas, their territory bleeding into Iron Wolves turf like an infection that had been festering since Jason's arrest. Their cuts weren't supposed to be here, not in the heart of De'Leon family territory, but territorial boundaries meant nothing when blood debts came due.
Five men filled the doorway, their leather cuts adorned with the coiled snake insignia that had been at war with the Iron Wolves since before Anna was born. Mean smiles stretched across faces weathered by desert sun and violence, weapons glinting in the harsh fluorescent light that buzzed overhead like dying insects. These weren't the kind of men who negotiated—they were collectors, here to extract payment in whatever currency they could find.
One of them stepped forward, a thick-necked giant with a scar running down his left cheek like a white lightning bolt against tanned skin. His hands were massive, knuckles scarred from years of fighting, and his grin was all hunger and predatory satisfaction. The kind of expression a shark wore when it smelled blood in the water.
"Well, well," he drawled, his voice carrying the accent of someone who'd grown up in the rougher parts of Henderson. His eyes swept over Anna like she was livestock at auction, cataloging assets and vulnerabilities with the practiced eye of a predator. "Pretty little thing hiding in daddy's garage. Guess Jason left more behind than just his mess when the feds dragged him away."
Anna's breath caught in her throat, her pulse thundering so loud she was sure they could hear it. She glanced toward the side door that led to the compound's main yard, calculating distances and obstacles, but there were too many of them positioned too strategically. Four blocking the main bay, one covering the side exit. She was trapped like a mouse in a maze with no way out.
"What do you want?" she asked, fighting to keep her voice steady even though her hands trembled behind her back, fingers searching the workbench for anything that might serve as a weapon.
Scarface leaned against the workbench with casual insolence, close enough for her to smell the whiskey and cigarette smoke that clung to his leather like a second skin. His presence filled the space, radiating the kind of violence that came from years of using fear as a tool.
"Your brother spilled blood that wasn't his to spill," he said, his voice carrying the weight of institutional grudges and generational feuds. "Two of ours, gone. Dead. Shot down like dogs in a Vegas parking lot because your hothead brother couldn't control his temper. That debt don't vanish just because the federal government locked him in a cage."
Anna's heart hammered against her ribs like a caged bird trying to escape. She remembered the night Jason had been arrested—the phone calls, the sirens, the way her father's face had gone gray when the details came out. Two Serpents dead, Jason standing over the bodies with a smoking gun, claiming self-defense that nobody believed.
"He's paying for it," she said, lifting her chin with defiance she didn't feel. "He's in federal prison. Twenty-five to life if he's unlucky."
"Prison don't pay the bills," Scarface sneered, his scarred face twisting into an expression of contempt. He gestured to the others with a casual wave that made Anna's skin crawl. "The Serpents want compensation for our losses. Cash for the families. Product to replace what we lost. Or..." His eyes lingered on her with the kind of look that made her feel like she needed a shower. "Something else of equivalent value."
The men laughed, cruel and sharp as breaking glass. One of them spat tobacco juice onto the clean concrete floor, the brown stain spreading like a declaration of ownership. Another pulled a length of chain tight between his fists, metal links clinking together like a countdown to violence.
Anna swallowed hard, tasting copper and fear. "I don't have money. I don't have product. I'm not part of this life. I'm just trying to finish high school and stay out of everyone's way."
"Wrong answer, princess," Scarface said, his hand shooting out faster than she could react. He grabbed her chin with fingers like steel cables, forcing her to look at him while his thumb pressed against her jawbone hard enough to leave marks. "You became part of this life the minute your brother put bullets in my friends. Your last name made sure of that."
Anna tried to twist away from his grip, but another Serpent moved behind her, his body a wall of muscle and malice that blocked any hope of escape. She could feel his breath on the back of her neck, could smell the motor oil and violence that seemed to follow these men like a plague.
Scarface leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that was somehow more terrifying than shouting. "Debt's gotta be paid, little girl. And since your brother ain't here to settle accounts, and your daddy ain't around to protect you, that leaves you. All alone. All available."
Fear clawed up Anna's spine like a living thing, primal and overwhelming. Without thinking, she slammed her knee upward, connecting with Scarface's thigh just above the kneecap. It wasn't enough to drop him, but it was enough to make him stumble back with a string of curses that would have made a sailor blush.
The others roared with laughter and fury, closing in like wolves scenting wounded prey. One grabbed her arm, twisting it behind her back until fire shot through her shoulder and she cried out in pain. Another kicked the side door shut with a bang that echoed through the garage like a gunshot, sealing her inside with five men who had nothing to lose and everything to prove.
Scarface wiped blood from his split lip with the back of his hand, fury flashing across his scarred features like lightning in a storm cloud. "Bad move, girl," he snarled, pulling a knife from his belt with practiced ease. The blade was eight inches of polished steel, sharp enough to shave with and stained with what looked like old blood. "Now we take what we want and add a little interest for the trouble."
Anna thrashed against the iron grip on her arm, desperation giving her strength she didn't know she possessed. But the Serpent holding her was too strong, too experienced at subduing struggling victims. The knife drew closer, its edge catching the overhead light like a promise of pain to come.
Her thoughts screamed through the terror—Jason, where the hell are you when I need you? Dad, why did you have to die and leave me alone with these animals?
That's when she heard them. Engines roaring outside, different from the sport bikes the Serpents rode. These were deeper, louder, carrying the distinctive rumble of Harley-Davidson V-twins pushed to their limits. The sound grew closer, multiplying, until the garage walls vibrated with mechanical thunder.
The Serpents froze like deer in headlights, their heads snapping toward the bay door in unison. The knife stopped inches from Anna's throat as Scarface's eyes narrowed with confusion and growing concern.
"What the fuck is this?" he muttered, his voice carrying the first hint of uncertainty Anna had heard.
The bay door rattled on its tracks as tires screeched outside, rubber burning against asphalt in the kind of stops that meant business. Heavy boots hit the ground with military precision, multiple sets moving in coordination that spoke of planning and purpose.
Then a voice cut through the mechanical noise like a sword through silk—commanding, confident, and cold as winter moonlight on desert stone.
"Step away from her."
The Serpents spun toward the sound, knives and chains raised defensively, their eyes wide with the sudden realization that the hunters had become the hunted. Shadows filled the doorway, backlit by the glare of motorcycle headlights that turned the approaching figures into silhouettes of vengeance.
Victor Kane strode through the entrance first, a chrome-plated .45 automatic leveled steady in his hand like an extension of his will. The gun was a work of art—custom grips, extended barrel, the kind of weapon that cost more than most people made in a month. Behind him, Iron Wolves poured through the door in a coordinated assault, their own weapons drawn and ready. The overhead lights caught the wolf insignia on their cuts, casting predatory shadows across faces grim with purpose.
Victor's cold blue eyes locked on Anna for a fraction of a second, taking in her position, her injuries, the terror in her face. Then they snapped back to the Serpents with the focus of a man who'd made violence into an art form.
"She's under my protection now," he said, his voice carrying the kind of quiet authority that made smart men step aside and stupid ones reach for weapons.
The garage went silent except for the metallic clicks of hammers being pulled back on half a dozen pistols. The Serpents found themselves surrounded, outgunned, and facing men who'd built their reputations on exactly this kind of situation.
Anna held her breath, caught between terror and hope, as two motorcycle clubs prepared for war in the space where her father had once taught her that machines were simpler than people.
She was about to learn just how complicated both could become.