Chapter 6
1233 Words
Grayson
The headline glares up at me from my phone screen, and ice shoots through my veins.
Ten girls, ages three to seven, missing in Moonshadow Creek over the past month.
Fuck.
My gut knots hard. There's only one thing this could mean.
Some sick bastard is trafficking kids again.
It's been eleven years since the Moonshadow Creek m******e—since I put a bullet in my father's skull and wiped out every piece of s**t that worked with him. But the memories never fade.
I can still see those cages in the clubhouse basement. Still hear the rusted hinges scream when we forced them open. Still remember the way those little girls looked at us—silent, terrified, too broken to believe hope was real.
We freed them. Sent them back to their families. Prayed like hell it was over for good.
But it's not.
It's back.
And I don't know who the hell could be behind it this time.
Last year, we killed Silas Carter—unknowingly the last thread tied to my father's trafficking ring. The sick fucker who bought my sister, groomed his son to twist her head, and even put a bounty on her after she was pregnant with my brothers' kids.
Inside his hideout, we found women chained to their addictions—recovering junkies pumped so full of drugs they were more livestock than human.
Some were so far gone they didn't even know their own names. Others begged us to let them die instead of forcing them to face the reality of what they'd been through.
We tore the place apart. Freed every last of them. Burned Silas—and his legacy—to the f*****g ground.
I thought that was it. The end of the nightmare.
But staring at this headline, I know I was wrong.
And if history's repeating itself, then some sick f**k thinks he can rebuild what Jax started.
Over my dead body.
The Crimson Reapers and Iron Serpents own this town. Whoever's dumb enough to think they can slip in and start that s**t up again is about to get a rude f*****g awakening.
My jaw locks as I stare at the headline one more time before hitting War's number on my burner.
He picks up on the second ring, voice lazy, like he's got a joint hanging from his lips.
"Well, look who it is. Don't tell me the mighty Prez of the Reapers is callin' me at two in the morning 'cause he's lonely. Aren't you fuckin' Alyssa's friend now?"
"Cut the s**t, War." My tone's flat, sharp. "Ten girls... little kids... went missing in Moonshadow Creek this month."
The silence that follows isn't casual. It's heavy, stretched tight.
When he finally speaks again, the humor's gone. "f**k. Someone's trafficking kids again?"
"You tell me." I lean back in my chair, my jaw grinding. "Could be another MC. Could be the mafia. Could be some freelance piece of s**t trying to carve out territory. Doesn't matter who it is—they're about to learn this town isn't open for business."
On the other end, I hear the faint drag of smoke, then a low growl bleeding through the static.
"I'll dig," he mutters, steel creeping through his lazy drawl. "If someone's moving kids through our backyard, it won't stay buried for long."
He's right. It won't.
But sick motherfuckers flock together, and I know how fast rot spreads once it takes root. One operation never stays one. It multiplies, festers.
"The faster we find out, the faster we shut it down," I say gruffly.
War hums, low and dangerous. "And when we do, we're not playin' cleanup. We go in hot—and this time, me and Logan get our piece of the fun. Don't keep us on the sidelines again."
My jaw ticks. "You're still cryin' about that? It was literally a decade ago."
And yeah—War might've been grown enough to handle himself back then, but Logan sure as hell wasn't. Kid was barely twelve. Their body wasn't built for the kind of blood War wanted to drag him into.
Let's not forget Logan's obsession with my sister.
I wanted him as far from Alyssa—and from that night—as possible.
But now that War's the one in charge, I don't have to worry about some bat-s**t-crazy kid blowing up the whole operation.
I trust him. He's proven himself—put his life on the line for Alyssa more times than I can count.
And Logan? He's quieter now, not fighting War the way he used to.
But I'm not stupid. One day, he might cage War long enough to crawl back out—and if that happens, I know exactly where he'll go.
Straight for her.
And I'll put him in the ground before I ever let that happen.
I drag a hand down my face, forcing myself back to the reason I made the call. "Once we have a name, we'll decide how to handle it. Until then, this stays between us."
War exhales on the other end, a low rasp that sounds more like a growl than a breath. "Yeah, yeah. I'll keep it under wraps. But if I find somethin', you'll be the first to know."
"Good." I hang up without another word.
Silence fills the room, but my head's anything but quiet.
When it's not one thing, it's another.
A never-ending shitstorm—that's the life I've lived since I was sixteen.
And it sure as hell isn't slowing down any time soon.
A part of me wants to call Ashley, drag her over, and f**k my little minx until all the noise shuts off in my skull.
But then I remind myself—she's not a replacement for my wife.
I can't depend on her.
Wouldn't be fair to her. Wouldn't be fair to me.
Ashley's just a distraction.
And right now, I can't afford distractions.
Not with little girls vanishing in my town.
Because if this s**t keeps spreading, it won't stop at strangers' daughters.
It'll bleed straight to my family.
My brothers have little girls.
And my sister—she's got three of her own.
I'd never forgive myself if something happened to them because I didn't end it fast enough.
Failure isn't an option. Not this time.
I've buried too many bodies and lived with too many ghosts to let another one join the pile.
Whoever's behind this—I'll find them.
And when I do, there won't be a trial, or a chance to bargain.
There'll just be me, a gun, and a hole big enough to make sure no one can find them.
For now, all I can do is wait.
War works fast. We should have a name soon.
But silence and waiting have never sat well with me.
It's what pushed me into pills. What shoved me into a marriage Christine and I sure as hell weren't ready for.
I grab the bottle from inside my desk drawer and pour two fingers of whiskey, neat.
The burn scorches my throat, and with it comes the memories I've spent years trying to drown.
But whiskey doesn't bury ghosts. It just lets 'em breathe.
And tonight, they're tearing their way out.
Dragging me back to the night I put my father—Jax Bennett—down like the rabid dog he was.
- Writer
