Chapter 16 Chapter sixteen
The morning sun crept over the horizon, painting the jagged peaks of the Devil’s Backbone in hues of bruised purple and gold. The air was finally still, the violent thrum of the helicopter and the scream of engines replaced by the distant, rhythmic clinking of federal agents tagging evidence. I sat on the rear bumper of an ambulance, a thick wool blanket draped over my shoulders, watching as the paramedics stabilized Dax’s arm. He looked like he’d been dragged through a rock crusher, but the way he stared at me across the clearing made my chest tighten with a heat that had nothing to do with the rising sun.
"He’s going to be fine, Mia," Tank grunted, stepping up beside me. The massive enforcer looked relatively unscathed, though his leather vest was shredded at the shoulder. He handed me a bottle of water, his eyes reflecting a rare, quiet respect. "The Vice President has a skull made of reinforced iron. It’ll take more than a fifty-foot jump to knock the sense out of him."
"He’s the President now, Tank," I corrected softly, taking a sip of the water. My throat felt like it had been scraped with sandpaper.
"Yeah," Tank rumbled, a small, grim smile touching his lips. "And for the first time in twenty years, I don't mind following the man in the chair. You did good, Ghost. Your father would’ve been proud of that ride."
I looked down at the encrypted tablet sitting in my lap. The data was gone, distributed to every major law enforcement agency in the country. Silas Thorne was dead, his mountain of secrets incinerated in a fireball that was still smoldering in the ravine below. But the true victory wasn't the data; it was the weight lifted from my shoulders. The debt was dead. The lies were buried.
A federal agent in a crisp windbreaker approached us, his expression unreadable. "Miss Chen? Agent Miller. We’ve verified the upload. The blueprints for the variable-compression system are secure. Given the circumstances of your cooperation, the Department of Justice is dropping all outstanding inquiries into your underground racing history. You’re a free woman."
I felt the breath leave my lungs in a long, shaky exhale. Free. It was a word I hadn't dared to use in three years.
"And Dax?" I asked, nodding toward the ambulance.
"Mr. Steele is a different story," Miller said, glancing at the line of Harleys. "But since he provided the testimony that dismantled the National Death Dealers’ eastern operations, we’re willing to discuss a deferred prosecution agreement. As long as the Iron Wolves stay on the right side of the law, we stay out of Coldwater."
Miller tipped his cap and moved toward the evidence vans. I stood up, the blanket sliding from my shoulders as I walked toward Dax. He saw me coming and waved off the paramedic who was trying to check his vitals. He reached out with his good hand, his fingers catching mine.
"You heard the man," I whispered, leaning in so our foreheads touched. "You have to be a good boy now, Mr. President."
Dax let out a low, raspy chuckle that turned into a wince. "Good is a relative term, Mia. But I think I can manage 'legal' if it means keeping you in the shop. I meant what I said on that cliff. The club is changing. No more drugs, no more hits. We’re going back to the steel."
He pulled me closer, his gaze dropping to the ring on my finger. "I talked to the feds. They’re releasing your father’s original workshop equipment from the foundry. It’ll be at the garage by the time we get back."
The tears I’d been holding back since the tunnel finally spilled over. "Dax..."
"Don't cry yet, Ghost," he murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of my jaw. "We have a lot of work to do. 300,000 words worth of work, remember? There are still loose ends in the city. There are clubs that won't like the new Iron Wolves. And I still haven't seen you finish that prototype."
"The Engine," I said, a new fire igniting in my eyes. "I’m going to build it, Dax. I’m going to finish what he started."
"And I’m going to be the one to test-ride it," he promised, his voice turning dark and possessive. He pulled me down into a kiss that tasted of iron and victory, a claim that echoed through the mountain air.
We stayed like that for a long moment, two survivors silhouetted against the dawn. The Iron Wolves began to mount their bikes, the sound of thirty engines turning over like a synchronized heartbeat. They weren't a gang of criminals anymore; they were a pack. And as Dax leaned on me for support, limping toward his bike, I realized that the road ahead wasn't just clear it was ours.
"Ready to go home?" Dax asked, his hand resting on the handlebars of a borrowed bike.
I looked at my Norton, battered and scarred but still standing. I looked at the man who had risked everything to clear the path for me.
"Ready," I said.
I kicked the Norton to life, the engine's roar a defiant shout against the morning sky. We rode down the mountain together, leaving the ghosts of the Devil’s Backbone behind us, heading toward a city that was about to find out exactly what happens when you underestimate a mechanic’s daughter and the man who loves her.