Claimed By My Outlaw Stepbrother

Chapter 13

GAGE pov~

The wind tore past my face like broken glass as I pushed the throttle down hard, the custom engine screaming at a redline pace.

The flat desert highway was a blur of yellow dust and scrub brush under the blinding midday sun. Behind me, the roar of Jax’s chopper cut through the empty sky, his front tire tracking right in my slipstream as we cleared the outer county line.

My mind was a complete mess. Part of me was focused on the tracking coordinates of the salt flats bypass, but the other part was still completely locked away in that residential bedroom.

The memory of the way Sienna had looked at me outside the clubhouse defiant, furious, and holding her chin high despite the chaos was burned into my skull.

My shirt still smelled like the clean soap from her skin. It was throwing my concentration completely out of whack.

I was running on pure adrenaline and three hours of sleep, and if I didn't lock my focus down right now, Creed Vance would have our entire clean shipping ledger in his hands before noon.

"Vandal! Look left!" Jax’s voice barked through my helmet headset, barely cutting through the static.

I flicked my eyes toward the southern ridge line. A thick cloud of white dust was rising over the old oil derrick bypass about a mile out.

Three pickup trucks and a pair of dirt-caked choppers flying the Satan’s Jacks colors were cutting hard across the salt flats, heading straight for the unregulated border crossing.

In the bed of the lead truck, a crumpled figure in a blue flannel shirt was slumped against a stack of rusty oil drums.

Thomas Vale.

"They’re heading for the neutral zone!" Jax shouted through the comms line.

"If they clear that pipeline fence before we clip their rear tires, they’ll drop the paperwork at the state trooper substation across the boundary!"

"Cut the angle, Jax," I growled into the microphone, my jaw setting into a hard line as the real tactical panic hit my chest.

"We don't let them hit the pavement. Sweep the rear truck and take the driver's line out. I'm going for the lead."

I twisted the throttle until the handlebars vibrated violently against my calloused palms.

My chopper launched forward across the rough gravel shoulder, the tires throwing sharp stones into the desert air as I skidded down the dirt embankment to intercept the convoy.

The Jacks spotted us instantly. The passenger window of the rear pickup truck rolled down, and a long, silver rifle barrel poked out into the wind, flashing under the sun.

Crack. Crack.

Two bullets punched through the dirt right beside my front tire, spraying gray sand across my boots. I didn't flinch. I ducked my head low behind the windshield, my hand dropping to the heavy iron tool-wrench hooked to my belt loop.

I didn't want to draw a firearm yet; if the state troopers heard a full gunfight along this specific bypass, the whole territory would go into a federal lockdown before the sun went down.

Jax swung his bike hard to the left, his front fender clipping the rear bumper of the trailing pickup truck with a sickening crunch of metal.

The truck swerved violently across the loose sand, its back tires spinning out of control before it crashed sideways into an old concrete pipe, flipping completely over in a massive cloud of dust and debris.

"One down!" Jax yelled, his voice cracking with excitement. "Get the lead, bro!"

I accelerated, my engine roaring like a predator as I closed the gap on the main truck holding Sienna's father.

Boxer was behind the wheel, his white medical cast resting awkwardly on the door frame as he steered with his good hand. When he looked in his side mirror and saw my massive frame coming up on his tire line, his bloodshot eyes went wide with pure terror.

He slammed his foot on the brake, trying to fish-tail the truck to crush my bike against the pipeline fence.

I anticipated the move. I kicked my stand up, skidded my rear tire sideways, and slid my chopper right along the passenger side door panel with a screech of peeling paint. Before Boxer could correct the steering,

I launched my body off the black leather seat, my heavy work boots slamming hard into the truck bed right next to Thomas.

My bike ghost-rode into the scrub brush, crashing into a ditch, but I was already moving.

Thomas let out a high-pitched whimper, his face covered in fresh sweat and dirt as he cowered against the oil drums, his hands tied behind his back with heavy plastic zip-ties.

Sitting right on the metal floorboards between his knees was a thick, black leather folder.

The Reapers' ledger.

"Vandal!" Boxer screamed from the front cab, trying to reach a sawed-off shotgun through the sliding rear window of the truck.

I didn't give him a single second to aim. I swung my heavy iron tool-wrench with every ounce of raw strength in my arms, shattering the glass window completely into fine white powder.

The steel hit Boxer’s collarbone with a heavy, hollow crack. He shrieked in agony, dropping the weapon as the pickup truck veered out of control, slamming straight through the wooden posts of the pipeline fence before grinding to a halt in the deep sand.

The engine sputtered and died, leaving the desert completely quiet except for the heavy, ragged sound of my own breathing.

I grabbed the black leather ledger off the floorboards, stuffing it firmly inside the front zipper of my vest to secure the club's safety. Then I reached down, my split knuckles gripping the collar of my stepfather’s shirt, dragging his shaking frame upright.

"You're lucky your daughter values your skin, Thomas," I whispered, my gray eyes pinning the older man to the truck bed until he swallowed hard. "Because my father wanted to leave you out here for the vultures."

Jax’s chopper skidded to a halt beside the stalled truck, his face pale but grinning as he kept his engine idling. "We got the book, Vandal. But we need to move. The Jacks' scouts on the high ridge are already calling for backup."

Before I could answer, my phone buzzed hard against my chest inside my vest pocket. I pulled it out, my fingers slick with grease as I checked the screen. It was a text message from a blocked number inside the compound house.

Vera just checked her desk tray. The secondary master key card is gone. The stepsister isn't in your room, Gage.

My heart hit my ribs like a falling piston. The madness in my brain returned with a terrifying, furious roar.

The internal club rat hadn't just baited us out to the salt flats to steal the ledger. They had used the distraction to isolate Sienna inside the compound walls, and she had just walked right into the middle of a trap with a stolen key card in her pocket.

"Jax, take the old man and the book back to the clubhouse," I commanded, my voice dropping into a dark, frantic register as I sprinted toward my crashed bike in the ditch, pulling the frame upright with raw adrenaline.

"The gate isn't safe. The rat is moving on her right now."

I kicked the starter line, the engine exploding to life with a violent thump as I tore back toward the highway gates, my mind completely burning down with panic for the woman I had left behind.