The vest was too big. Kevlar panels, black nylon, the Reapers' winged skull stitched over the heart. Tank had cinched the straps as tight as they'd go, and it still hung loose on my shoulders. Forty pounds of borrowed armor.
"Move your arms," Tank said.
I raised both arms, twisted my torso. The vest barely shifted.
"Good." He tapped the chest plate with two knuckles. "This stops anything under a .308. Above that, you're having a bad night either way."
We were in the garage. Six bikes. Six men. Kael, Tank, Jax, Wolf, Ghost, and a prospect named Cole I'd seen twice and spoken to zero times. Nineteen years old — same age as Danny. He was trying very hard to look like he wasn't terrified.
Wolf tossed me a helmet. "Put this on. If we go down, you stay on Ghost's bike no matter what. You do
