The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 208

Chapter 108-2

I trace the picture in my mind. “So when Knox’s convoy arrives at the crash…”

Claim

“The driver and the escorts only have two choices,” Locke says. “Sit on a bright, open highway waiting for a tow truck, or turn onto Old County Road to bypass the crash. They’ll take the detour because sitting still makes them easy sitting ducks.”

“Okay,” I say. “Now the convoy is on the small dark road, surrounded by trees, with no cell phone signal. What happens to those armed escorts?”

“The moment Knox’s convoy enters the trees, Bishop turns on a small signal jammer hidden in the bushes,” Locke explains. “That breaks the satellite signal on the truck’s GPS. Knox will lose track of them, but they won’t panic immediately: they’ll just think the convoy hit a normal dead zone for a few minutes. And while they’re blind, we deal with the escorts first.”

“How?”

“We trap them,” Locke says. “We throw remote spike strips onto the asphalt from the bushes. The tires on both escort cars blow out instantly, and before the men inside can even open their doors, Hammer throws heavy tear gas canisters right onto their windshields. The gas will blind them, choke them, and keep them trapped inside their wrecked cars.”

“Leaving the tanker isolated,” I say.

“Exactly. Step two is the truck cabin,” Locke continues. “Me, Mayhem, and two of our guys step out of the dark wearing black tactical clothes and masks. We break the truck windows, throw in some gas canisters, and pull Knox’s driver and shooters out of the cabin. We zip-tie their hands behind their backs, and leave them safely on the side of the road with the escorts,

“And step three?”

‘One of our guys gets into the driver’s seat of the chemical truck, turns the wheel, and drives it away,” Locke says.

“Where do you drive a giant fifty-foot chemical tanker without anyone noticing?” I ask.

“Two miles down that small road, there’s an abandoned gravel pit with an old, enclosed metal barn,” Locke says. “We drive the whole tanker inside the barn, shut the engine off, and drop the heavy steel doors. Inside that barn, we’ll have a second, completely empty commercial rig waiting.”

I blink, catching on quickly. “A decoy.”

“A decoy,” Locke says. “Our driver takes the empty decoy truck, rolls out of the barn, and drives it straight down toward the state line. When Knox finally realizes the convoy is missing and sends men to check the GPS dead zone, they’ll find their men choking on tear gas, and they’ll see an empty truck speeding toward the border on satellite radar.”

“While the real chemical tanker is sitting completely safe in a barn three miles away,” I finish softly.” Genius.”

“Exactly,” Locke says. “No MC patches. No dead bodies for the police to investigate. Knox gets robbed

12

<Chapter 109

Clam

again, but he spends the next three days chasing a ghost truck across state lines while we move the real chemicals to our own hidden facility at our leisure.”

I look at him for a long, quiet moment. The room is still, save for the gentle hum of the penthouse air conditioning and the distant, soft murmur of city traffic far below us.

In the warm light of the bedside lamp, Locke looks broad, dangerous, and impossibly calm. He lays out a high-stakes criminal hijacking with the same steady, practical tone someone else might use to explain a routine chore.

“You’ve done things like this before,” I say. It isn’t really a question.

Locke shifts his position on the bed, moving closer until his broad chest is only inches from mine. He reaches up, his large, calloused hand gently cupping the side of my neck. His skin is warm, and his thumb rests directly over the steady, heavy pulse in my throat.

“I’ve spent the past six years keeping this motorcycle club alive and invisible while doing very loud, dangerous things, Zara,” he says, his dark eyes holding mine. “When you’re dealing with dangerous men, you don’t win by making a lot of noise. You win by being smarter, faster, and cleaner.”

“It’s about precision.”

“Precision,” Locke echoes. He tilts his head, pressing his forehead gently against mine. His breath smells faintly of mint and coffee, warm against my lips. “Precision is what keeps our men alive… and it’s what gets me back home to you, baby.”

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