Season 3 Prologue
One Year Earlier
What had started as a minor loss in Springsville had turned into a catastrophic defeat in a small town in the middle of nowhere, New Mexico.
And King was furious.
To his aides and his henchmen, he still looked the part of composed, stoic leader, as unflappable as an enormous Navy destroyer in the middle of calm seas. Inside, though, he fumed that his operation was beginning to resemble the Titanic—impressive, respected, and headed for disaster if he did not correct course.
Losing to the Black Reapers in California was somewhat unsurprising. He had let Lucius handle things on the ground for some time, and only a brief, opportune moment of civil war between the Carter brothers had given Lucius an opening. It did not shock King that Lucius fell; if anything, it was akin to having to temporarily close a rec hall on the Titanic. Annoying, but far from consequential.
Losing to the Black Reapers in New Mexico, though? When he’d funded the Bandits with weapons for years on end? When they’d had a clear tactical and strategic advantage?
That was similar to brushing up against an iceberg. It had not crippled King’s operations by any amount, but it had made it abundantly clear that continuing to move without directional change would result in catastrophe sooner rather than later.
Smoking a cigar on the balcony of his penthouse suite in the Cosmopolitan, King considered his options. He had his own club here, the King’s Men. It was meant more for protection and security than going on the offensive, though. And men in MCs weren’t exactly the best at taking orders, even when you held a debt over their head.
He had a couple of mafia connections that he could work with. Though more loyal, effective, and quiet about their work, that could also work against you at any moment. With MCs, at least, you knew when they hated your guts.
He even had cops on his payroll, but that was, again, better for security purposes than it was for going on the offensive.
No, to this point, most of King’s expansion and aggressive efforts had come merely through the power of charm, persuasion, and promise. He’d never had to resort to violence when he wanted something because his silver tongue found golden opportunities. Defense was a different matter, but he was not concerned about one of the Black Reapers chapters coming his way.
For now.
He fumed. There was one strong possibility, one club in the middle of Phoenix that he’d tried like hell to get to his side. Oh, how much of a fucking headache that had been.
The president, a man who literally went by the name of Satan, was about as easy to convert to a cause as a rusted wheel. He’d barely ever given King the time of day, and when King had managed to get a meeting, it had gone poorly. The VP, “Sonny,” or, more appropriately, “Son of Satan,” and the sergeant-at-arms, “Spawn,” also known as “Spawn of Satan,” weren’t much better.
It probably didn’t help matters that even though King fancied himself a man who knew how to get what he wanted, he had too much pride to take off the jewelry, the suits, and the fancy shoes when he met a biker’s biker like Satan.
But that was the thing about a guy like Satan. Get him on your side, and he’d reign hell over anyone he hated. As far as King knew, there were no rival MCs in all of Phoenix, and the closest MC, period, might very well have been the Black Reapers on either side of them. Satan and his two officers—he kept his circle of trust small—pitied no fools and allowed nothing to grow in their back yard.
Satan’s club, the Devil’s Patriots, might just prove critical in taking out the Black Reapers once and for all.
But that was the easy part.
The hard part was how.
He had to start somewhere. And he decided as good a place as any was sacrificing some of the newer members of the King’s Men. It wasn’t exactly an emotional or difficult choice.
He messaged one of the officers and summoned him to his penthouse suite. Half an hour later, a knock came at the door.
“Enter,” King said.
He realized then how his voice had developed some strain to it; perhaps the stress of everything was getting to him in ways far too visible for comfort.
In stepped a man named Asher, or “Ash,” as his clubmates called him. A gruff man with a handlebar mustache, Asher was the club’s vice president, a position that, despite being next in line to the presidency, had some pretty regular turnover. Infighting and politics had a way of eliminating the weak.
“You called?” Asher said.
“There is a club in Phoenix by the name of Devil’s Patriots,” King said. “I take it you have heard of them?”
“Yes,” Asher said.
Curt. Just how King liked it.
“I need you to go down there and form an alliance with them,” King said. “Do not return if you fail, Asher.”
