“All I’m saying, Asher, is when this is finished and your wife is safe, think about sticking around. It would not just be good for us. It would be good for you. Trust me. I went into hiding for a full year because of a dispute with Lane. And it was hell. I eventually formed a new MC just so that I could feel a part of something bigger than myself.”
A pause came. I just wanted this conversation to end.
“And in any case, you may be the tide that pushes back against the momentum of the King’s Men. You may be the one that can tie it all together.”
“Stop,” I said. “I’m here to rescue Callie. I’ve done what I can to help. I went and spoke to Crush. I got under his skin a bit. I planted a long-term seed. I’m no better with a gun or a knife or my fists than any of you fuckers are.”
“I’m not saying you are,” he said. “You already are. You’re already in this game. You’re already starting the push back. So why stop now?”
I guess what he said made sense. I just couldn’t think beyond the next half hour. Anything beyond wasn’t worth thinking about because it depended entirely on how this rescue went and what sort of state Callie was in.
If she was healthy and safe, then sure, I could keep fighting.
If she was gone…fuck. I would be shortly thereafter. I just hoped to take down King with me.
“That’s the thing about motorcycle clubs. We’re not motorcycle individuals. We’re clubs. Brotherhoods. Fight for your woman. But remember, it’s all part of the same deal.”
“I got you,” I said.
Cole finally got the hint and left.
But as the rest of the boys started to get organized and settled, I began to see what he meant.
I wouldn’t rescue Callie alone. To do so would be suicidal. And these guys couldn’t take King on their own; to do so would also be suicidal.
It would take the entirety of the club to help both causes.
Maybe there was something to be said for not being a fucking loner going forward.
* * *
Half an hour later, we found ourselves parked in a black van on the third floor of the Palms parking lot.
We had a long fucking walk ahead of us. And while we didn’t dress ridiculously, no one looked like themselves.
I had Butch, Connor, and Spawn with me. On the other side would be Cole, Sonny, Mason, and Patriot. From another side would be a mix of club members and prospects, and the plan was to gradually convene on the hideout, with speed possibly increasing depending on the level of violence.
Butch had a wig on. As ridiculous as it sounded, if it didn’t tilt to the side, it actually looked like he had normal hair. Connor had long sleeves on and a turtleneck—thankfully, it was chilly enough to be reasonable. Spawn actually looked like a biker with a leather jacket, but he had no cut.
And as for me? I wore a hat and a button-down shirt. We all would walk some distance apart from each other, with only Butch and Spawn walking side by side. Connor would be behind us while I would take the lead.
I knew no one would recognize me. I’d eluded capture for this long. What was another hour?
“You all know what to do,” I said, and they all nodded in agreement. “When we get to the door, I’ll have my gun ready. And at that moment, you all have to be one hundred percent ready to launch into attack mode.”
“Heard it a million times already,” Connor said.
“Yes,” Butch said.
Spawn said nothing.
And with that, we moved down the streets of western Las Vegas, toward Chinatown, under the guise of four separate, anonymous tourists who never quite stayed out of eye contact of each other.
As I walked down Spring Mountain Road toward an old, abandoned warehouse, I saw signs that the King’s Men were nearby. I’d see the occasional guy standing outside for a smoke; I’d hear a motorcycle go by; I’d smell the oil and gasoline of a recently passed vehicle. We avoided notice for some time, but I knew there would come a point when our cover would be blown and we’d need to just unleash all hell.
And if we did it right? Great.
If not?
