We don’t slow down.
Jackal raises his fist. Signal to spread out.
The column breaks. Brothers peel off in different directions, forming a wide circle around the entire compound. We’re not hitting them from one side. We’re surrounding them. Cutting off every escape route.
By the time the guards at the gate realize what’s happening, it’s too late. We’re everywhere.
I stop my bike fifty yards from the main entrance. Jackal pulls up beside me. “Light it up,” he says.
I pull the rifle from my back. Aim. Fire.
The shot echoes across the desert. The guard at the gate drops.
Then everyone opens fire.
The compound erupts in chaos. Their members pour out of buildings, armed but disorganized. Panicked.
They try to fight back. Return fire. But they’re outnumbered and surrounded.
We don’t give them a chance.
Molotov cocktails arc through the air. Glass shatters. Flames spread. The garage goes up first, then one of the outbuildings. Savage Legion members run. Some try to escape through theback exit. They run straight into our brothers waiting there. Gunfire. Screams. Bodies dropping.
The main clubhouse is fully engulfed now, flames reaching through shattered windows and licking up the adobe walls. Some of their brothers are still inside—I can hear gunfire from the upper floors where they’re making their last stand. But the smoke is too thick, the heat too intense. They won’t last long.
I watch the compound burn and feel nothing but cold satisfaction settling in my chest. This is what happens when you come for the Ruthless Devils. This is what happens when you touch what’s ours.
Movement catches my eye near the back of the main building.
Two figures on a bike, weaving through debris and bodies as they try to escape through a gap in the fence we haven’t covered yet. The rider is big, hunched over the handlebars. The passenger clings to his back.
I recognize them both immediately.
Marcus Stone. And Mona.
“Not today,” I mutter and raise my rifle.
The bike is moving fast, kicking up dirt and gravel as it races toward freedom. But I’ve got a clear line of sight, and the distance is maybe forty yards. Easy shot.
I settle the stock against my shoulder, let out half a breath, and squeeze the trigger.
The front tire explodes in a spray of rubber, and the bike lurches violently to the left. Marcus fights the handlebars, but it’s too late—the bike tips and goes down hard, metal screaming against dirt as it skids sideways. Both riders fly off and tumble across the ground in a tangle of limbs. The bike slides another twenty feet before coming to rest against the fence, sparks still flying from the exposed metal.
I’m already moving. I swing my leg over my own bike and kick it into gear, roaring across the compound toward where they fell. Brothers see me going and lay down covering fire, keeping any remaining Savage Legion off my back.
Marcus is on his hands and knees when I reach them, trying to crawl toward the fence. Blood streams down his face from a deep gash across his forehead, and his left leg bends at an angle that makes my stomach turn. The bone is definitely broken.
Mona lies a few feet away, sobbing and clutching her arm. It hangs limp and useless at her side, clearly dislocated or worse.
I kill the engine and dismount in one smooth motion. My boots hit the dirt, and I stride toward them with my rifle still in hand.
Marcus sees me coming and tries to move faster, his good leg scrabbling for purchase in the loose dirt. But he’s too injured, too weak, and he only makes it another foot before I’m on him.
I grab the back of his cut with my free hand and haul him to his feet. He screams—a raw, animal sound of pure agony as his broken leg tries and fails to support his weight.
I don’t care.
My other hand shoots out and tangles in Mona’s hair, yanking her head back. She shrieks and flails with her good arm, nails raking across my forearm and drawing blood, but I barely feel it.
