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“Eagle,” he whispers.
I kneel beside him. “What?”
“Did you love her?”
“Do you need to ask?” I stole his sister away from his club three years ago. That started the war.
“Did you?”
“More than my own life.” I stand and then walk away, satisfied I exercised mercy. That’s more than any Dead Dog would have given me.
I kick open the metal door and welcome the afternoon heat as I step outside. Today ended something. That suicide trip I’ve been on, like death by cop, was miraculously put to rest by a last-minute thought. I suck in a deep breath. Angel would want me to live. For her. For me. For my club.
