“We end this tonight,” Bane says, his face serious.
I rack the slide on my Glock. “Can’t have this shit touching my woman again.”
Tacoma grunts. “Tonight we’ll send a fucking message far and wide. Nobody fucks with the Kings.”
“Nobody fucks with the Kings,” we all chorus.
Breaking off into our assigned groups, we move silently through the woods. “There,” Tacoma whispers, pointing a few yards ahead. I follow the line of his arm and sure as shit, there it is. A run-down, two-story A-frame with green peeling paint and a wrap-around porch.
“Look,” I grunt, motioning to the Escalades that tried to run our women off the road earlier.
“Fucking Sinners too.” Bane points to a row of bikes parked on the side of the cabin.
Fucking cockroaches.
Tacoma holds up his fist, signaling us to stop while the other teams get into position. In no time a red dot from a laser’s sight flashes briefly from the trees to the east. That’s Red’s signal that everyone is in place.
Tacoma flicks two fingers and we move forward, staying low.
Stepping carefully, I follow Gator up the porch steps. He positions himself in front of the door, then looks back at Tacoma, who gives a curt nod.
Gator holds up three fingers then drops them one by one.
Three.
Two.
One.
He draws back his leg and kicks the door in with a thunderous crash.
Chaos erupts as we surge inside.
A Sinner lunges from the left, and I put two in his chest without breaking stride.
The cabin is a shithole with beer cans and trash everywhere. Six men are scrambling for weapons, but we’ve got the advantage of surprise.
Tacoma and Bash take the living room. Bane heads upstairs. I duck into the kitchen, coming face to face with a huge motherfucker with a scarred face.
“Fuck you,” he snarls, raising his gun.
I fire first and shoot him right between the eyes. His mouth opens, and then he drops like a sack of potatoes.
“Fuck you too,” I mutter.
Movement outside the window catches my attention. “We got a runner!” I shout, bolting out the back door.
Outside, I spot him immediately—a fat fuck in a Sinners cut waddling toward the tree line like his ass is on fire. I take off after him, my long legs eating up the distance between us.
He fires wildly over his shoulder. I duck, never breaking stride. When I get within range, I aim for his legs and fire.
The shot hits him in the calf and he goes down with a scream, rolling onto his back, gun still clutched in his hand.
I kick it away before he can raise it, standing over him with my Glock aimed at his face. My eyes drop to the patch on his cut.
“Slim.”
I snort. “Slim my ass.”
