I’d been hiding out behind the clubhouse when I saw several of them heading out, three on bikes, one in a car.
The car was what made me curious.
What did they need a car for?
So I hung back, then followed at a safe distance.
Luckily, they were the same morons they’d always been and didn’t even think to look for a tail.
Not even when my bike rumbled along with them as they rode off into the rural areas around the creek.
I was pretty sure I saw the other car long before they did, crawling up the street, a small bit of light coming from the passenger seat.
Which was how I’d seen him so clearly.
He was a tank of a guy, taking up the whole passenger seat, looking like his head was damn near brushing the roof.
It was hard to tell, but his hair seemed lighter. Maybe a dirty blond. His beard was thick and well-groomed, just a shade or two darker than the hair on his head.
He had that masculine bone structure that made you think of mountain men, lumberjacks, or cowboys. Handsome, but in a rugged way.
I hated to admit it, but it was him my focus was lasered in on when the men climbed out of the car to approach the club.
Aside from his height and tight, almost militarily perfect, posture, I noticed the cut first.
These were bikers.
And my vision was good enough to see the town of Shady Valley on his rocker.
The name wasn’t familiar to me. But, then again, it wasn’t like I knew every town in every county of California. All I did know was that it wasn’t from anywhere nearby.
They’d traveled to meet with that fucking loser Roach and his goons.
It went downhill fast.
Of course it did.
Roach was not someone any sane person wanted to do business with.
My gaze had tracked the whole fight, delighting in each blow one of these other bikers got in and rooting for them to rally each time one of Roach’s guys got a lick in.
Did my eyes keep tracking one particular biker more than the others? Yep.
And good thing.
Because his head would have busted open right there in front of his friends if I hadn’t been watching so closely.
My hand went for my gun without even thinking about it. And I guess I could thank my father for all the weekends he’d dragged me—often kicking and screaming—to his homemade range and forced me to practice.
My aim was true.
The bullet ripped through his heart.
He was dead before he even wobbled.
It was my gunshot that had everyone scrambling.
But not before the hulking biker looked straight at me.
