My burner’s vibrating in my hand, the cheap plastic creaking in my grip. I take a deep breath and point a finger at Ryder.
“You even think about her being touched or untouched again, and I’ll bash your head in with your own fucking bike. She’s mine. We clear?”
“Crystal clear, Prez,” Ryder snickers.
And I realize I’ve fallen into his trap.
“Fuck,” I growl, bringing my ride back to life with an aggressive kick. Then louder, “Let’s get this over so we can go home.”
The truck comes barreling around the curve right on schedule, the low rumble of the engine like rolling thunder. Headlights beam in our direction, washing everything in white. It’s followed by the escort vehicle, a dangerous shadow.
I don’t have to call out for us to slide into position, just like we planned. The truck brakes hard, tires squealing louder than the engines, and men spill out of both vehicles, armed and ready for opportunists like us.
My world narrows into focus. Like back overseas. I raise my gun just as Reaper, Bullet, Riot, and Viper close in behind the escort. The military personnel guarding the weapons shout in alarm as they realize they’re completely surrounded.
“You’ll want to put your guns down and get on the ground,” I call out calmly. This cold focus is why Viking trusted me with the gavel. My job is making sure this ends with no casualties on our side.
“Fuck you! Redneck scum!”
The angry motherfucker raises his gun to shoot at me, but Riot’s faster, blowing his head off before the rest of them follow his dumb example.
“No one move unless you want me to paint the asphalt with your brains too, assholes!” Riot yells. One by one, the armed guards throw their weapons away and get on the ground.
“That’s what I wanna see,” Viper says gleefully. “Good dogs.”
I don’t join in with the threats and insults. I’ve done it all already. Instead, I walk to the truck and pull open the driver’s side door.
“Get out and get down,” I tell the driver, not bothering to raise my voice.
“Time for some night-night,” Ryder snickers, pulling out the tranquilizer gun. The grunts don’t struggle much—maybe because they know we wouldn’t bother to tranq them if we were going to kill them.
“Shame about the asshole who felt like putting up a fight,” Diesel mutters.
I cross my arms and look down at the body. “Yeah.”
What else can I say? I doubt he was getting paid enough to die for these guns. Or more of them would’ve resisted. Probably just an idiot. Now a dead idiot.
“Prez? They’re out.”
I nod at Riot and pull my phone out to get Trig and Gun here with the mixer. I want to get the fuck home.
Maybe Sasha’s still awake? No… why would she be… Between her coursework, Bluebell moving to the compound, and Eli Redbird coming over to teach her how to ride, she’s exhausted.
“You’re thinking about her again, aren’t you?” Diesel asks.
I blow air out of my nose. “No.”Yes. “And when have you become such a motherfucking pussy? We gonna braid each other’s hair next?”
“Who’s braiding whose hair?” Viper asks. His face is still behind his demon mask, but I can tell from his tone that he’s genuinely confused. And that just makes Diesel laugh harder.
“No one’s fuckin’ takin’ this seriously,” Riot mutters to himself.
Just then, the Slade Construction cement mixer rolls up, country music blaring from the lowered windows.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” I rumble. “Maybe that dead asshole was right. We are rednecks.”
We carefully load the weapons, then send Trigger and Gunner off to Kentucky and the buyers. We’ll be flush for months after this, able to focus on other things.
Like Sasha?
