I cross my hands at my chest, confident they’re not about to gun me down without provocation spitting distance from the police station.
“What are you talking about?” I drawl, keeping my face blank. Because, fucking hell, this is about the prospects, isn’t it? Did the kids get themselves killed following my orders?
“Don’t play dumb, Slade,” Rook, Bishop’s VP, says derisively. Not calling me by my road name on my own damned territory? He’s fucking asking for a beatdown.
“Either get to the point or fuck off,” I growl, taking a step closer. “Don’t fucking disrespect me more than you already are by rolling up flying your colors,boy.”
“Easy,” Bishop says with a low chuckle, at the same time as the men behind him make obvious signs of aggression, like gorillas at the zoo. He levels those depthless eyes onto me. “So you’re saying you didn’t send prospects into Ashford for who the fuck knows what reason?”
The hair at the back of my nape stands on end. He either knows Kade and Wyatt are Wicked Sinners prospects or he’s fishing. And does he really not know the reason, this soon after they killed Viking?
“Did they say they’re my prospects?” I ask, keeping my voice casual. “Or they got my name tattooed on their dicks?”
Despite the uneasy feeling, I watch with amusement as Rook’s fist clenches over the throttle. I allow my lips to curl into a smirk.
“So two kids from Briar Fork just happened to start hanging out in your bar?” their sergeant-at-arms, Switchback, asks.
I raise an eyebrow in his direction. “I don’t know, man. I don’t card guys in our bars to see where the fuck they live. They invite you home or something?”
Switchback starts dismounting his bike, but Bishop stops him with just a hand in the air. Damn, the control he has over them is impressive.
“So we should dump them somewhere else?” he asks me, his smile sharp enough to cut glass.
I exhale through my nose like I’m thinking, though I’m already planning to set their goddamned clubhouse on fire.
“If you brought them all the way here, you might as well send them home to their mothers,” I say evenly. “But I didn’t know that civilians crossing town borders get a taxi service home now.”
“Don’t fuckin’ play with us, Havoc,” Switchback growls. He’s a bit younger than Tank and a lot meaner, and he’s held his rank since Vike was president here and Bishop was just a VP there. He’s holding on to old grudges, I can see it on his face.
“Enough,” Bishop says, suddenly weary. He brings his hand to his mouth and lets loose a loud whistle. A blacked-out van at the sidewalk opens its side doors, and boots roll out our tied and gagged prospects. Wyatt hits the ground first, letting out a pathetic grunt, followed by Kade landing on him. He doesn’t make a sound, but his head lolls to the side. Alive, then.
“Jesus,” I hiss, noting the bruises covering their faces. “What the fuck did you do to them?”
“Like you wouldn’t have done the same thing,” Wraith, their enforcer, rumbles. A quick scan shows me his knuckles are cracked and bruised.Noted.
“Hypothetically,” Bishop begins, drawing my attention to him. “If those two were prospects... what would they be doing at Lucky’s Bar?”
I rub my chin, stubble scratching my palm, and consider my answer. There’s an opportunity here, I just gotta play it right.
“Hypothetically,” I echo, my voice a fuck of a lot harder than his was. “If Forsaken Kings killed Viking, who would’ve given the order and who would’ve carried it out?”
Bishop blinks. Just once. Rook’s eyes narrow, while Switchback’s dart to his Prez.
What thefuckis going on here?
“I heard about Viking,” Bishop says slowly. “Wasn’t us.”
I scoff, my hands itching to go to my gun. “You gonna lie to me here?”
“He’s not lying,” Rook adds. “That was ancient history as far as we’re concerned, brother.”
I clench my jaw, my teeth grinding together. Everything inside me is screaming to tell him I’m not his brother. But the prospects are lying on the ground, all beat up, and I gotta wrap this shit up.
“Look,” Bishop says, no trace of humor left on his face. “We’ll have a sit-down and talk. Air shit out without fists flyin’ and guns blazin’.”
“Fine,” I grit out. “We’ll set it up. Now get outta here so I can return what’s left of those boys to their mothers.”
Bishop regards me for a second longer before nodding and kicking his bike to life. With two familiar hand gestures, they pull out of the site in formation, the black van trailing behind. As soon as they’re out of sight, I jog up to the prospects.
