Chrome studies me, then gives a curt nod. “Agreed. They think we’re unaware of their purpose. Seeing you will knock them off their game. Mode, we need to track these guys once they leave the coffee shop. They aren’t going to stay and confront us because we’ll have them outnumbered.”
“I can do that, but I’m thinking since they’re all out of the motel, how about I take a ride over there and install some surveillance devices. We could have eyes and ears in the rooms in a matter of minutes.”
“What if they don’t go back to the motel?” I ask.
“I’ll have Maestro follow them via the traffic cams. He’s the best at tracking through them.”
“Do it,” Chrome says. “Just don’t get caught. You’ll be on your own.”
“No problem, they won’t know I’m a Dawg.”
We leave Mode to do his thing and head to the common room. There are a handful of guys sitting around, including Ice. Chrome whistles to get everyone’s attention, “We’re going for a ride. Make sure you’re armed. We have some Bushrangers to intimidate.”
Shouts of excitement and the sound of chairs scraping across concrete fill the air as we rush outside and hop on our bikes. Chrome leads the way. Ice and I follow right behind him. Chrome maneuvers through traffic so we can get there faster. I spot the club SUV still parked in front of the coffee shop when I pull into an empty spot. As Chrome and I cross the street, Arson and Piston exit from the SUV. I can’t see Zara in the backseat, but I know she’s there. She’s safe, and she’ll stay that way.
Chrome doesn’t enter the coffee shop. Instead, yanks the door open and shouts inside.
“Vandal!” Chrome’s voice cuts through the noise inside. Deep. Commanding. President to President. “Outside. Now.”
I stand at his right shoulder, arms folded over my cut, boots planted on the sidewalk.
Inside, it’s a damn circus.
Six Bushrangers in the middle of it—Vandal, Menace, Razor, Clutch, Hound, and Jinx—boxed in by a swarm of journalists and photographers. Cameras flash. Microphones shoved into their faces. Questions fire from every direction.
“What part of Australia are you from?”
“Why are you in Chicago?”
“Are you moving here?”
They look like caged animals. Older than when I last saw them. Prison carved into their faces. Harder lines. Thinner patience.
Menace spots Chrome first. His eyes narrow. He mutters something to Vandal.
Vandal turns toward the door. Sees Chrome. Then he grins.
That same charismatic, dangerous grin that used to pull prospects in and send enemies running.
The six of them start shoving through the press. They don’t answer questions. They don’t slow down. Journalists stumble back as solid biker shoulders plow through them. Onephotographer nearly goes down when Razor knocks his camera aside.
They spill out onto the sidewalk—
—and freeze.
Because the chaos inside is nothing compared to what’s waiting for them out here, a dozen Demon Dawgs spread out across the sidewalk and street. Bikes lined along the curb. Engines off, but they're still ticking. Leather kuttes with Chicago patches watching silently.
We’ve got them boxed in without touching them. For half a second, Vandal’s smile tightens. I can see his mind working. Are we friend or foe?
“Chrome!” he booms, striding across the pavement.
Chrome doesn’t move.
Vandal clasps him on the shoulder like they’re old drinking buddies. “Appreciate you, mate. That was a bloody zoo in there.”
That’s when I shift forward. I see the exact moment when Vandal spots me. His gaze shifts past Chrome as his grin dies.
Menace sees me next. His head jerks back like he’s been hit.
