The guy shoots him a look, but Wraith crosses his arms. “You expect us to remove our guns so that you can put a bullet in our heads as soon as we do?”
“If we wanted to put a bullet in your head, princess, we would’ve done it already,” the man sneers.
Pretty much what I figured.
I move first, my hand sliding to the small of my back as I pull my piece. Steel’s right behind me, clearing both guns from the inside holster under his jacket. To my surprise, Wraith drops three onto the table without a word. Tracker’s only got the one.
That earns us a few looks.
Another black-clad goon steps in, then another. They strip our weapons and disappear with them as two more take their place. Same look on all of them—ugly, thick-necked, muscle-packed, cropped hair, dressed in black like it’s a fuckin’ uniform.
We’re marched through the warehouse, past stacked crates and pallets, bagged product that sure as shit ain’t weed. There’s an old catwalk circling the place, guards lining it shoulder to shoulder, guns slung or in hand, watching us like they’re hoping we make a bad move.
They take us down a hall to an office shoved into the back. Door’s open. Inside, behind a desk that’s way too clean for a dump like this, sits a man in his late fifties—maybe older. Average height, barrel chest gone soft with age. He’s got faded tattoos, long, stringy dark hair that’s streaked with gray. However, his eyes are sharp and calculating.
We stop in front of the desk. Two guards press in behind us so close I can feel the ghost of a gun barrel at my ribs.
The bastard doesn’t stand.
“I’ll get right to it,” he says, folding his hands on the desk. “I brought you here because this conversation doesn’t happen without leverage. Otherwise, it would’ve ended in blood on both sides.”
Steel snorts. “You’re not wrong.”
“I’ve got your women,” the man says calmly. “They’re unharmed. What I want is a trade. Non-negotiable, if you want them back breathing.”
Steel stiffens. Wraith shifts. I fold my arms, the leather creaking—it’s my spare jacket, not my real cut. I never thought I’d need it again.
“I’ve got your woman and daughter,” he continues, his eyes never leaving Steel. “And one other woman tied to your club. You don’t have the advantage here.”
“What kind of fuckin’ trade?” Steel growls.
The man smiles, slow and oily. “I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced. The name’s Viking, I’m Prez of Devil’s Slaves. We’re a newer club—at least officially. We’ve been here a long time. But thanks to you gettin’ rid of the dead weight, we found our market.”
Wraith goes still. I clock it. Steel Riders removing Black County Sinners allowed Viking and his crew to move in.
“We’ve moved up fast,” Viking continues. “And now I’m looking at your patch, your territory, and wondering why you’re still operatin’ like you’re untouchable.”
Steel crosses his arms. “You’re not getting Helena.”
Viking chuckles. “Did I say anything about wanting that shithole? I don’t need Helena.” He leans back. “I know that you have operations around Jacksonville. Warehouses. Grow ops. If you want to keep the current peace, you’ll strike up a deal here and now. An alliance of sorts. We want in. We want to expand our operations. I need what you’ve got—more warehouses, more men, more territory. What I want is obedience. Cooperation. Maybe even a correction. Your women are in my hands. Your men are standing unarmed in my warehouse. Seems to me this would be a good time to talk about who rides under what colors.”
The air shifts.
“You’re saying patch over,” Steel says flatly.
“I’m saying it’s an option,” Viking replies. “Steel Riders fold into my club. My flag flies higher. You answer to me.”
Steel takes one step forward. The guards tense.
“Ain’t happening.” His voice is steady and I’ve seen that look in his eyes before. I glance around. I honestly don’t know what other options are left.
And that’s when Wraith moves.
There’s a soft click. Suddenly Wraith’s got a gun pressed to Viking’s temple. I damn near smile. The fucker already gave up three guns. Where the hell did he keep this one?
“No,” Wraith says quietly. “That’s not how this goes.”
For once I’m glad the bastard marches to the beat of his own drummer. He might not be Prez of his old club anymore, and he might have been prospecting with the Riders for the past two years, but I can see that we all underestimated the fucker. Now he’s clean, he’s dangerous. Thank fuck he’s on our side.
