“Holy shit,” he muttered, failing to hide the wariness behind his eyes. “Kane fucking Beckett.”
Kane tilted his head slightly. “You heard of me.”
Bomber stared at him like that was the stupidest question ever asked. “Everyone’s heard of you.”
“Then why the fuck would you sign your own death warrant?”
Bomber’s eyes jumped from Kane to the four battered men at his feet, then to Edge, and finally to the rest of us. I could see the calculations moving behind his face, ugly and frantic. Which lie might survive. How scared he could afford to look before his own men lost faith. Whether backing down in front of the Redline Kings would leave him breathing long enough to pretend it had been strategy.
Finally, he dragged a hand over his mouth and looked away. “Look, I let some of my boys send in that bitch to get intel on your shit. I’ll own that. But they went rogue after. Anything they did with your woman, the sister, the track, that was on their own. I didn’t give permission.”
Kane stared at him, and the silence stretched until Bomber shifted, his boots scuffing against the boards. “That’s the truth.”
“That your whole explanation? I was waiting for you to get to the part where I’d have a reason to care whether those assholes acted with or without your knowledge and permission.”
Bomber sputtered. “You can’t blame me for every stupid thing a few boys did off leash.”
Kane didn’t so much as blink. “The fuck I can’t.”
The words cracked through the air like a gunshot in a silent room.
Bomber’s mouth snapped shut, and he shifted, as if he was about to step back but stopped himself at the last second.
“When you put on a patch that says president,” Kane continued, stepping closer, “you become responsible for every person wearing the same colors. Good or bad, their actions fall on you. You want the title, you carry the weight. If you can’t control your men, you’re weak. If you knew and let it happen, you’re stupid. Neither one impresses me.”
Bomber tried to hold his ground when Kane closed the distance, but his body betrayed him. His shoulders tightened, his chin lifted too high, and this time, one foot shifted back an inch before he caught himself. The Diesel Serpents’ president was realizing too late that reputation wasn’t a story men told around race lots to sound important. Sometimes it walked onto your territory and made you answer for your club.
Edge ambled up beside Kane like he’d gotten bored waiting, his boot nudging one of the bloody patches toward his president. The injured man groaned, rolling half onto his side, and Bomber flinched before masking the reactions with a glare. Edge’s smile widened, and whatever color had returned to Bomber’s face drained out again as he put together exactly who Edge was. His reputation carried as much weight as his brothers, except unlike Kane, Edge could be unpredictable. And that was just as terrifying as Kane’s deadly control.
“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a dilemma,” Edge drawled.
Kane nodded. “We already punished the motherfuckers who dared go after someone belonging to a Redline King and tried to cheat at one of my tracks. But since you’re responsible for them…”
Edge hummed thoughtfully, and a big knife appeared in his hand with a flash of steel. He flipped it through his fingers like a pen, the blade catching the early sunlight with every rotation. Bomber’s eyes locked on it despite himself. Smart men watched Edge’s hands. Smarter men made sure they were never close enough for it to matter.
“I feel like it sends the wrong message if we leave him untouched,” Edge pointed out, almost conversationally. “Few broken bones, maybe. Something carved into the skin so he remembers not to fuck with the Redline Kings in the future. Educational, really.”
Bomber backed up a step. “Now hold on. That’s not necessary. I said it won’t happen again.”
“No,” Edge replied. “You said your men went rogue. Different.”
“They did.” Bomber looked at Kane again, desperation leaking through. “They’ll be dealt with. I swear, I’ll handle them. We won’t come near your territory again, won’t touch the women, won’t look at your tracks. This doesn’t need to go further.”
“You’re right,” Kane agreed.
Bomber blinked like he hadn’t expected it.
Kane lifted one hand, and Edge stopped flipping the knife, though he didn’t put the blade away. Kane’s gaze settled on Bomber with the kind of cold finality that had ended men long before they hit the ground.
“The Redline Kings could end your whole fucking club for this betrayal. For the threat to Saylor. For using Sutton to betray us. For sending someone after my brother’s work. For sabotaging one of my tracks. But I’m not doing that today.”
Bomber swallowed. “Okay. Thank?—”
“Don’t thank me,” Kane snarled, cutting him off. “You haven’t earned mercy.” Kane stepped closer, and this time Bomber didn’t even pretend not to shrink back. “You will honor the deal your men made with Century. Sutton and Saylor Everett are off limits. You will wipe Sutton’s debt and whatever offense your club claims she committed. You will pull every asset, racer, bookie, runner, hanger-on, and bootlicking little prospect out of Redline Kings territory immediately. You will not race at ourtracks, sniff around our crews, follow our runs, or even fucking speak our names unless you’re telling someone how badly you fucked up.”
Bomber nodded too fast. “Done.”
Kane’s expression didn’t change. “Good. Because if you do, there will be no warning. There will be retaliation so immediate and complete that whatever is left of your club will wish we’d been less creative.”
