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“A bit of both.” I stare at the clean, washed fields, golden grasses glistening in the morning sun. “If I wait too long, we’re gonna lose one princess and a chance to end the war right here.”

The prez is silent for a long moment. He’s not my president, not any longer. I cut ties with the chapter long ago, went my own way. But he calls me for work, and I’ve been watching the Forgotten Saints for him for a while. Now it’s my turn to ask the favor, even when that curls in my gut.

The line fuzzes out and a new voice joins the conversation.

“You out causing trouble, big boy?” Crimson, a Saint in his own right, just a different sort, joins the conversation.

“This isn’t a communal chat,” I bitch, relieved I’m not on my own in this for once. “If you lot can haul your asses down here, then I won’t lose her.”

“Her?” The pure glee in Crimson’s voice as he whoops in the background tells me I just made a huge mistake that I won’t live down anytime soon. “Judge is in loooveee.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” The prez coughs, though amusement flickers in his tone. “Calm your shit. What do you need from us?”

I outline my plan, knowing every request will cost me years of my own freedom, tying me back to the club in ways that will protect her and that I don’t want, but right now, it’s worth it. It had fucking better be. As long as she lives through today. Every fucking day.

I have one more call to make and this one will cost me everything.

****

Poppy decided on a fucking suicide run.

Unfortunately, her old man was ready for her and saw her coming. What he’s not ready for is us. Because my version of war is different from his.

My jaw ticks as I lie in the dirt beside Crimson. His rifle scope shows Tyrant standing with his legs spread and chest puffed out, facing the entrance to the bowl he’s chosen as the place to hold court. Poppy is tied to a chair in the middle. An ominous dark patch stains the dirt beneath her. That’s there to scare the shit out of her, not me. I understand this place. Hell, I’ve used ones just like it over the years right alongside Savage and Saint.

Her, on the other hand? I’m not sure how deep in she is. I guess we’ll find out. But I suspect my little killer is a one-woman show, and Daddy is just a tagalong for the ride.

Today, he thinks he’s playing ringmaster. It will be fun to turn this around on him.

“Thanks for coming out,” I say finally, passing the scope back to my former sergeant.

“Not a problem for you, sir.” His formal speech is slightly stilted, slurring a little at the end. Medical discharge. That’s what’s written all over Crimson’s file. A shot that nearly took his head off his shoulders scrambled his brain for six months, clear after the incursion that tore our unit apart after our last mission together. That doesn’t stop him from being one of the finest snipers I’ve ever worked with, and it doesn’t stop him from working with me today. Honor amongst assholes who used to play together and all that shit.

“I’m not your officer,” I murmur. Not any longer.

“Never could break that habit. Sir,” he adds.

I sense the smile behind his words despite the fact that half his face is hidden behind the rifle. “You should try,” I say tightly.

He doesn’t acknowledge that piece of pithy wisdom. “Which one first?”

There’s a plan, and if Saint doesn’t hold up his end of the bargain on time, we’ll be ducks on a dirt ridge in less than five minutes. That’s a problem for future Walker. Right now, I’m more worried about the girl in the chair and the asshole with the blade flicking against her cheek.

“If there’s a single scar on her...” I mutter.

The rifle goes off, and the blade drops into the dirt.

I forgot how loud that fucking thing is.

Adrenaline deluges my veins, a practiced route that my body understands on instinct.

“Mutt. The prospect on the prez’s right-hand side. Make it hurt.”

Mutt and his brother had a feel-up, groped Poppy earlier. We were here to witness it. Now, he loses a kneecap as Tyrant spins in a circle, trying to work out where the shots are coming from. Shouts go up, and someone points in our direction.

“One more, sir.”

“Time to go.”