“Sure am. I never said it would be an easy job,” King explains, “but that asshole has to go. Yes, as soon as he falls there’ll be another opportunist there to take his place, but fuck it all, Harris—I don’t care. They can run their drugs wherever the fuck they want as long as they keep us the fuck out of it.”

“You let an asshole from the same syndicate take the top spot, and you’re back to square one,” Harris explains. “What you think the first thing on their agenda’s gonna be?”

King sags into his seat. “Fuck, you’re right.”

“Damn straight I am. I’ve been at this a lot longer than you, boy. Been on both sides of these kinds of wars, and I’m tellin’ you that if you knock off Eddie and Carlos without a replacement in mind, you’ll be facing gunfire from both sides when they regroup behind a new leader.”

“What do you suggest?” King asks. “Pick the candidate? Pay them for our security?”

Harris chuckles. “You know as well as I do there ain’t enough in either of our kitties to do that.”

“So?”

“Put your own people in there,” Harris explains. “Make the whole fuckin’ thing mass-managed between the Saints and the Breed.”

Discussions break out amongst the men in the room, the volume steadily rising as they go on. I can see Harris’ point, and he has a good solution, but shit, that’s going to be hard. He’s asking two clubs who previously kept a respectable distance from one another to not only go to war together, but to work as one afterward. He’s also asking a club that prided itself on running a clean operation to take on the role of one of America’s largest drug distributers.

He’s asking a lot.

King slams his fist down on the table repeatedly until the room goes quiet. He locks his gaze to Harris, frowning. “What you’re proposing is fuckin’ dangerous.”

“So is going to war, taking out the generals, and expectin’ the army not to shoot you in the back while you run back to your camp to hide.”

“I’m opening the floor on this,” King announces to the table. “What’s everyone’s thoughts?”

A roar of protests and support go up, the points made getting lost in the din that fills the room.

King waves his arms across himself, grimacing at the noise. “One at a time! You’re worse than a bunch of fuckin’ kindergarteners!” The voices die down, hushing to a murmur before the room finally goes quiet. “Starting with Callum on my left,” King instructs. “Say your piece, and then pass the floor to the next man.”

Callum straightens in his seat, looking around the table. “I think it’s risky, but I’m of the opinion we’re about out of choices.”

A murmur builds again, dying off quickly when King slams his piece on the table. “Next fucker that speaks out of turn gets escorted from the room.”

Vince looks to Callum to check he’s finished, and then speaks. “I think it’s fuckin’ suicide. If you don’t get killed actin’ out this cockamamie plan to take down Eddie and Carlos, you’ll get whoever has to take on their roles knifed in the back by one of their men.” He passes to Harris, who stands offset to his left.

“You all know how I feel, since I put the idea on the table. I just urge you to think about this rationally, not emotionally.” He nods to Mighty, King’s sergeant at arms.

The big guy shrugs. “Not wearing this patch because it brings out the color of my eyes.” He grins. “I’m with Pres.”

Ty looks around the table as his turn comes up. “I can’t agree with something that’s so blatantly putting lives at risk. But if that’s the majority vote, we’ll still support it.”

All eyes fall on me, waiting, and accusing. It was me who brought the club to this fucking point, it’s my fault we’re here making such a decision. “I let you down, so I think it goes without sayin’ that I’m a hundred percent behind the decision to end this here and now.”

The attention shifts to Jack, the treasurer, and finally Harris’ men get gifted a say in it all. Their words drift in my ear and swirl about my head in a fog. I can’t bring myself to focus on the reasoning, the full answer. I’m only hanging out to hear if it’s yes or no.

“Four yays, three nays,” King announces. “Majority vote rules—we bring hell down on those assholes.” He lifts his gun from where it sits on the table and tucks it back in his jeans. “Now for the hard part—how we goin’ to do it?”

Extra chairs are brought in from the common room for Tuck and his men, and the officers settle in for the long haul. Sonya’s called up to make food for them all, and Dog brings a crate of drinks in, setting it in the center of the table. Normally alcohol is banned from church, but nobody needs King to explain himself. For some of these men, it could be the last meeting they’ll attend in this room, so why spend the time being a stickler for rules? It’s time to loosen up, make them comfortable, and work out a plan that’ll hopefully bring them all home.

Ty moves to sit closer to King. The two strategists work together to nut out the details on the suggestions put forward by the remaining men. All throughout, I keep to my end of the long table, watching them bicker and argue over semantics and praise one another when they make a breakthrough. My loyalty is with every man in this room, my dedication with the cause, but my heart and mind are absent from the chaos.

Where is she now? It’s a thought that circles relentlessly around my mind like a toy train left to run on an endless track. Has he hurt her? What was said? Questions clutter my focus and steal my patience. The afternoon becomes night, the new plans almost complete, and although I know that spending this time on the details will be the thing that makes or breaks the plan, I can’t stop myself from wanting them to hurry the fuck up. Ryan’s out there alone, among men who will beat her down and suck her dry of all the fight that’s left within.

She’s trying to prove she’s strong enough to fight this on her own, that she cares enough about the two of us to fight for it, and I’m afraid that despite the best of intentions, they’re still not going to be enough.

SLAUGHTER

Ryan

My hands tremble so hard on the steering wheel that I struggle to keep the car straight and pull up in the driveway without scraping Gunter’s Dodge. Somehow I manage to bring the Camaro to a stop without incident, but the tremors still remain. I sit for a moment, just staring at the sunlight dancing across my knuckles as they vibrate under the stress, my heart pounding to the beat of the executioner’s drum.

I’m never going back there. I knew it the minute I penned that note. I lied to Bronx, gave him false hope where there is none. The moment I turned the key in the ignition and headed the Camaro toward ‘home’, I sealed the deal.

Eddie and Gunter aren’t forgiving men. There’s no way I can walk out of this alive. All I can do is my damnedest to make sure none of us do.

Why the fuck didn’t I search that damn clubhouse for a gun before I left? They probably have a dozen of the things lying around. I’m going to need to head straight for the bedroom and grab Gunter’s. Talk about going in half-cocked, Ryan.

Still doesn’t change my mind. I started this mess, and now I’m going to finish it. Meeting King and the people at his club was awkward at first, but it didn’t take long to understand why Bronx gets along so well with them—they’re all good people. They deserve better than a bitter woman coming in to their home and bringing the wrath of an old English thug and a bunch of skinheads with her.

My stomach flips thinking of Bronx. I’m falling fast for the guy, addicted to how genuine and selfless he is. Throughout all of this, he’s never once blamed me for the trouble I’ve caused him. Throughout all of this he’s continued to help me despite the fact I’ve fucked everything up for him. He deserves more than a walking disaster like me. He deserves to be happy, and if I can pull this off and take down Eddie and Gunter, he will be . . . eventually.