Rags flexed his fingers once, then twice, loosening them. The cold wind bit through his cut and settled in his bones. Around him, boots shifted on dry grass, hard snow, and gravel. Metal clicked and leather creaked as men adjusted their weapons. No one spoke. Hawk lifted his hand. Everything went still, even the wind.
Then it began.
Rags moved toward the front porch. Hawk, Throttle, and Tank circled around back. Diesel, Puck, Animal, Wheelie, and Helm spread out to the sides.
There was no shout. No countdown. There was only motion.
Rags, Shadow, Smokey, Blade, and Axe crouched down low as they approached the front door. The air smelled like gas fumes, old metal, and stale smoke. Somewhere inside the clubhouse, music thumped faint and scratchy, and laughter spilled out between beats like nothing in the world could touch them. Like they had no clue that in less than a few seconds, their world would implode.Assholes.
Rock and Bones peeled off toward the rear entrance while Jerry and Bear ghosted toward the north side. The remaining brothers fanned wide, the night swallowing them whole. Rags slid the padlock from his pocket and wrapped the bandana tight around his fist, letting the familiar weight settle into his palm. Through the side door, the light from inside illuminated Helm, who gave a quick nod. Rags held his breath.
Three. Two. One.
The door burst inward with a splintering, perfectly in rhythm with the side and back entrances. All hell broke loose. The heavy door slammed against the wall hard enough to rattle the hinges, killing the music mid-beat. For half a second, the room froze.Cards hung suspended in mid-air. Bottles stopped halfway to lips. Smoke drifted thick and lazy.
Then came a roar. “What the fu—”
Rags closed the distance before the man could finish. The padlock cracked against the guy’s cheek with a sick, wet pop, spraying teeth across the poker table. The bastard rolled from his chair and dropped before he even understood what hit him.
Chaos erupted throughout the room. Half-clothed women scrambled off men’s laps and ran for cover while a few of the targets tried to follow, but Hawk, Rock, and Throttle cut them down and stopped them cold. Chairs scraped against concrete as Devil’s Reign members leapt to their feet. One of them reached for a gun, but he was too slow—Tank plowed into him like a freight train, driving him through a folding table. Wood and bone splintered over the sound of a woman screaming.
Shadow flipped the lights, encasing the room in total darkness except for the staccato muzzle flashes and the red glow of the exit sign. Rags moved on instinct. A body rushed him, a fist crashing into his ribs. Grunting through the pain, he swung blind. The padlock smashed into a temple, dropping the man with a heavythud. Before Rags could reset, someone grabbed his cut from behind. He slammed his head backward, feeling the crunch of cartilage against his skull before he spun, driving the padlock straight into the fucker’s throat. The pussy dropped, gagging and spewing as boots stomped, glass shattered and choked groans filled the air around them.
“Where the fuck are you, Demon?” a raspy voice cried.
“Who’s Demon?” Hawk asked, the bright beam from his kill-light washing over the downed man.
Blood streamed down the guy’s face as he looked up. “Our president.”
Hawk dragged him to his feet. “Show me where he is,” he hissed, hauling the stumbling bastard out of the room.
Rags pulled his kill-light from his waistband just as the greasy-haired asshole from the festival came barreling toward him. Remembering the flashlight the sonofabitch had clobbered him with, Rags brought his arm up and smashed the heavy light straight against his temple, dropping the bastard flat.
“Get the women outta here!” Rock yelled.
Satisfaction and pride swirled through Rags. This wasn’t a fight—it was a reckoning. The fucking Devil’s Reign wanted to poke the bear, and now they were getting mauled. Across the room, Helm had one of the rivals on his knees, ripping the Colorado rocker clean off his cut.
“Wrong fuckin’ colors, asshole,” Helm snarled.
Nearby, Blade dragged another man across the bar top, bouncing his face off the wood until he stopped moving. Rags scanned the room. No Throttle.
“Have you seen Throttle?” he asked Rock.
Rock’s fist paused mid-air. “Nope. I thought he was behind Hawk.” He slammed his fist forward, the five metal rings across his knuckles biting deep into his opponent’s face.
Rags rushed to the back of the clubhouse and flicked on his flashlight. In the beam of light, a big bear of a guy knelt over a body writhing on the floor, his arm raised with a knife dripping blood.
Rags’s gut dropped. “Throttle!”
The attacker looked over and growled. Rags yanked the Ruger from his boot, aimed, and squeezed the trigger twice. Shock crossed the rival’s face before he crumpled.
Rags dropped beside his friend, pressing his hands to the wound. “Dude, talk to me. Can you hear me?”
Throttle moaned, blood pouring from a deep gash in his side. “The fucker stuck me… didn’t see him,” he gasped.
“We need to get you to Doc,” Rags said. Wet, ragged breaths punctuated the quiet of the back room. Rags tore off his cut andpressed the leather hard against the wound. “Fuck, dude. Don’t die on me.”
“What’s going on?” Smokey asked, rushing into the room.