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Chapter One
Kane
I rev the engine and feel my bike growl beneath me, a beast that tries to surge out onto the tarmac with a mind of its damn own.
I tame it and duck my head, feeling the hot Cali wind smoothing against my face, trying its best to fix this grimace that’s stuck to my lips.
But nothing’s fixing that, not today, not with the Cartel and the drugs pumping into Aslado, my fucking town, hanging over the head of The Bloody Chariots.
I guide my bike off to the side of the brown, dusty road and toward the old chemical plant, a place that’s been used as a palaver point between the Chariots and The Eagle’s Talons for as long as I can remember.
It sits sun beaten and washed out, a husk of a building gutted for everything imaginable apart from its outer walls and a creaking metal door that’s the color of iron and, if you look closely, used to be green.
Stepping from the bike, I kick the stand and nod at my VP, Garrote. He’s a tallish man with wide shoulders, his jacket fitting baggy despite that, his jeans faded and his eyes narrowed. He runs a hand through his brown hair and glances around at the sun-stroked desert.
“They’re late,” he grumbles.
“Power play,” I growl. “That was always Jason’s way.”
Ever since we were kids.
But I keep those words to myself, not wanting to remind my men that Jason Yeager, president of our rival club, was my best friend for more years than I care to remember.
We were inseparable, two brothers in everything but blood, running riot through Aslado and the neighboring towns, sometimes riding up to LA to cause some mayhem there. At sixteen years old, without licenses, we made this town our own.
But then everything changed.
And now we’re enemies, plain and simple.
I roll my arms and pace up and down like a caged lion, my six foot seven frame feeling primed and ready to go. Folks say that men get weaker the older they get, but at forty-two, I feel as fresh and violent as I did at eighteen, my body honed by hours and hours in the gym.
I turn to find Lance squinting at the horizon, the young man thinner then a beanpole and with the sharp nose and jawline to match, an almost emaciated look about him. His bald head is covered in colorful, clashing tattoos and his lips turn downward sourly.
“Hotter than a motherfucker out here,” he complains.
The young enforcer has proved himself on more than one occasion, but when he whines like that, I have to resist the urge to reach out and smack him across the jaw to teach him some manners.
“Relax,” Garrote mutters, his nickname coming from the tattoo across his throat, a bleeding thread of barbed wire. Nobody calls him Ryan Thompson anymore. “Won’t win any prizes whining like a bitch.”
“Hey,” Lance snaps. “Don’t start flinging insults around, man.”
Garrote grins wolf-like. “Calm down, kid. Just fucking with you.”
“Quiet,” I mutter, bringing a hand up to shield my face from the sun so I can see the bikers approaching, three of them kicking up a storm of dust in their wake. “They’re here.”
Jason stops just shy of our collection of bikes, climbing off with his men at his back.
My old friend – now enemy – is about five eight with a receding hairline and three chins sagging down to his jacket. Sweat beads on his red face and I see the flicker of resentment in his dark green eyes, as though it’s my fault he’s let his body go to shit over the years, and I should feel guilty for being six seven and three hundred pounds of muscle.
“Kane,” he mutters.
“Jason,” I say, inclining my head.
“Hotter than a motherfucker out here.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’ve heard,” I smirk. “Let’s not waste time with small talk. Somebody’s working with the Cartel to funnel drugs into Aslado. Nothing gets into this town without one of us giving the okay, and I damn sure know I haven’t—”
“So what?” he blusters. “You think I’m funneling heroin into my own goddamn town?”
“I’m telling you now,” I say calmly. “If you are, you need to stop. End whatever deal you’ve made. I won’t have Aslado become a fucking pit for the Cartel, Jason. End it. Now.”
His whole face trembles and his eyes flit around, and I feel Garrote bristling beside me, hand itching to go for his gun. Lance does the same but I wave a hand, calming them, and then try to lower my voice to something respectful like.
“Listen, Jase,” I say, using the name I did when we were kids. “This doesn’t have to end badly—”
“Are we done?” he growls, already turning for his bike, his men doing the same.
I sigh, clenching my fists and warring with the desire to leap at him and hammer some sense into him.
