Chapter One
Volt
“Don’t worry, kid,” Prophet says. “Everything’s gonna be fine.”
“I think we’ve got very different definitions of the word ‘fine’,” I reply.
Kneeling next to Prophet with our hands bound behind our backs on the ground of the old, derelict warehouse, I take in the sight of the half dozen men packing AR-15s in addition to sidearms milling around us. And as I do, I don’t know how that statement can possibly be true—I’m pretty sure this isn’t going to turn out fine—though I appreciate his optimism.
It’s kind of hard to feel sunny and bright when two of our guys are sprawled out on the floor behind us, their bodies riddled with bullet holes, laying in pools of their own blood.
“This is the last place I ever figured I was going to die,” I mutter. “I kinda hoped it would be in my own bed about a hundred years from now.”
“You’re not gonna die,” Prophet hisses. “Get that fuckin’ thought out of your head right now, kid. You hear me?”
“Copy that, Prez.”
As if it’s that easy when we’re surrounded by guys armed to the teeth. The men standing guard are all wearing gaiters that cover the bottom half of their faces. Their black gaiters are painted with the lower half of a white skull, giving them all a menacing appearance. I can’t see much about them other than they’ve all got dark skin and dark eyes. If I had to guess, I’d say they were Mexican. But I can’t be sure unless one of them speaks—which none of them seem inclined to do.
I don’t even know how this happened. Everything seemed normal and then went off the fucking rails in a heartbeat. It’s been a hell of a year for the MC and after our blowout with that ATF prick Rollins and the militia that jacked our shipments on top of that a month ago, things seemed like they were finally settling down. We were finally enjoying some downtime and peace as things returned to normal—or at least, our version of it.
But when we showed up for our meet with Cort this morning, we walked right into an ambush. Our suppliers were dead when we got there, and this six-pack of assholes rolled out and took us hostage. They brought us here to this warehouse and immediately killed Beaker and Axle. For whatever reason though, they kept Prophet and me alive. They’re obviously waiting for something—or somebody. It’s a thought that sends a chill racing down my spine.
“What are we waiting for?” I finally ask. “Who are we waiting for?”
“Callate, puto,” one of them replies.
So they are Mexican. Good to know. I exchange a glance with Prophet and see him frown. Ever since our battle with Miguel Zavala, we’ve been waiting for his sicarios to get organized and work up the nut to take a run at us. A final fight with the remnants of his cartel has been hanging over our heads like the goddamn Sword of Damocles. Apparently, that time is here. And they caught us with our fucking pants down. It would be embarrassing if it weren’t such a shit show that was likely going to end up with both of us laying in pools of our own blood.
“This isn’t good, Prez,” I whisper.
His face tightens but he doesn’t say anything. He just gives me a curt nod, which tells me he’s a lot more freaked out than he’s letting on. That does nothing to settle my nerves. I struggle to slide my bound hands into my back pocket, drawing the attention of one of the guards who points his weapon at my face and starts screaming at me in Spanish. The tension in the warehouse crackles in the air around us, and our lives are teetering on a razor’s edge.
“Jesus. You guys already patted us down,” I say. “You did everything but give us a fucking cavity search.”
The man with the weapon in my face looks hard at me and gives me a sharp nod then says something to the other sicarios, which gets them laughing. I can only imagine what they’re saying as sweat rolls down my face. Prophet gives me an uneasy look and lets out a long breath.
The sound of an engine echoes around the warehouse, and a black SUV pulls in and stops. The engine is shut off, and I think the ensuing silence is all the more ominous. The windows are smoked, making it impossible to see who’s inside. But then the driver’s side door opens, and a tall Mexican man in a dark suit with sunglasses on gets out. He’s bald and has a crown of tattoos on his scalp. The work is small and intricate so I can’t see what the symbols are. He’s lean and has a thin mustache and a small soul patch just below his bottom lip.
The man doesn’t even seem to notice Prophet and I kneeling there as he walks around the front of the SUV and goes to the rear passenger door. He opens it with all the solemnity of a Secret Service agent letting the President out of his ride. The man who gets out is dressed in an expertly tailored designer three-piece suit that’s dark blue with pinstripes. Beneath his coat and vest, the man is wearing a blue shirt that’s got a white collar and a bloodred tie. He buttons his jacket and turns to Prophet and me.
He’s tall. Probably about six-two or six-three and lean. He’s broad through the shoulders and narrow at the waist. He looks like a guy who takes care of his body. Probably has a personal trainer or something. His dark hair is cut short and parted on the side, and he’s got a neatly trimmed goatee that’s got a small patch of gray at his chin. He’s got tawny skin and bears an uncanny resemblance to Miguel Zavala.
As his driver closes the door behind him, the man eyeballs us for a long moment in silence. His face is expressionless. But behind his dark eyes, I see the fury that’s burning inside of him. It’s that cold rage I see simmering in his veins that scares me more than anything else about this situation. He’s a man who is so filled with wrath, he’s capable of the most monstrous things. What’s more, he seems like a man more than willing to do the most monstrous things.
“Do you know who I am?” he asks Prophet.
“No fucking clue. Care to enlighten me and tell me why you’ve murdered two of my men and have been keeping us in this warehouse for the last couple of hours?”
The man’s lips twitch, and a corner of his mouth curls up in a feral smirk. His dark eyes burn holes through Prophet, and I get the idea this is personal between this mystery man and our club prez. The kind of hate I see in this man’s face can only come from one place—the loss of a loved one. Everything I’ve noticed since this man got out of the SUV combines to tell me this man is related to Miguel Zavala. And given the similarities between them, I’d go so far as to say it’s his brother.
I cut a glance at Prophet and judging by the pinched expression on his face, I’d say he’s come to the same conclusion. I can’t even begin to imagine what must be going through his mind right now. I wasn’t out there on the raid that killed Miguel Zavala so my stake in everything that went down isn’t as personal as it is to Prophet.
“My name is Emiliano Zavala,” he says. “I am Miguel’s brother. Or at least, I was before you murdered him.”
Prophet chuckles. “Murdered him? That’s an interesting way to put it,” he says. “Especially after your brother clipped a couple of my guys and tried to take me out. Still got the scars from the four bullets he put in me. Want to see ’em?”
“My brother wasn’t a perfect man. I won’t even make the case that he was a good man,” Emiliano says. “But at the end of the day, he was my brother. And what kind of a man would I be if I let his death go unavenged?”
