“No.” I smiled without a shred of humor. “That’s why you’re the envelope, not the recipient.”
The rest of the message we were sending didn’t need much talking. By the time we were done, all four men were bloody, swollen, and breathing hard through broken pride and worse pain. They were alive, and that was about the kindest thing anyone could say about their condition.
A little before three in the morning, we hauled them upstairs and out to the back parking lot where a plain black van waited. One of the bastards groaned when Nitro shoved him into the van, and Nitro paused long enough to stare at him. The man shut up so fast it almost would’ve been funny if I hadn’t been thinking about Saylor sleeping in my bed at the compound.
“You good?” Drift asked quietly as we watched the doors close.
“No.”
He didn’t ask me to explain. Didn’t have to.
Kane rolled in a few minutes later, the same cold focus he’d carried at Torque Ridge.
“Let’s ride,” he ordered.
The drive to Savannah took five hours through dark highways and empty stretches of road. Fury and Wrench drove the van ahead with the four broken Serpents inside, while Kane, Edge, Nitro, Axle, Drift, and I followed on our bikes.
My body was tired, my knuckles ached, but my mind stayed locked on the only thing that mattered.
Saylor.
I wanted to get this done so I could go home, get my woman in my arms, and make sure she knew exactly what she meant to me.
By the time we rolled into Savannah, the sun was rising behind low buildings, turning the edges of the streets pale gold. Jax had found the Diesel Serpents’ compound earlier and sent us the location.
The clubhouse sat at the end of an industrial road, a squat brick building with bikes lined along one side, a rusted gate hanging open, and a serpent emblem painted across the front wall.
Kane parked first, and the rest of us pulled in behind him, engines cutting one after another until the sudden silence felt louder than the ride. The van stopped near the front door, and Fury climbed out, rolled his shoulders, and opened the side door. One of the guys inside made a pained sound when light hit him. Edge grinned like the morning had improved.
“Rise and shine,” he called. “You boys are home.”
“Ain’t that kind of us.” Axle smirked, stepping up beside me. “Door-to-door service.”
Nitro glanced at the clubhouse. “Rating’s gonna suffer.”
Drift said nothing, but the look he gave the building suggested the entire place had already failed inspection.
I walked up the shallow steps and pounded on the door hard enough to rattle the frame. “Open the fuck up.”
For a moment, nothing happened. Then boots thudded inside, locks snapped, and the door jerked open to reveal a thick-necked biker with sleep-creased skin, bloodshot eyes, and an irritated expression. His gaze moved over my cut, then past my shoulder to the vehicles, and his mouth opened in a sneer.
“You lost, asshole? Get the fuck?—”
I stepped aside. Then Nitro, Axle, Edge, and Drift each dragged one of their broken brothers forward and dumped them at his feet. Bodies hit the porch boards in a heavy tangle of groans, blood, and torn leather. The guy in the doorway froze, his curse dying halfway out of his mouth as recognition struck. He stared down at the mess we’d delivered, then up at us, and whatever sleep had been hanging onto him vanished.
Then Kane stepped forward. And the biker shrank back before he seemed to realize he’d moved, his eyes going wide as our prez’s shadow fell over the doorway. He stood there with the lethal stillness that had made billionaires, racers, cops, killers, and men with more bullets than brains rethink their entire day.
“Tell your president Kane Beckett brought him a package,” Kane demanded. “And a message.”
The biker swallowed so hard I heard it from the steps. Then he stumbled backward, nearly tripping over one of the bloody men on the floor as he turned and yelled into the clubhouse.
We waited.
A few minutes later, a biker stomped through the doorway, tougher looking than the first idiot but built scrawny under a sleeveless shirt and cut that had seen better days. He came out mad, shoulders set, mouth open, already preparing to perform for his men.
“I’m Bomber,” he barked. “President of the Diesel Serpents. What the fuck do you think?—”
His gaze landed on Kane, and the performance died instantly. Color drained from his face so fast it was almostimpressive. His throat moved, and his mouth opened again, but this time no anger came out.
