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Locke glared at me and then smirked. “Won’t it just. Little old me, accompanied by two heroes. Has Hellfire and Unwanted Bastards gone dark?”

As much as I wanted to smack the smirk off Locke’s face, it wouldn’t be productive. I had family to get back to.

“We’re taking my car. You ride with me,” Locke said. “If you’re my guards, it would be expected.”

“Makes sense.” Tiny nodded.

We followed him outside, and I got in the rear with him. Locke rode in a top-of-the-line, bulletproof Hummer. Everything about it screamed money. Tiny climbed in the front, and the driver pulled out with an SUV following.

“I want to make sure we agree,” Locke said.

“Yeah?” Tiny replied.

“Yes,” Locke snapped. “No going fuckin’ rogue. You guys are good at that. I confirm Pickman is present and open a conversation with him. Let me handle him.”

“You ain’t the only one with a grudge,” Tiny growled.

“No. But I’m the one getting us in. Pickman will have his own guards, and I’d rather not turn tonight into a bloodbath that I’d need to clear up,” Locke replied.

“You? Not Salisbury?” I asked.

Locke smiled enigmatically. “I said me.”

The fucker wouldn’t elaborate. There’d been a lot of rumours around Salisbury and his four alleged guards. Salisbury had a second-in-command who’d turned and started a war that Salisbury soon ended. The death hadn’t caused even a blip in his operations. Salisbury cleaned house, and business continued as usual. Which, considering what a gap losing his second should have caused, made many believe the fool had been a figurehead.

The real power lay with Salisbury and the four dismissed as bodyguards. Clive Salisbury was known as The Ruler and the power player. James Washington had handed his entire empire over to him when he turned clean. Below Salisbury were the alleged four guards who kept everyone guessing about their relationship.

Sebastian Frost, aka The Planner, plotted and planned every move. Careful and concise were words often employed around him.

Vaughn Webb, known as The Wraith. A deadly, silent assassin. He was cold, methodical, and fiercely loyal to Salisbury. He’d never hesitate and used the dark of night to finish his jobs. Cash Ashwood—The Executioner. Ice in his veins, unemotional, clear-headed and never lost his cool. Nobody wanted to meet him on a dark night.

Then there was Felix Locke, The Psycho. His temper ran so hot it was rumoured not even Salisbury could rein him in. Locke hid his boiling temper under a barely veiled veneer of civility, but everyone knew he was an animal and as dangerous as a rabid dog.

Salisbury was the leader, no doubt about it, but these four were thought to be his true partners. Not the second-in-command Salisbury had executed. The fact that they all ran their own territories added to that. Salisbury had tightened his grip on South Dakota and ensured anyone who crossed him paid. Which made running an illegal fighting ring here a fool’s choice.

“Finished internalising?” Locke asked, amused.

“Yup,” I replied.

“You’d be an excellent addition to my team, a fighter like you,” Locke said to Tiny.

“Not interested. You won’t get your hooks into Hellfire MC.”

Locke offered a dry chuckle. “Onyx and his band of merry men are about all I can stomach of MCs.”

“Not quite tamed?” I said.

“No, he has ridiculously loyal ties to some… unwelcome parties,” Locke replied.

I smirked. Locke meant us and the allies.

“The asshole marches to the beat of his own drum.” Tiny caught Locke’s eye, and Locke jerked his head in agreement.

“Pesky relationships,” he muttered, disgruntled.

“We’re here, sir,” the driver announced as we parked.

“Stay with the car. Activate the cameras so nobody sneaks up on you,” Locke ordered.