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Because we weren’t outlaws anymore.
The Midnight Riders were legit – or at least 95% of the way there.
We’d been on the right side of the law for the last three years, since I’d been elected president.
And now Lou had thrown it all away… and spat in my face doing it.
Metaphorically. If he’d spat in my face literally, I probably would have beat him to death with my bare hands.
That is, unless the dozen club members surrounding us had pulled me off and torn me limb from limb.
See, they had all been on Lou’s side. They all wanted the Santa Muerte dead. At the moment, they didn’t care about being legit or staying on the right side of the law. They wanted blood.
Which I had denied them.
Lou had given it to them in spades.
So I violated the rule I learned when I was 21, and I backed down.
I still don’t know if it was a mistake.
What I did know was this:
My opponent this time was much scarier than Moose. Not nearly as physically imposing, but a thousand times smarter.
Far more powerful.
And a hell of a lot more evil.
I also knew this:
I had invited a hundred future fights because I had walked away from one.
Bad call on that one.
Now I was going to face down the Devil and pick a fight.
Time to commit 100%.
Time to go all in.
And never, ever back down again.
3
Of course, it didn’t work out that way at all.
Before I left Fiona’s motel room, I sent Lou a text: We need to meet NOW.
The bastard replied immediately.
Seven Veils. Come see me.
What the fuck?
‘Come see me.’
Presumptuous prick.
