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One, two, punch.
Duck, weave.
One, two, punch.
Lincoln kept his wrist straight, extending his reach, and danced around the bag. Sweat dripped off his brow, and a musky odor drifted from his drenched clothes. Since he didn’t drink or do drugs, and had zero desire to fuck at the moment, throwing fists was the healthiest option. Except he’d been at it for hours and planned to be at it for hours more. Every time the headache bloomed, he came to the gym. Punching bags didn’t last too long, but replacing them was a small price to pay in the scheme of things.
The door to the gym opened and Thorn, his VP, entered. He wore jeans and his leather cut over a t-shirt, so he wasn’t there to work out. That thought only cemented when the man straddled a weight bench and stared at him.
Lincoln gave a mental sigh and grabbed the punching bag to halt its swing. His muscles quivered and his legs felt like they were going to collapse under him. He walked over to his water bottle on the floor and took a deep drink.
“It’s four in the morning.”
Lincoln side-eyed him. “Your point?”
“My point is it’s four in the morning. How long have you been at that?”
“I don’t know,” Lincoln replied. “Three or four hours. Maybe eight.”
“Feel better?” Thorn asked.
Lincoln shrugged and waited for Thorn to say what he wanted to say.
“Can’t talk or don’t want to?”
“Just waiting to hear what you need.”
“Remember Damon Barese?”
“Kinda hard to forget the mafia king.”
Thorn ran a hand over the back of his neck. “He saved Chase.”
“Yep,” Lincoln replied, although there hadn’t been a question.
“He told me I owed him.”
Lincoln cocked his head. He hadn’t known that detail. “Is he calling in his marker?”
Thorn nodded. “Wants me to go to the Heart of Darkness to pick up a man they’re protecting.”
“So, he wants you to start a war between our clubs?”
“Negotiations have already been done. The prez, Cross, is willing to let him go now that O’Shannon is six feet under.”
Lincoln raised his eyebrows as he waited to hear the rest of it.
“I need you to come with me.”
“Why me? With Kuckles gone, Ghost is the logical replacement.”
“The whole structure within the club is changing, and yes, Ghost is going to make a great Enforcer. But I need someone to handle a monetary transaction that doesn’t get linked back to the Death Riders. Barese is footing the bill but we’re going to fork it over. Bolt will drive the van since the idiot accidentally spilled paint over my bike. He’ll turn over the prisoner to Barese’s right-hand man once we’re out of the compound.”
Lincoln bit the inside of his cheek to stop from grinning. The prez’s old lady, Leia, had asked them to paint some old lawn furniture. Bolt had tripped over an exposed tree root and the paint went flying.
“Yeah, yellow isn’t a good color on you. When do you want to leave?”
Thorn shook his head like the memory pained him. “Anyway. I’d like to head out about seven. It’ll take about an hour to get there so we’ll have the advantage of them being tired as shit to protect our asses. Best case scenario is they were all drunk last night. A hangover makes an awesome negotiating tactic.”
