Chapter 1
Reaper smashed his beer bottle against the bar and pointed the jagged neck straight at my face.
The whole room went quiet.
No music.
No laughter.
No pool balls cracking in the back.
Just broken glass dripping beer onto the wood, and forty men turning to watch whether I lived through the next thirty seconds.
“I didn’t say anything,” I said.
My voice stayed steady.
My hand did not.
It was already moving toward the knife at my belt.
Reaper saw it and laughed.
Cold.
Ugly.
“The cops were waiting at the checkpoint, Jax,” he said, stepping closer. “Only three people knew that route.”
He lifted one finger.
“Me.”
Another.
“The president.”
Then he jabbed the broken bottle toward my chest.
“And you.”
The bar smelled like smoke, sweat, oil, and old anger.
I had been in dangerous rooms before.
But this was different.
Because these were men I had ridden with.
Men I had bled beside.
Men who would turn on me in a heartbeat if they believed I had sold them out.
“I’m not a rat,” I said.
Reaper’s eyes went black.
“Then why did the shipment go down?”
He came closer.
“Why did three of our guys get pulled off the highway? Why are they sitting in cells tonight while you’re standing here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Wrong answer.”
He swung the bottle.
I ducked.
Glass exploded against the wall behind me.
I drove my fist into his stomach.
He folded.
I hit him again across the jaw.
He went down hard, but he was not done.
Reaper grabbed a barstool and swung at my legs.
The edge caught my knee.
Pain shot up my thigh.
I stumbled into a table.
Beer mugs flew.
Someone shouted.
Nobody stepped in.
Reaper charged.
We crashed into the bar.
Bottles fell around us.
I grabbed a pool cue from the wall and swung.
He blocked it with his arm.
Something cracked.
He screamed and slammed his forehead into mine.
White sparks burst behind my eyes.
We hit the floor together.
Rolling.
Punching.
Fighting like neither of us planned to get old.
“Stop them!” someone yelled.
But no one wanted to be between us.
Then the front door opened.
“ENOUGH!”
The president’s voice cut through the room.
Silas Kane stood in the doorway in his black leather cut, rain on his shoulders, gray beard trimmed close, eyes colder than the desert at midnight.
Four men rushed in and pulled us apart.
I was breathing hard, blood warm above my eyebrow.
Reaper’s arm hung badly at his side.
His eyes stayed locked on mine.
Silas walked between us.
“One of you is lying,” he said. “And when I find out who, he’ll wish the cops found him first.”
Reaper spat on the floor.
“It’s him, Prez.”
Silas turned slowly.
“You said only three people knew the route.”
“That’s right. Me, you, and Jax.”
Silas smiled.
Not kindly.
“Wrong.”
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a phone.
He held it up.
On the screen was a group chat.
Five members.
Reaper’s face changed.
All the blood seemed to drain out of him.
“Prez,” he whispered, “I can explain.”
“Shut up.”
Silas looked at the screen again.
Then he looked at me.
Something in his eyes made my stomach twist.
I stepped forward despite the men holding me.
“What?”
Silas turned the phone so I could see.
Five names.
Silas.
Reaper.
Me.
A contact saved as Mule.
And the fifth.
May you like
My brother.
Cal.
