It was early when the caravan reached Willard Bay Reservoir. The sun was just barely cresting on the horizon, and most of the boys were still sound asleep in the back of the vans.

Deuce pulled off the road and into a snow-covered parking lot. Leaving the engine running, he exited the vehicle. As he slammed closed the driver’s side door, a rush of cold, frost-bitten air smacked into him, sending a chill straight through him.

Beneath his cut, he pulled his leather jacket closed and began fumbling with the zipper, until he realized that would only impede him if shit went south and he needed ready access to the twin pistols he kept holstered under his arms. Pulling the guns free, he tucked one into the back of his leathers, the other into the holster inside his cut, and proceeded to zip up his jacket.

With a large exhale of air, his breath appearing before him in a large white puff, Deuce slipped his bare hands underneath his armpits and leaned back against the van. They’d driven all night to make it to the meeting with the Russians, and they’d chosen Utah for two reasons. One, because it was halfway to Vegas, and two, because it was neutral ground. Neither party, under these circumstances, would risk a meeting like this one in compromised territory. Still, as he looked out across the quiet water to the left of him and the empty plot of land surrounding him, he couldn’t help but wonder if they’d walked into a trap.

Despite the fact that they’d had countless friendly dealings with the Russians in the past, they were coldhearted motherfuckers who didn’t care who kicked it, as long as the end game resulted in their favor. Finding out it was in fact Yenny who was running things, who had been running things this entire time since betraying his own blood, only furthered Deuce’s disgust for them.

Deuce might live outside the law, but he and many others like him had a set of rules they followed. Because if they didn’t keep some sort of system in place, a chain of command and honesty among thieves, it would be absolute anarchy.

Even criminals should have a code; if not, then it was a free-for-all. If you couldn’t trust your own damn brother, then what was the fucking point?

And all this time he’d thought it was that Russian moron, Valentin, running the show when really, that fat fuck had just been the figurehead. Yenny had been the man behind the curtain, hiding much the same as Hawk had been doing all these years.

The Russians’ lack of honor was one of the reasons Deuce had done his damnedest to steer the club away from dealings with them. Since working side by side with Preacher and the Silver Demons, he’d grown accustomed to buying from and distributing for the Chinese. It had been a deliberately slow transition, since he didn’t want to cut ties with the Russians all at once in case he needed their backing at some point, but his dwindling dealings with them had apparently been noticed and they obviously weren’t too happy about it. Now they were using Hawk to blackmail Deuce back into exclusivity, and using Deuce to blackmail Preacher into expanded distribution, all to their benefit. Greedy fuckers.

Preacher, his hands stuffed inside his pockets, his shoulders hunched forward, came to stand beside him. “What happens if your boy has already kicked it?” Then pulling his cigarettes from inside his coat, he lit one up and blew a long stream of smoke into the wind.

Deuce closed his eyes, wishing he could do the same. Since his heart attack, Eva had been a goddamn vigilante, hell-bent on denying him even the simplest of pleasures. Like a motherfucking cigarette. Or salt. Yeah, Jesus fucking Christ, he missed salt.

“They wouldn’t risk it,” Deuce said. “They want your business and they ain’t gonna get it if they kill my boy. They’re smart enough to know that. But if they did kill ’im, then they’re goin’ to ground.” He turned his gaze back to the water. “Every last one of ’em.”

“That means war. With the fuckin’ cartel.”

A burst of anger caused the muscles in Deuce’s arms to tighten over his chest. “Yeah.”

“That means you’re puttin’ me in the position to be goin’ to war.”

Deuce cut his eyes toward Preacher. “It wasn’t fuckin’ me who pulled you into this shit. It was them.”

“Wouldn’t have been able to pull either of us into this shit if you hadn’t been harboring a fugitive, one who just so happened to be one of their own.”

He didn’t respond. What could he say? Preacher was right, as usual. The dumbass motherfucker. But Deuce didn’t regret taking Hawk in. Not for one second. That boy had proved to be one of his club’s best assets.

“You let your boys in on the real plan yet?”

Deuce grimaced. No, he fucking hadn’t. Other than Preacher, only Mick knew the endgame, and only because he didn’t need his VP crying and whining at him again anytime soon. As for the rest of them, he couldn’t tell them, not yet. He needed everyone to appear on board with taking on more merchandise from the Russians. One slipup, one goddamn wrong look could cost Hawk his life or worse, all their lives. The fallout from this motherfucking dangerous game they were all playing was going to be bad enough. No need to add fuel to the fire just yet.

“The Aces are gonna be on board with pickin’ up the slack, yeah?” Deuce asked, purposely changing the subject. “If we don’t have this shit in place with Slider before the Russians pick up on what we’re doin’, it’s all gonna go bad for everyone.”

Preacher’s head bobbed up and down. “Hellions too. Roundman’s pretty excited about the whole fuckin’ deal.”

Deuce let out a heavy sign. “It ain’t the East Coast, but it’s somethin’, and somethin’ is better than nothin’. Worse comes to worst and they don’t take the bait, we at least got two more clubs backin’ us.”

Preacher nodded again. “Good men, both of them, with strong clubs. It’ll be a bloody fuckin’ war, but I ain’t worried about losin’ it. But, Deuce, you’re gonna have to tell your boys.”

“Not yet,” Deuce growled. “They’re already pissed at me for not tellin’ them about Hawk. Can’t figure out why, though, seein’ as ZZ was one of ’em and he shot my boy. You think you got a loyal man when really all you got is a fuckin’ shit stain who loses his balls over runaway pussy.”

Pussy that had belonged to his daughter, Deuce thought, cringing. His daughter and Dorothy’s daughter.

Beside him, Preacher erupted into a fit of laughter that turned quickly into a painful-sounding cough, and Deuce ground his teeth together. What he wouldn’t give to be coughing up a lung right about now.

“Maybe you should quit,” he said bitterly, hoping like hell the man would agree and hand the pack over.

“I’m already dyin’. Why quit now?”

Deuce blinked at Preacher’s surprising revelation. Turning toward the man, he said, “What the fuck did you just say?”

Preacher’s gaze went skyward. “Cancer.”

Deuce stared at him. “Where?”

“Everywhere.”

Jesus . . . shit. What the fuck was he supposed to say to that?

“Ain’t there some shit they can do?”

Snorting, Preacher shook his head. “You gonna stand there and tell me you’d let some whack-job doctor put you through the ringer just so you could die a year or two later, all shriveled up and fuckin’ hairless?”

“Yeah, asshole,” Deuce shouted. “I fuckin’ would. I got little-ass kids and a fuckin’ wife! Your daughter? Big eyes, sexy-as-shit lips and perfect fuckin’ tits. You remember her?”

Preacher flicked his cigarette away and turned to face him, an eyebrow cocked and a smile on his face. “I was thinkin’ more along the lines of pigtails and bad singin’, but it’s nice to know you’re still appreciatin’ my girl.”

“Yeah,” Deuce muttered, feeling embarrassed and wishing his words back. “Fuck you.”

“Speakin’ of my little girl, don’t want you tellin’ her ’bout me. I’ll take care of that when the time comes.”

The image of Eva, devastated and crying, caused Deuce’s chest to tighten. Breathing through the feeling, he quickly relaxed. If Preacher wanted to be the one to tell her, that was Preacher’s business, and he’d happily stay the fuck out of it.

“And I’m thinkin’,” Preacher continued cheerfully, “that I want to consolidate the clubs. Hand my boys over to you. And fuck you too.”

Deuce nearly choked and when he was done choking, he saw red, he saw motherfucking red. Preacher didn’t just have a club or two, the man had a whole goddamn empire, world-fucking-wide.

“You crazy? I’m dyin’ too! You can’t put all that on me, I got enough of my own fuckin’ problems!”

“You ain’t dyin’.”

“I am,” Deuce protested, and slapped his hand over his chest. “Doctors fuckin’ told me I have another heart attack like the last one and I’m fuckin’ done.”

Preacher rolled his eyes. “You ain’t dyin’, shithead. Men like you don’t fuckin’ die. They keep kicking and yelling their way through life until someone knocks ’em down when they ain’t lookin’ and even then, they just keep kicking and yelling from the damn grave.”

Preacher grinned at him then. “Best kinda man,” he said. “That boy of yours even got half of that shit inside him, he’s gonna make us both proud.”

Deuce continued to stare at him, feeling flabbergasted and more than a little uneasy.

“First you shoot me,” he muttered. “Now you’re handin’ me your damn club and spoutin’ love poems.”

“She was sixteen, motherfucker, you woulda shot you.”

“No, asshole, I woulda killed me.”

At that, Preacher just kept grinning. Jesus, was he in the twilight zone?

A door squeaking open drew his attention to where Ripper was exiting the back of the van.

“We got company, Prez,” Ripper said, nodding.

Deuce followed his gaze where, a ways down the road, he could see three large SUVs making their way toward them. “Right on time,” he muttered.

Turning back to Preacher, Deuce glared at the man. “There is no fuckin’ way I’m takin’ your shit on.”

Because what a mess that would be. He couldn’t even keep his own boys across state lines in check. His Nevada chapter was now under the protection of the Russian mafia, and although he’d verbally stripped them of their patches, he couldn’t touch a single one of them.

At least . . . not yet. But he’d find a way to kill each and every one of them for their betrayal.

But taking on the Silver Demons? He was just one man, past his prime, who in all honesty was getting more than sick of the bullshit politics that came with managing men who didn’t like to be managed.

More than ever, he wanted to pass that gavel soon. He was tired, and he wasn’t ashamed to admit he wanted to spend more time with his family than he did barking out orders. As for his successor, Cage still had a lot to learn.

Yeah. Like he’d said, what a mess.

But Preacher, that motherfucker, didn’t seem to think so and just kept on grinning.

Christ. He really wanted a fucking cigarette.

• • •

Erik “Ripper” Jacobs stayed in the background as was expected of him, watching as the Russians filed out of their vehicles. Preacher’s nephew Trey, a Silver Demon, had hung back with him, and together they scanned the area around them for anything that seemed out of place, looking out for potential hidden threats. Never mind that he only had one fucking eye; he was still every bit as good at his job as he’d ever been, if not better. Funny how shit like that worked. Life sure as fuck had tossed some boulders his way, small mountains he’d never thought he’d be able to climb over, but he’d done that and more. He’d smashed those fucking obstacles to pieces and ground them to dust beneath his boot.

“One of those suit-wearin’ motherfuckers yours?” Trey asked, flicking his eyes toward the Russians.

Ripper scanned the line of men, counting five of them, and not finding Hawk among them. But that didn’t mean jack shit. Hawk, they’d been told, had been shot. Which meant he was either dead and this was a setup, or he was still inside one of their vehicles.

“No,” he said, swallowing back both his welling fear as well as his anger. He was so close to losing it, had been for days now. Finding out who Hawk really was . . . well, wasn’t that some real fucking bullshit.

All those years, fucking decades, thinking you knew a man, only to find out you didn’t know jack-fucking-shit about him. Hawk wasn’t Hawk, everything had been a lie contrived by Deuce. Ripper didn’t know how to deal with that, except for wanting to send his fist straight into both of their fucking faces. And seeing as he couldn’t punch Deuce without the wrath of God falling down upon him, he would settle for venting his frustrations on Hawk. But to do that, he needed him home, and more importantly, alive. After that, the motherfucker was fair fucking game.

“So listen,” Trey said, pulling his cigarette from his mouth and flicking it into the snow. “Preacher’s been talkin’ ’bout the clubs becomin’ one.”

Ripper’s eyebrows lifted. This was news to him.

“’Course, not everyone’s on board,” Trey continued, “but ain’t no one gonna argue with Prez once he’s made up his mind. I figured if that’s the way shit gonna be goin’ down and we’re gonna be workin’ side by side, then we best make sure shit’s solid between us.”

Whatever shit Trey was referring to, Ripper didn’t feel it could be more important than the scene unfolding before him. Keeping his eyes on Deuce, he grunted his response.

Although he couldn’t hear what the men were saying, Deuce appeared agitated, running his hands through his hair, something he often did when he was about to blow. And the Russians didn’t exactly look too happy either. Mick, as usual, was the buffer. To the untrained eye, it would look like he was simply standing shoulder to shoulder with his prez as a show of solidarity, but Ripper knew better. Mick was waiting for the bomb to detonate, the bomb being Deuce when they found out Hawk’s fate.

“That mess with Frankie, him fuckin’ up your face, just wanted to make sure shit was good between you and me. No hard feelin’s, right?”

Ripper’s vision wavered, his fixed attention on Deuce began to wane, and for a moment he felt like he was back inside that warehouse, back under that blade and the madman wielding it. Blinking, he refocused on Deuce and took a deep breath.

“Preacher had no clue what that fucker was doin’ on the side,” Ripper muttered. “I let that shit go a long-ass time ago.”

“Good to hear,” Trey said. “Thought you might be harborin’ some resentment toward the rest of us who’d been there.”

Ripper froze. Everything stopped and became fuzzy as he tried and failed to process what Trey had said.

The rest of us who’d been there.

The rest of us who’d been there.

The rest of us who’d been . . .

His arm shot out, grabbing Trey’s jacket collar, and then he quickly dragged the man behind the van and threw him up against the back door. Letting go of his collar, he wrapped his hand around Trey’s throat and squeezed.

“What the fuck did you just say?” he demanded.

Trey didn’t even blink. He was as calm as ever staring back at Ripper with those big gray eyes of his that looked so much like Eva’s. In fact, Trey was the male equivalent of his cousin, minus the tits and Chuck Taylors. The only difference was the eerie chill Ripper felt slither through him while looking at the man.

“I thought you knew,” Trey said quietly.

“I would have killed you if I knew,” Ripper ground out through gritted teeth.

The admission made Trey smile, also super creepy. “You could’ve tried,” he said, his tone as dead as his eyes. “Lots of motherfuckers have. And they all fuckin’ failed.”

“Yeah?” Ripper’s eyes narrowed. “Why? ’Cause you had Frankie doin’ your dirty work for you? You enjoy watchin’ him fuck people up, you sick shit?”

Trey attempted to shake his head, but Ripper’s unforgiving grip on his throat allowed him very little movement. “Ain’t nobody wanted to fuck with that asshole and what he did for kicks. I may not be the nicest motherfucker out there, but I ain’t ever carved anybody up like a Thanksgivin’ turkey. If I got a beef, I shoot point-blank. Frankie was a breed all his own.”

Ripper stared at him. Not the nicest motherfucker out there was putting it mildly. Trey had a line of bodies trailing behind him. But then again, so did Ripper.

Ripper released him and backed away as Trey reached up to massage his throat.

“We good?” Trey asked.

About to tell him to go fuck himself, Ripper was distracted by an angry shout. He turned just in time to see a body being tossed out the door of one of the SUVs. As Hawk’s lifeless body fell to the ground, the door slammed closed and the line of SUVs sped off. Without giving Trey a second glance, he took off running. Trey didn’t fucking matter. Frankie didn’t fucking matter.

Because when it came down to it, this wasn’t a pretty life by any means. Bodies fell, and people got hurt. But you did your best to keep going; you found yourself a nice little patch of happiness, and you clung to that shit like it was your last fucking breath.

And he’d done just that. He’d found his peace within the arms of a beautiful girl. He’d found peace and a whole lot more.

Frankie was dead; that psychopath had paid for his sins in the worst possible way.

And someday, Trey would get what was coming to him.

Neither of them deserved another fucking thought. They weren’t worth it.

But Hawk was.

“Grab his legs!” Deuce shouted, grabbing hold of Hawk’s underarms and trying to pull the man’s big body upward. “And watch out for those wounds!”

Shoving Dirty and Mick out of his way, Ripper dropped down to his knees and skidded across the snow-covered pavement, reaching for Hawk’s unmoving body. Wearing only a pair of soiled boxers, he was covered in bruises, dried blood, and other substances Ripper didn’t want to give too much thought to what that they were. On either side of his right leg, there were two shoddily stitched-up wounds, both an angry red and seeping with pus, the dirty skin around them turning unhealthy shades of black and blue.

As carefully as he could, he slipped his arm underneath his brother’s thighs, and as Deuce lifted the top half of Hawk’s body, Ripper lifted his legs.

“Is he breathin’?” Ripper asked, panting.

“Shallow,” Mick said, “but he’s breathin’.”