My lungs ceased to work. “Where … already where?”

Don’t say it.

Do. Not. Say. It.

“He’s gone to face Rubix. He’s gone to finish a war.”

Chapter Thirty

Kill

I’d always known I’d been raised to be a killer. Being the son of a murderer sort of defined my destiny. I’d been twelve when my father had taken me to witness my first homicide. Everything he’d done—boosting a car, trading coke, laundering a few rifles—was his side business. I’d been sworn to secrecy. Thorn Price never knew. I didn’t like lying to Cleo’s family. I’d hated blatantly hiding things from my president. But I’d had no choice. I’d lied to survive. —Kill, age fifteen

Grasshopper lied.

He lied for me. He lied to my woman. And he hated it.

Once more, I was a fugitive.

A liar.

A thief.

And I was about to become a murderer all over again.

I despised lying to Cleo. But I couldn’t tell her my true plans. I couldn’t run the risk of her following me and getting hurt again. I’d caused her enough suffering. These were my sins—not hers. And I fucking refused to have her pay another cent.

Lying was the only way I could keep her safe.

Sleeping beside Cleo last night, I’d ached to touch her one last time, to whisper in her ear and say that I loved her and would miss her—just in case tonight didn’t go well.

But I couldn’t do that.

I could only drink in the sight of her blazing red hair and hope to fucking God I survived.

Watching her sleep, I begged her not to dream of me. Not to dream of death and destruction.

And when the sun rose, I had to pretend that today was any normal day. I hid my rising anxiety and played the perfect part so I didn’t raise her suspicions. Luckily, I’d had practice misleading those I cared about. First Thorn Price, then Cleo, then my own father as I fell more into Cleo and lied to protect her.

If I hadn’t learned through habit and necessity, there was no way I would’ve succeeded. She would’ve guessed the moment I said good morning—her intuition far exceeded my ability to bullshit.

The minute we’d eaten, I sneaked away—like the fugitive I was.

I couldn’t stand to be around her for another fucking minute in case my entire plan collapsed like a hopeless stack of cards.

The men had been informed.

The plan put into execution.

And Grasshopper was enlisted to distract her with monotonous businesses and pointless errands. Only once the brothers had been equipped, armed, and headed out to Night Crusaders could he return her home and come and join us.

Tonight, she would curse me. She would hate me for what I’d done. But I would take her hate gladly, as it would mean there was no way for her to chase us. We would vanish to do what was necessary, while she would be safe, far away from carnage.

If tonight worked—if the gods of fate had decreed I’d paid my toll and deserved my final retribution—then I would return a peaceful man. I would never raise arms again. I would have no need to. I would be content and redeemed. And Cleo would never have to worry.

I’d lived the past few years smelling nothing but blood. I’d existed craving nothing but revenge.

That was all at an end.

Tonight, I’ll finally find closure.

My appetite for peace would be sated. My hunger for justice fed.

Salvation.

Shaking away the cobwebs of my thoughts, I centered myself. All thoughts of Cleo were silenced. All nerves that I might die deleted. All I needed to focus on was clearheaded anger.

The brothers around me throbbed with power. The night pulsed with sounds of engines and scent of gasoline.

I looked back at Pure Corruption’s clubhouse one last time as I checked ammunition and pushed a revolver into my back waistband. My hands took stock, checking the sawed-off shotgun holstered to my thigh, the grenades gathered like a bunch of fucking grapes in my satchel, and the semiautomatic strapped to the back of my Triumph.

I bristled with war.

I dripped with weapons.

There was nothing left to do.

I gave the signal, and we pulled out.

“You ready for this, dude?” Grasshopper asked, his eyes trailing to the gate of the Crusaders’ Clubhouse.

Three a.m. and it was a dead town. No security guard on watch, no trained dogs patrolling the perimeter. Just a squat, ugly brick building with rotting outhouses and overgrown weeds. Even the moon and stars hated this place, preferring to hide behind a belt of clouds.

It was child’s play.

Undefended.

Unprepared.

Entirely fucking cocky.

Night Crusaders were new. Their MC hit four years old last month. When they’d encroached on our domain, we’d had … what should I call it? An altercation.

Egos were thrown, dominance asserted, and we’d taught them a lesson. We weren’t a Club to be messed with. We had strict fucking rules and any newcomers were bound by those rules.

After spilling blood, we’d come to an understanding. They could stay, pay us our monthly due in order to receive our gracious hospitality, and promise allegiance whenever we called upon them.

My fists clenched around my handlebars.

Fucking traitors.

If I had known they would join forces with Dagger Rose, there was no way I would’ve ever fucking agreed.

They’d taken my money, accepted a whore, and lied to my face.

They’ll get what they’re owed tonight. Same as every Dagger.