I snapped, pointing at him. “Don’t. Don’t you say a goddamn word.” I moved forward, past my cousin, my crew, Stalker. I couldn’t be silent anymore. I wouldn’t let Heather take this on.

“Heather.” I went to her. “Don’t—”

“No, Channing.” She stepped around me, facing her brother. “He didn’t know what I was going to do,” she told him. “I never told him. It was my decision to make—”

“You shouldn’t have to make that decision,” he protested.

“I don’t care what you say right now.” She moved in front of me, her hand reaching behind her to find mine. “I’m with Channing, and that’ll never change. I can’t keep doing it. I’m choosing, Brandon. It’s my choice. I’m going back to Roussou. It’s time.”

This had gone too far.

I raised my hands. “Stop! Everyone shut the fuck up!” I pointed at Brandon. “Go back to your job.” I motioned to Moose and the guys. “Let’s go. Let’s take that meeting.” I pointed at Becca. “And no more giving our details out to people.” I skewered her with a look, and she lowered her head.

Heather turned to me. “Chan?”

I drew her to me, hugging her. I bent to kiss her neck. “Don’t do anything right now. Okay?” I skimmed a hand down her back, kissing her throat and then her mouth. Cupping her face, I drew back, resting my forehead to hers. “Don’t make any decisions. Don’t do anything. Go to Manny’s, or wherever you want, but wait for me.”

The guys moved past us.

I went to follow, but she grabbed my shirt and yanked me back, her eyes on my face. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.” I pressed my lips to hers. “I’ll be back. I promise.”

I started to leave.

“Becca?” Heather called.

“No.” I turned right back. “Becca, keep your trap closed.”

She walked past Heather, and I heard her say, “Sorry,” as she followed Congo to his truck.

My shoulders relaxed a little. Becca had chosen just now. She’d chosen crew. Congo had been watching. He met my gaze. I nodded.

The guys all went to their trucks. I got into Moose’s, and he pulled out first, leading the charge.

I was going to fix everything. I just had one more meeting to take.

55

Channing

Thirty motorcycles formed a straight line on one side of the abandoned parking lot.

They were parked facing toward us, their men standing behind them, all in a line as well. We drove up, over the cracked pavement with weeds growing through it. The store had closed years ago, put out of business when James Kade moved back to Fallen Crest. His reach stretched past Fallen Crest, past Roussou, even past Frisco, all the way to Callyspo, a small town that used to not be so small. It was damn near extinct now, and the few stores they still had depended on their local Red Demon charter to help keep them afloat.

This leader wasn’t like Richter.

Maxwell’s charter was large.

I recognized some of the guys we’d let go after our debacle with Traverse. This charter had recently gotten larger. As we pulled into the parking lot, five men walked past their motorcycles toward us. They moved a few yards ahead, then paused.

Moose glanced at me. “Should we line up too?”

I surveyed their group. Each of their men had a gun, half were holding them, while the others had their rifles resting on their motorcycles, ready to be grabbed if needed.

Their whole display was just that, a display.

Maxwell wanted me to know they had numbers. He wanted me to know they were armed, and that those men weren’t new or young. They were older. Some were grizzled with graying hair, some had large bellies, and others were lean. Some were built like some of mine, but I got the message.

They were experienced.

Not one of his men twitched from nervousness. They stood there, just waiting for whatever their leader would command them to do.

I hoped this meeting would have a good result, but I also knew I couldn’t rely on that. So I said, “No.” I motioned to the back end of the lot. “Park here.” Before Moose started again, I hopped out of the truck.

He braked, and I leaned in through the window. “Move it around for a getaway if you need to go.”

“But—”

I waved him on and stepped back before he could finish. Moose twisted to keep watching me, so I motioned again for him to go on. A scowl formed, but he pulled ahead. Congo’s truck was next, and I relayed my plan to him. The rest filed through, all parking behind one another, pointed to the exit, until Lincoln brought up the rear. He pulled up next to me, but unlike the others, he didn’t wait for my orders. He parked and hopped out, going to the back of his truck bed. As he opened it, I stood by.

He reached in, grabbed Traverse, and hauled him out.

Traverse fell to the ground, scraping his knee.

“Get up.”

Lincoln grabbed his shirt, pulling him to his feet.

I looked him over. Contrary to what I’d wanted, he hadn’t been tortured. I’d wanted to so damn badly, but I’d held back. The two bullets I’d put through his hand and knee had to be enough. He still struggled to stand upright, with good reason. We’d brought a crew friend out to look him over—a nurse Moose was banging—and she’d fixed him up as much as she could. The bullets went straight through, and she’d cauterized both sides to stop any infection. He’d need some more tending to, but they could handle it. He’d remained alive on my watch—all I cared about.

Lincoln shoved him to walk forward, but I waved him off.

“I got him.”

“What?”

“I’ll take him over,” I said. “I got it.”

“Channing—” He started to say more.

I jerked Traverse forward. “I got it. I mean it.” I nodded to the others. “Cover their backs if something happens.”

“What about covering your back?”

I wasn’t listening.

Traverse stumbled, almost pitching forward. I righted him, holding him steady as he grunted, his face pale. “What are you doing? This a suicide mission?”

My hand tightened under his elbow, digging into the bone. It wouldn’t affect him, not normally, but he was weak. When I broke the skin, I lessened the pressure and said, “Shut the fuck up. Unlike you, I have a plan.”

“You’re going to die, Monroe. You’re walking to your own grave right now. You just don’t want to admit it.”

He giggled maniacally. The guy was half hysterical, and once we neared Maxwell, he started shouting, “He shot me. Twice. He tortured me, Maxwell. I’ve not had medical care.”

“Shut up.” I grabbed for his injured hand now and yanked back.

A scream ripped from his throat, and he fell to his knees.

I studied their faces. They were close enough to hear everything, and I was close enough to read their expressions. Nothing showed. They were walls of cement.

Maxwell, their leader, moved forward, stopping a few yards away. Tanned from years on his bike, he had a leathery sheen. From what I knew about him, he was in his fifties. He’d grown up as a Red Demon, taking over ten years ago after his uncle retired. He was known to be reasonable and fair, but if you crossed him, you were already dead.

I was banking on some of that honor for what I had planned. If not, Traverse was right. I was a dead man.