She’d been blackmailed into Blackridge the same way he was, although the carrot dangled before her was the safety of her siblings.

  In the weeks since Sam’s dance with death, Alex had opened up more about her life. Sam knew about her mother’s drug habit and how Alex herself had refused to let her younger brother and sister’s futures be ruined by it. She’d taken responsibility for them, worked several jobs, but it was her skill behind the wheel of the car that put food on the table. Soon, she was winning street races through her town in the Bronx, racking up a reputation and a criminal record.

  That was when Trevor Sims had stepped in, preying on her desperation to keep her siblings out of the clutches of the child services system.

  Sam and Alex had found comfort with each other, spending a night together. But since then, that passion had morphed into a platonic friendship.

  One that had saved Sam’s life.

  ‘Happy New Year,’ Sam finally responded, glancing at the bandage over his shoulder. ‘I’d cheers you if I could.’

  Alex chuckled, blowing the smoke out of the open window.

  ‘You probably shouldn’t be drinking,’ she said dryly, as she reached across to the side table and handed Sam his bottle of beer.

  ‘Because of all the pain medication that I’m not on?’

  ‘Hey, it was medication or beer.’ Alex smirked, lifting her own beer. ‘And I figured we could both enjoy these.’

  Sam smiled again and felt the pain roar from his stomach. The bullet had missed his spine by millimetres, a small mercy considering the agony he was in. But he was determined to get better and with his teeth gritted, he pushed himself upwards, the crunch of his ab muscles causing him to hiss in discomfort. Alex quickly shot to his aid, readjusting the pillows behind his back to support him.

  ‘Thanks,’ Sam said helplessly.

  ‘No problems, grandad.’ Alex winked and returned to the windowsill, perching on the wooden ledge, and resuming her cigarette. After a few moments of comfortable silence, she spoke. ‘So, what’s the plan?’

  ‘Stay alive,’ Sam replied immediately. It was an in-built response, one that had been hard-wired into his mindset ever since he’d become a soldier all those years ago.

  He was built for survival.

  And they’d failed to kill him.

  ‘I meant with my family,’ Alex said. The mere mention of them caused her lip to tremble. Sam knew better than to ask her if she was okay. Alex was tough, he knew that, and she didn’t need his sympathy.

  She needed his help.

  Trevor Sims may have been found dead in the lower levels of that warehouse, but he was an odious man who basked in the control he had. With him gone, and Blackridge most likely looking for both Alex and Sam, getting to New York would be nigh on impossible.

  Getting her family back even harder.

  But Sam had made her a promise.

  Once they’d found Marsden, Sam had told her he would do whatever he could to help her return to her family. His shot in the dark was to contact Paul Etheridge, but Sam hadn’t been able to. Alex had done some digging in a nearby Internet café, but the only information she could dig up was that his company had been sold.

  Without Etheridge’s expertise and finances, Sam was out of ideas.

  But he’d made a promise to Alex, and as he watched her stare vacantly out over the city of Naples, he felt a renewed sense of purpose.

  He hadn’t been able to keep his promise to his son.

  Hadn’t been able to protect him.

  Sam knew it wouldn’t bring Jamie back, but by doing so, he would be able to fend off the pain of his loss a little longer. Ignoring the pain, Sam leant forward and gently wrapped his fingers around Alex’s petite wrist.

  She faced him, her eyes watering.

  Sam looked her dead in the eye and said eight words that he would burn into his memory.

  ‘I promise, I’ll help you get them back.’

  By the time Sam saw the signs for Dillon, it had already passed six that evening. After a much-needed sleep, he’d appreciated being able to stretch his muscles dealing with Tammy’s husband. After the reception he’d received at the High Five, he was fairly sure a similar welcome awaited him at The Pit.

  Word would have travelled fast, and Sam was surprised that a fleet of motorcycles hadn’t already caught up with him on the highway.

  The drive had been relatively pain free, and he’d cruised down the I-95 just as Mason had told him, and sure enough, Dillon was on the horizon.

  Despite the passing of six months, his shoulder still intermittently stiffened up, the eternal effects of the bullet wound that Alex Stone had nursed for him.

  Just another reason he needed to make good on his promise.

  The injustice of having her family used as blackmail was something he felt compelled to correct. A final middle finger to the legacy of Wallace’s heinous Blackridge operation.

  But above all that, she’d saved his life.

  Now he would help her get hers back.

  After leaving Fredericksburg, Sam had continued south down the east coast, the highway taking him through Richmond, Virginia, and then just over an hour later, after passing through Jarratt and Emporia, he crossed into North Carolina. Sam pulled over for a small, five-minute stretch and a snack and he stopped on the bridge looking over the Roanoke River, taking in the natural beauty that, despite humanity’s best efforts, was still alive and well.

  Two hours later, Sam was passing Fayetteville, a large city in North Carolina. But he kept his foot on the pedal, determined to make it to Dillon before the evening got away from him.

  Just as the drive was beginning to aggravate him, he saw the Colossus of Dillon, an enormous landmark of a large man in a sombrero, holding a sign welcoming him south of the border. Sam chortled at the preposterous sign but welcomed the update on his journey.

  Sam took the exit and continued down the 501 and sure enough, he soon embarked upon the small town of Dillon. As he approached the first building, the unmistakable roar of a motorcycle piqued his interest, and he kept his eyes firmly on the rear-view mirror.

  But the two motorcycles shot by, their riders’ leather vests emblazoned with the Death Rider logo.

  This was the place.

  Before heading to the bar, Sam drove through the town, surprised by the gentrification it had clearly been through. In his mind, he was expecting to drive into an old Western, with derelict streets, wide roads, and abandoned shop fronts. The population of Dillon was small but the high street offered McDonalds, Pizza Hut, and a number of upmarket stores and banks. The footfall was relatively heavy, and Sam scorned his prejudice. He turned off onto Main Street and after passing a few eateries and a church, he crossed over the Little Pee Dee River and pulled into the Welcome Motel.

  It was identikit to the one he’d stayed in the previous night, but the sight of it was a welcome one. Sam pulled into the parking lot, which had a few more guests than the one outside of Fredericksburg. He hopped out, entered the reception and was met by a friendly man with large glasses. The owner clearly took pride in his establishment, which was evident in the cleanliness of the room Sam was shown to. Sam dropped his backpack on the bed and locked the door. He then returned to his Mustang and headed back into town.

  It was seven o’clock, and if Alex was working behind the bar of The Pit, as Mason had told him, then he wanted to make sure she was there when he arrived. If the welcome was to be as hostile as he expected, he needed to make sure he contacted her.

  There wouldn’t be a second chance.

  Sam pulled his car into a space along the high street and ignored the chain restaurants in favour of a local deli. The woman was as large as she was welcoming, and she told Sam he looked like he needed a good meal. At six feet tall and nearly fourteen stone of pure muscle, Sam didn’t agree, but the rumbling in his stomach meant the woman knew a hungry man when she saw one.

  Sam took his seat in a booth by the window and watched the town close down for the evening before a burger and a plate of chips were placed in front of him.

  As Sam ate, he watched carefully and counted every time he heard the roar of a motorcycle.

  As the sun began to set behind the shops, the frequency of the engines increased, polluting the air with its ferocious growl. He was definitely in the right place.

  The owner of the deli gave Sam the check and as he paid, she warned him to not wander too far once the sun goes down. He didn’t press her for more information, but Sam got the gist of what she meant.

  He was under no illusion that under the control of the Death Riders, Dillon was an entirely different beast once the sun went down.

  Sam thanked her for the meal, and then he caught her by surprise with his question.

  ‘Where can I find The Pit?’

  Her eyes widened with worry.

  ‘Now, honey. You don’t wanna be headin’ there tonight.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘You ain’t from round here, are ya?’

  ‘What gave it away?’ Sam smiled, his handsome grin causing her to blush slightly.

  ‘The Riders don’t take kindly to strangers.’

  ‘Oh, I’m pretty sure they’re expecting me.’

  The lady sighed and directed Sam to the bar. He thanked her for her help, handed her a generous tip, and stepped out into the cool evening. He slid his arms into the sleeves of his bomber jacket, checked his car was locked, and then headed on foot towards Lucius Road on the south side of town.

  As he made his way down Patriot Street, the unmistakable sound of motorcycle engines and heavy metal music echoed through the night sky.

  Turning onto the road, he saw The Pit.

  In complete contrast to the store-bought aesthetic of the High Five, The Pit oozed authenticity. The large, wood-panelled bar sat on the side of the road, surrounded by rows of motorcycles. Scattered around the front, a few bikers drank and smoked, with many more inside. There was no one on the door, and Sam was sure that the incumbents didn’t require assistance should anything kick off.

  They made their own rules, and Sam felt a flutter of worry in his gut.

  Not for himself.

  He’d stared down the barrel of much worse in the hands of those more dangerous.

  But he worried about how Alex had fallen into such a place. She was a long way from home, in a place that didn’t take kindly to strangers.

  As the large American flag fluttered in the cool evening breeze above the door, Sam took a deep breath and crossed the street. A few heads were already turning as he approached, and he felt a small semblance of calm from the gun pressed against the small of his back.

  It had been a long journey.

  A lot of people had died.

  But Sam was ready to make good on his promise.

  Ignoring the lazy protests of the biker nearest to the door, Sam stepped up the two wide wooden steps of the entrance, pushed open the door, and stepped inside.

  Chapter Eight

  The Pit had transformed since it had come under the ownership of the Death Riders. While it had revelled in being a bar frequented by motorcycle enthusiasts, once the Riders made it their home, it became as notorious as it had profitable. A beacon for lowlifes, all looking to move up in the world and wear the patch. It drew them in like a moth to a flame. The welcoming tavern changed completely, and outsiders were seized upon instantly.

  If you couldn’t step up, you stepped out.

  If you could still walk.

  It was an atmosphere that the regulars revelled in, with a number of disenchanted men and women soon falling in line, quivering in a cocktail of fear and adulation to the Riders, willing to do whatever they could to be ‘in’ with the Riders. For the select crew, those who wore the Rider’s patch with pride, they were treated like celebrities. Their tales of crime and street justice spread through the bar like wildfire.

  They had become as much myth as they had legend.

  It was exactly what Trent Wyatt had wanted.

  Sat in his usual booth at the back of the bar, he watched as swathes of wannabe members and scantily dressed women surrounded members of his crew, hanging off every word that was spoken. The power of the Riders was magnetic, and sooner or later, those who were enthralled by the lifestyle would be given opportunities to please them.

  It had made them untouchable to the law.

  They had a number of lawyers in South Carolina who would represent them.

  Enough bank managers to wash their money and fill their accounts.

  Women, and men, who would fulfil any sexual desire they wanted.

  The local sheriff’s department gave them the necessary leeway, which was reimbursed by Wyatt’s insistence that the Riders handle problems that the sheriff wanted kept ‘private’.

  Local gangs had been disbanded. Usually by the bloodied hands of Wyatt’s number two, Eddie Sykes. When Wyatt emerged from prison after a stint for grievous bodily harm, Sykes was the first man he’d called upon. Previously a roadie for a semi-successful metal band, Sykes had met Wyatt a number of times at biker festivals and a few less than respectable bars.

  Sykes was a smart man, but years of drug and drink abuse had uncoiled his mind, leaving him with an unbeatable addiction and a relentless urge to feed it. It made him a dangerous man, and Wyatt offered him an endless fix.

  All he had to do was the dirty work.

  Sykes had killed over fourteen men for Wyatt, the most recent just under two months ago.

  While the Riders were stationed in Dillon, their legend echoed through every street in South Carolina. The entire drug trade of the state went through them, and any attempt against their empire was met with brute force. Hidden beneath the facade of a brotherhood and street justice, the Death Riders were essentially a drug empire. But recently, a new batch of meth had hit the streets in Charleston, down by the South Coast. Sykes had taken a crew to investigate, with the name Jose Vasquez being whispered. Sykes had eliminated the dealers, but Wyatt knew something else was coming. Vasquez was a name as synonymous with drugs as the Riders. Having built his empire in Mexico City, Vasquez had expanded into America, spreading like a plague across the coast.

  Florida.

  Georgia.

  All of it was under his control.

  Wyatt admired the man’s ambition, a kindred spirit who wanted the world and was willing to take it. With Vasquez, there was no code.

  No honour.

  The police didn’t go near Vasquez because of an unholy alliance. They stayed away because they were terrified. And with reports of Vasquez’s product now filtering into Wyatt’s state, the head of the Death Riders knew he was facing a test of his power.

  Sykes knew this, too.

  Occasionally, he’d even made thinly veiled threats to Wyatt about coming for the throne.

  But Wyatt knew it would never happen.

  As he looked around his bar, ignoring the beautiful women at either side of him, their hands stroking his thigh as they worked tirelessly for his attention, he knew that his gaze would stop any person in the room dead.

  Wyatt was the Death Riders.

  In his mind, and theirs. And while Sykes entertained a group of wide-eyed fans at the bar, describing in detail how he’d slit a rival drug dealer’s throat and left him to bleed out on the ground, Wyatt knew their adulation wasn’t just for Sykes.

  It was for the lifestyle Wyatt had created for them.

  A guitar riff kicked in through the speakers that were hanging from the wood-panelled walls, and the two women commented to Wyatt that they love the song. As they got up and began to dance together, a few other men turned to watch, cheering them on as they pressed their bodies together. Wyatt smiled to himself. The ease with which people were pleased amused him greatly, and he was careful to never show anything.

  He was a closed book to them all, which only elevated his stature to them.

  As he watched the two women dance with mild interest, a small commotion drew his attention. A number of his regulars had all turned to look at the door, their eyes wide with faux outrage, as if an outsider stepping into his bar somehow offended them. Wyatt saw Sykes’ face contort to a scowl, and he slammed his bottle of beer on the bar before marching towards Wyatt, his gaze still affixed on the doorway. Wyatt waited patiently for Sykes to arrive, but he already knew what was happening.

  He’d been expecting it ever since Mason had called him the previous evening.

  The Brit who had dismantled all three of his men with relative ease had arrived. It was why Wyatt had insisted that Alex Stone work that night.

  Like a moth to a flame.

  Wyatt told Sykes to keep his calm for a few minutes. Then, once this British invader had flown too close to flame, Wyatt had every intention of roasting him alive.

  As soon as Sam stepped into The Pit, he felt every gaze fall upon him. After the hostility he’d received from the few people out front, it wasn’t unexpected, but never had Sam felt so out of place. The heavy metal music, combined with the copious amounts of leather and the clear violation of the indoor smoking laws, The Pit was every bit as authentic as the High Five was fake. Every member of the Death Riders who was in attendance legitimate, and despite having no real knowledge of their history, Sam was certain it wouldn’t make for pleasant reading. A gruff man, bearded and with his hair pulled back in a ponytail stepped towards him, trying his best to intimidate him. Sam, noticing that he, like a few others, wore the Death Rider symbol he’d seen in New York, politely smiled and sidestepped the man, walking confidently towards the bar.

  Heads turned.

  Eyes bulged in anger.

  Sam knew the clock was ticking, and he looked around the bar, ignoring the hateful stares of everyone inside. While the bar was packed, Sam quickly realised that there were only a handful of actual Riders among the group. Each one of them seemed to have acquired their own following, no doubt a bunch of misguided people looking for their own place among the elite. It was tantamount to a cult, but Sam knew the perception of bikers due to their representation within films and media.

 

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