‘Kill him.’

Vasquez had given the order, and Sam struggled against his restraints, knowing that if this was the end, he would at least deny them the satisfaction of a bargaining plea. As footsteps approached behind him, he could hear the familiar sound of a gun being removed from a holster.

The footsteps stopped.

The cold steel of the gun pressed against his head.

Sam closed his eyes.

He saw Jamie. His beautiful boy, smiling and giggling.

Vasquez’s voice interrupted his final goodbye.

‘Not here, Raul.’ The irritation clear in his voice. ‘Take him back to Dillon. Make his death a problem for the Riders. It will make tomorrow easier.’

Sam tried his best to piece together what was happening, when he noticed the hammer like fist entering his periphery. Before he could even register Edinson’s strike, the fist connected with the side of his face, and it was all he could remember before everything went blurry, and then to black.

Chapter Twenty

Losing someone in the line of duty was always a bitter pill to swallow. As a former marine, Joe Alan had never expected to go into battle with the expectancy to return. It was part of his training, knowing he would likely stare death in the face and if it was his time, then he would accept it with the nobility the crest that was tattooed to his arm deserved.

But losing a comrade.

A friend.

It always hurt and was a timely reminder to Alan just how deadly the games they played ultimately were.

By the time he’d come to on the cool concrete of the Marion streets, the place was already swarming with cops. A few paramedics had been attending to him, but he shook them off, demanding the officers tell him the whereabouts of his partner.

The blank faces and shrugs he received had caused his already throbbing skull to ache further. As he rushed to the overturned wreckage of Sinclair’s van, he pushed the few attending officers aside. He already knew he would find nothing, but with his brain rattled from the clubbing blow from Sykes, Alan was running on autopilot.

A few officers tried to ask him for further information, but eventually, he walked to his car and dropped into the driver’s seat. The rear window lay in shards across the concrete and Alan started the engine and headed back to the sheriff’s office on West Hampton Street in Dillon.

As he arrived, the few deputies on duty turned in shock. With a cold compress pressed to the side of his skull, and Sinclair’s blood splattered across his shirt, Alan looked like he’d been in the wars.

When he stumbled into the office he and Sinclair had accosted upon their arrival, he realised he was heading into another.