He should have been concerned about Sam and Alex, who had clearly been involved in a heavy car accident and were nowhere to be found.

But he didn’t.

All he wondered, as he stared at the board, was why didn’t Sykes shoot him as well?

* * *

Sykes knew it was a dangerous game he was playing.

As he rolled his motorcycle to a stop outside his apartment block, he took a moment to light a cigarette and take in the calming nicotine. With each inhale, he felt his nerves begin to dissipate, finding larger ebbs of conviction in the path he’d taken. Despite balancing delicately on the edge of Wyatt’s trust threshold, Sykes knew that within twenty-four hours, none of that would matter anymore.

He wouldn’t stroll into the Pit with Wyatt’s severed head as a trophy, but he would command a similar respect.

While a large portion of the Riders’ loyalty was towards Wyatt, the majority was with the badge.

With the code.

The Riders were a way of life, and for many of the riffraff who begged and pleaded at the bar to wear the patch, the belief in that badge would amplify with Wyatt gone.

Sykes felt nothing at the notion of betrayal.

Watching his own brethren murdered for his own gain was an unfortunate step on his way to the throne.

Besides, he’d caused the death of his own men before, and he’d never looked back.

As he took his final puff on the cigarette, he casually flicked the butt into the ether and dismounted his hog, adjusting the plump sports bag that was tied around his waist, ensuring nothing covered the proud Death Rider patch that was emblazoned on his vest. His twisted testicle still ached, and he cursed the idea of going to hospital to admit his emasculation by Wyatt. He headed upstairs, entered his apartment, and went straight to the fridge. As he pulled the cap off the beer and took a swig, Sykes stared at the large bag he’d dumped on the table.

It was a lot of money, enough to get away from everything and completely disappear. But he would forever be looking over his shoulder, and a life of fear is not something he could tolerate.

Besides, the moment he looked Wyatt dead in the eyes and told him his run was over would be worth more than the million dollars he’d stolen from the deal.

‘Busy night?’

Wyatt’s voice cut through the darkness of Sykes’s apartment, startling the big man and causing him to knock into a chair.

‘Jesus,’ Sykes uttered. ‘Bit dramatic, don’t you think?’

Wyatt flicked on the table lamp beside his chair, illuminating himself and half the room in its glow. The open-plan kitchen, which backed onto the living room, was still bathed in shadows and Sykes stood his ground in the darkness. His eyes flashed to the bag.