‘What’s in the bag?’ Wyatt asked sternly, his hands resting on his knees.

‘Nothing.’

Wyatt slapped a little tune on his jeans and then stood up, slowly walking around the sofa towards the table. Sykes sipped his beer, working through every anger management technique that had helplessly been fed to him over the years.

‘See, Eddie. A little bird told me that someone hit the Vasquez drug deal down in Marion tonight. Two people were killed, one of them rumoured to be old Terry Sinclair. You know, that weaselly bastard who keeps poking his nose in our business.’

‘Is that so?’ Sykes shrugged, taking another sip of his beer.

‘It is indeed.’ Wyatt approached the table, resting his hands on the back of one of the chairs. ‘Mason arrived earlier today, looking for that son of a bitch Cooper, but he got on to our boys in the sheriff’s department and they told him that no money was found at the scene. Isn’t that strange?’

‘Not really.’ Sykes finished his beer and placed the bottle down on the wooden tabletop with a bang. ‘You wouldn’t hit a drop and leave empty-handed.’

‘No, you wouldn’t.’ Wyatt nodded at the bag. ‘So, what’s that?’

‘Fuck off, Trent,’ Sykes spat. ‘If you’ve come here to try to put a knife to my nuts again, you better be ready to do it properly this time.’

‘Oh, I am,’ Wyatt calmly responded, the fury building slowly in his voice. ‘What’s in the bag?’

‘My fucking dirty laundry.’ Sykes felt his fist clenching. ‘Now get out of my flat, Trent, or…’

‘Or what?’ Wyatt’s voice rose with venom, his eyes wide with anger. ‘We go back a long way, Eddie. A fucking long way. When I found you, you were shaking down junkies to pay pimps for a sloppy back-alley blowjob. I gave you a fucking life you only ever dreamed of, and all I asked was for you to be loyal. No, to be honest with me. We’ve worked too hard for too long to start fucking up and hitting deals. Vasquez is a problem, and if you decided to strike first, he’s going to be a hell of a lot more than that.’

‘Whatever.’ Sykes turned away from Wyatt, his hand slyly edging towards the bottle.

‘And the shit you’ll bring down on us from the DEA.’ Wyatt stepped forward and wrapped his hand around Sykes’s shoulder. ‘Look at me when I’m talking to…’

The bottle struck Wyatt square in the temple, the glass shattering and slicing his face as he stumbled sideways, colliding with the kitchen counter before hitting the floor. With the bottle nothing more than a jagged shard, Sykes resisted the temptation to slash the man’s throat.

Not like this.

The Riders could never know of the part he would play in Wyatt’s death.

The only role he would play would be the avenging angel.