‘Fuck you, Trent,’ Sykes stammered, surprised by the sadness of his actions. For all his ambition, Sykes had been grateful to Wyatt until the gratitude had transformed to jealousy. ‘If only you would have listened. Had grown a fucking pair and fought back, this would never have happened.’

Woozily, Wyatt tried to sit up, blinking the blood from his eye, and trying his best to gather his marbles.

‘Wh-wh-what are you doing?’ He eventually managed, pawing at the unit to try to pull himself up. Sykes lazily lifted his boot and pressed it against Wyatt’s shoulder, pushing him back onto the glass-covered kitchen tiles. The glass crunched under the leather of Wyatt’s jacket. Sykes tossed the glass shard across the room and then stood over Wyatt, who glared up at him with glazed eyes.

‘You’re right, Trent. There is a war coming. But you’re wrong on one thing. I’m not the guy who caused it. I’m the guy who will end it.’

As he’d done so many times under Wyatt’s command, Sykes threw a thunderous right hand downward, crushing his fist into Wyatt’s skull and knocking him out cold. Wyatt’s head rolled limply to the side, and Sykes stood staring down at his leader. Hatred and guilt danced through his mind, and he then calmly returned to the fridge and pulled out another beer.

As he sipped it, he kept one eye on Wyatt’s motionless body. He pulled out his phone and keyed a message, which he sent to an anonymous contact, hoping they would be awake, even at such an ungodly time of the morning.

Got the money. Change of plan got Wyatt also. Still on for this afternoon?

Sykes took a few more anxious sips, and then headed to his storage cupboard for some cable ties. As he returned with them, his phone buzzed.

Good work.

With a cruel smile, Sykes rolled Wyatt over, bound his wrists and ankles together, and then toasted his fallen friend, and drank to his future as the leader of the Death Riders.

Chapter Twenty-One

As the blurring around his vision began to fade, Sam looked out of the window and recognised the town of Dillon in the distance. Blinking to try to recalibrate his sight, he gritted his teeth at the sharp pain in his skull, while his jaw ached from its role as Edinson’s punch bag.

He felt like shit.

But his situation was even worse.