He hadn’t slept since he’d sent the text message and had gone to work to ensure Wyatt was bound and gagged before hauling him out of the apartment, dumping him in the boot of the truck that he’d hired the day before. Fortunately for Sykes, the town of Dillon wasn’t too active in the early hours of the morning, meaning he could move a motionless body without the fear of being spotted. Besides, the alleyway provided enough cover and there wasn’t any CCTV monitoring his moves. The plan had always been to blindside his boss, but not this soon. He had almost an entire day before the meet, and the original plan was to meet at the Tiempo de Salsa to “clear the air”.

Wyatt was to come alone. Based on the promise that Sykes would hand back his vest and drive off into the sunset.

That would have been enough bait for Wyatt to drop his guard, allowing Vasquez’s men to move in.

But now, with a whole day to cover-up what had happened, Sykes was sweating. Knowing that Mason, a man who was dangerously loyal to Wyatt, was now at the Pit, things could get messy.

Sykes had spent the entire morning cleaning the apartment, disposing of every last shard of glass, cleansing the room of all evidence of his treachery.

It would all be worth it.

With Wyatt out of the way, and the Riders blamed for the raid on Vasquez’s drop, a war would be declared. Sykes would take control of the Riders, nominate those he deemed feeble enough to be sacrificed to the charade, and eventually, when the dust settled, the others would fall in line.

Combined with Vasquez, the Riders would be the dominant drug empire in America, and when the time was right, Sykes would remove Vasquez from the equation.

Money.

Power.

Fear.

All the things Sykes craved were in touching distance, and all he had to do now was act natural.

After numerous cups of coffee and a long shower, Sykes decked himself proudly in his leather vest and jeans, his bandana pulled tightly to his skull and glided through the streets of Dillon to the Pit, the intimidating growl of his engine disturbing the peaceful town. As he dismounted his bike, he winced at the dull, aching numbness in his groin. He gritted his teeth and marched in, seeing Mason stood at the bar in conversation with another Rider. Upon seeing Sykes, Mason turned, agitation across his world-weary face.

‘Jesus, Eddie. You look like crap.’

‘You don’t look great either, buddy.’ Sykes pointed at the purple swelling that adorned Mason’s head. ‘Heard you got a pasting.’