Sykes downed the last of his beer and then gave Mason one final sneer before purposefully bumping him with his shoulder. As he strode past, Mason reached out, grabbing at Sykes, who shoved him away.

‘I swear, Eddie, if I find out you’ve gone behind our backs, I won’t wait for Trent to give me the order.’

‘Yes, you will. You all will.’ Sykes looked around the bar, taking his time to look everyone in the eye. ‘No one around here has the stones to fight anymore. Everyone is too worried about their spot. When the change comes, get ready to fucking earn it.’

With that, Sykes stomped to the door, pushing his way past two members who were entering and cursing them as he did. As he flung his leg over the seat of his bike, he clenched his fists in frustration.

The whole intention was to throw them off his scent, to show his face and act like he was as concerned as they were. Knowing that Mason had been invited by Wyatt himself had triggered his temper, the one weakness that Wyatt had told Sykes would be his downfall.

The constant need to be superior.

Enraged, Sykes shot one final look back to the door where Mason stood, his arms folded across his leather vest and his eyes burning a hole through Sykes. The engine roared loudly, and Sykes pulled away onto the street.

They would be looking for Wyatt.

Soon they would knock on his door.

But it wouldn’t matter.

Sykes would be gone, delivering the million dollars as a peace offering to Vasquez and Wyatt to his grave. That was the plan. At first, Sykes had been sceptical, but the more it had been laid out the easier it became.

Stage a Rider’s hit on Vasquez’s deal, giving Vasquez a valid reason to go to war with the Riders. Then, with Vasquez on side, Sykes would deliver him his money and Wyatt.

Vasquez would kill Wyatt.

Sykes would ascend to the throne.

A new partnership forged.

Then he would return, fit his hand snugly into his iron glove, and teach every single person who dared call themselves a Rider, a lesson in respect.

If they didn’t offer it, then he would settle for fear.

Either way, Sykes was adamant that Mason would be used as the example of what happened when any of them stepped out of line.

Mason’s loyalty would never be earned.

It would always remain with a dead man.

Sykes would be happy to reacquaint them.

* * *

Sam pressed his hands against the glass window, looking into the closed premises. Above the door where he stood, Tiempo de Salsa was nailed to the building in large, white letters, a playful font that promised its patrons a good time. The outside was surrounded by a few benches and tables, all of them bolted to the ground.