Alan’s boot connected with Sykes’s wrist, and the gun flew from his grip. In one swift movement, he switched the momentum to his other leg and drove his knee into Sykes. His patella collided with the bridge of Sykes’ nose, breaking it instantly, and Sykes rocked to the side, blood pumping from his shattered face.

The loud roar of the motorcycles rang through the building, and Sykes desperately clawed himself across the platform, his hands helplessly grabbing for the pipes to help support him.

The cocking of a gun caused him to stop.

Alan stood a few feet from him, the gun aimed squarely at Sykes’ skull. Spitting out the blood that had trickled into his mouth, Sykes turned and slumped back against the poles, chuckling in the face of defeat.

‘Go on. Do it,’ Sykes spat, his teeth stained red. He fished under the white T-shirt he wore beneath the Riders emblazoned vest and pulled out his dog tags. He let them drop over his shirt and he looked at Alan. ‘Kill a marine in cold blood. Trust me, it’s fun.’

Alan felt his finger twitch, pressing against the trigger of the gun. Sykes was baiting him, not wanting to face the consequences that awaited him outside. With tears forming in his eyes, Sykes screamed.

‘Just kill me.’

‘I have.’

Alan lowered the gun and pulled the trigger, the bullet exploding forward and ripping through Sykes’ shin. Sykes howled in anguish as the bone shattered and blood began to pump through the wound.

‘Keep pressure on it,’ Alan advised. ‘And don’t go anywhere.’

Sykes, cursing through the pain, called out after Alan as he reached up and grabbed the thick, metal chain that connected to the platform and the roof several floors above. Hand over hand, Alan began to haul himself up, reaching the ground floor level quickly.

As he pulled himself to his feet, Alan wiped the rust from his hands and ignored the vitriol the defeated Sykes shouted behind him.

He’d avenged his brother.

Sykes would either bleed out, or the Riders would deal with him. Now he needed to get to Alex, hoping he wasn’t too late.

Just as he started towards the door, a gunshot echoed from outside, and he rushed forward, hoping he hadn’t been answered.

* * *

‘You think you can do this to me?’ Vasquez yelled, his arms gesticulating wildly. ‘You think you can take this from me?’

Sinclair was on his knees. The blow from Raul’s gun had caught him on the back of the head, sending the world spinning and a trickle of blood to slither down his neck. Less than half a mile away, the motorcycles roared in unison.

It was over.

Vasquez turned to Raul; his eyes wide with frantic rage.