Alex threw her arms around Sam. The euphoria of seeing him alive had taken over and the feeling of love was overwhelming. As she tightened her grip on him, he grunted with pain, and she quickly released her hold, checking him for injuries.

‘I’m fine.’ Sam smiled. ‘A little sore.’

‘You look like shit.’

‘I feel it.’ They both chuckled before Sam put a comforting hand on her shoulder. ‘I told you I’d be back for you.’

Alex tilted her head to the side, resting her tear-stained cheek on the back of his hand. Limping, Sam took a few steps forward, and Alex joined him by the side, steadying him as they approached the chaotic scene before them. Behind them, the panels were shunted open, and over a dozen Death Riders marched into the forecourt, all of them proudly wearing their emblazoned vests, all of them carrying a multitude of firearms.

They had come to finish the war.

As they swarmed forward towards the mill, Wyatt gave them some instructions which Sam couldn’t hear, but he got the message. The last of Vasquez’s crew would be cowering inside the mill, outnumbered and leaderless.

Their surrender would be quick and easy.

As the group passed Sam, Mason stopped, dipping his sunglasses slightly to make eye contact, and he nodded a respectful ceasefire to Sam.

He’d led them to Wyatt and destroyed their upcoming opposition. To Mason, that made them even.

As the Riders stormed the mill, Mason greeted Wyatt with a brotherly hug. Sam stumbled slightly, the aftereffects of his brutal battle with Edinson taking over, and Alex held him steady as they continued. Sam noticed the dead body of Emilio lying face down in the dirt, a dark red pool outlining his skull, which was quickly drying in the sun.

As they approached the group, Sam looked down at the lifeless corpse of Vasquez, who’s eyes were wide open and lifeless. The back of his skull had been blown apart, the remnants of which littered the surrounding dirt.

Wyatt had lit a cigarette, taking a long, enjoyable puff. Alan stood, his hands on his hips, blood splattered slightly down his white shirt. As Sam joined them, Alan extended his hands.

‘Thank you.’ Alan glanced back at Raul’s dead body. ‘You saved my life.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ Sam responded. Raul had bled out quickly, his hands down resting by his sides, and the hole in his neck had stopped gushing with blood. Sam turned his attention to Sinclair, who had fastened the sleeve of his own shirt around his foot, trying to stem the blood loss. He looked up at Sam in disgust, a desperate last stand before he faced the repercussions of his actions.

‘You ruined everything,’ Sinclair spat like a petulant child.

‘What was the plan?’ Sam demanded. Sinclair ignored him. ‘Tell me.’