It was an atmosphere that the regulars revelled in, with a number of disenchanted men and women soon falling in line, quivering in a cocktail of fear and adulation to the Riders, willing to do whatever they could to be ‘in’ with the Riders. For the select crew, those who wore the Rider’s patch with pride, they were treated like celebrities. Their tales of crime and street justice spread through the bar like wildfire.

They had become as much myth as they had legend.

It was exactly what Trent Wyatt had wanted.

Sat in his usual booth at the back of the bar, he watched as swathes of wannabe members and scantily dressed women surrounded members of his crew, hanging off every word that was spoken. The power of the Riders was magnetic, and sooner or later, those who were enthralled by the lifestyle would be given opportunities to please them.

It had made them untouchable to the law.

They had a number of lawyers in South Carolina who would represent them.

Enough bank managers to wash their money and fill their accounts.

Women, and men, who would fulfil any sexual desire they wanted.

The local sheriff’s department gave them the necessary leeway, which was reimbursed by Wyatt’s insistence that the Riders handle problems that the sheriff wanted kept ‘private’.

Local gangs had been disbanded. Usually by the bloodied hands of Wyatt’s number two, Eddie Sykes. When Wyatt emerged from prison after a stint for grievous bodily harm, Sykes was the first man he’d called upon. Previously a roadie for a semi-successful metal band, Sykes had met Wyatt a number of times at biker festivals and a few less than respectable bars.

Sykes was a smart man, but years of drug and drink abuse had uncoiled his mind, leaving him with an unbeatable addiction and a relentless urge to feed it. It made him a dangerous man, and Wyatt offered him an endless fix.

All he had to do was the dirty work.

Sykes had killed over fourteen men for Wyatt, the most recent just under two months ago.

While the Riders were stationed in Dillon, their legend echoed through every street in South Carolina. The entire drug trade of the state went through them, and any attempt against their empire was met with brute force. Hidden beneath the facade of a brotherhood and street justice, the Death Riders were essentially a drug empire. But recently, a new batch of meth had hit the streets in Charleston, down by the South Coast. Sykes had taken a crew to investigate, with the name Jose Vasquez being whispered. Sykes had eliminated the dealers, but Wyatt knew something else was coming. Vasquez was a name as synonymous with drugs as the Riders. Having built his empire in Mexico City, Vasquez had expanded into America, spreading like a plague across the coast.

Florida.

Georgia.

All of it was under his control.