Wyatt admired the man’s ambition, a kindred spirit who wanted the world and was willing to take it. With Vasquez, there was no code.

No honour.

The police didn’t go near Vasquez because of an unholy alliance. They stayed away because they were terrified. And with reports of Vasquez’s product now filtering into Wyatt’s state, the head of the Death Riders knew he was facing a test of his power.

Sykes knew this, too.

Occasionally, he’d even made thinly veiled threats to Wyatt about coming for the throne.

But Wyatt knew it would never happen.

As he looked around his bar, ignoring the beautiful women at either side of him, their hands stroking his thigh as they worked tirelessly for his attention, he knew that his gaze would stop any person in the room dead.

Wyatt was the Death Riders.

In his mind, and theirs. And while Sykes entertained a group of wide-eyed fans at the bar, describing in detail how he’d slit a rival drug dealer’s throat and left him to bleed out on the ground, Wyatt knew their adulation wasn’t just for Sykes.

It was for the lifestyle Wyatt had created for them.

A guitar riff kicked in through the speakers that were hanging from the wood-panelled walls, and the two women commented to Wyatt that they love the song. As they got up and began to dance together, a few other men turned to watch, cheering them on as they pressed their bodies together. Wyatt smiled to himself. The ease with which people were pleased amused him greatly, and he was careful to never show anything.

He was a closed book to them all, which only elevated his stature to them.

As he watched the two women dance with mild interest, a small commotion drew his attention. A number of his regulars had all turned to look at the door, their eyes wide with faux outrage, as if an outsider stepping into his bar somehow offended them. Wyatt saw Sykes’ face contort to a scowl, and he slammed his bottle of beer on the bar before marching towards Wyatt, his gaze still affixed on the doorway. Wyatt waited patiently for Sykes to arrive, but he already knew what was happening.

He’d been expecting it ever since Mason had called him the previous evening.

The Brit who had dismantled all three of his men with relative ease had arrived. It was why Wyatt had insisted that Alex Stone work that night.

Like a moth to a flame.

Wyatt told Sykes to keep his calm for a few minutes. Then, once this British invader had flown too close to flame, Wyatt had every intention of roasting him alive.

* * *