‘Sit,’ the man commanded, his heavily tattooed hand gesturing to the seat opposite. Before Sam could respond, Sykes shoved him down by the shoulder. Sam glared back up at the henchman, who looked excited at the prospect of retaliation. Wyatt snapped shut his lighter, having lit a cigarette, and he let the smoke slowly filter from his slacked jaw.

‘You know those things will kill you, right?’ Sam offered.

‘Trust me, son. This right here is the least dangerous thing at this table.’ Wyatt took another puff and then pointed at Sam. ‘Yourself included.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘The name’s Wyatt. I run this place. The Death Riders. Pretty much this whole state. Nothing happens on these streets without my say so. So, now you know who I am…’ Wyatt slammed his hand on the table, startling a number of watchers. Sam stayed calm. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘I’m just passing through.’

‘Passing through, eh?’ Wyatt clicked his fingers, and someone quickly handed him a laptop. He slid his finger across the mouse pad and then clicked. Quickly, he spun the screen round to face Sam. Sam watched the CCTV footage from the High Five as he systematically disabled the three men yesterday. As it finished, Sam looked back at Wyatt, who raised his eyebrows. ‘So again…who the fuck are you and what do you want?’

‘Those guys attacked me first.’

‘I don’t give a fuck about those guys.’ Wyatt slammed the laptop shut. ‘What I want to know is who you are and why the fuck do you think you can mess with my business?’

‘And why are you looking for Alex?’ Sykes chimed in, drawing a side glance from Sam.

‘She’s a friend of mine. I was in the neighbourhood and just thought I’d check in.’

‘Some neighbourhood,’ Wyatt spat; his unblinking gaze locked on Sam’s. ‘New York to here. You working with Vasquez?’

‘Who?’

‘Don’t play games with me, son.’ Wyatt’s drawl elongating the final word. ‘If Vasquez has sent you to try to intimidate me, then I’ll be more than happy to post you back to him, piece by piece, you hear me?’

‘Sounds nice,’ Sam said, leaning forward. ‘But I don’t know who Vasquez is. I don’t want to. I came here to check up on an old friend, and I’ve done that. So, unless we are literally going to whip our dicks out onto the table, I think I’d like to leave.’

A smile crept across Wyatt’s face. There was an unflappable courage to this British man, and Wyatt liked it. Although he was sceptical, he was sure the man was telling the truth about having no association with Vasquez. Wyatt stubbed out his cigarette and sat back in the booth.