Perhaps storming into their base and mouthing off to their leader wasn’t the best tactic, after all. Sam regretted it, knowing he’d garnered their attention, which he hoped had little blow back on Alex, who was clearly in a dangerous position.

But why was she involved with the Riders?

How would that help her get back to her family?

As Sam rounded the corner and into the parking lot of the Welcome Motel, he immediately saw the motorcycles. Three large shimmering Harley Davidsons, all stood proudly, dotted strategically in a triangle. Two of the bikers stood, arms folded, a look of distaste across their bearded faces as Sam approached.

The biker stood nearest to the door Sam recognised.

Wyatt’s right-hand man.

‘Think we need a little chat, don’t you?’ Sykes asked rhetorically.

‘Look, fellas, it’s been a long day.’

‘This won’t take long.’ Sykes smirked.

Sam heard the boots approaching him from behind and he squatted down, evading the tattooed arm of the biker who tried to grab him. Shifting his body weight, he drove his shoulder into the man’s ribs, before reaching up and wrapping his arm around the man’s throat.

Then a sickening clunk echoed.

Sam felt the pain and dizziness immediately and he stumbled forward, releasing his grip of the biker and dropped to his knees, his hands scraping across the tarmac. The other biker, gun in hand, nodded to Sykes who chuckled.

‘That’s for Mason,’ Sykes said cockily, instructing his henchmen to lift Sam to his feet. Sam’s brain was scattered. The impact of being pistol-whipped had left him vulnerable. The two bikers hauled him to his feet, both of them wrenching his arms back behind him so he faced Sykes.

The burly biker patted down his leather vest and found his cigar, which he popped into his mouth before reaching into his jeans and pulling out a box of matches.

‘You should always light a cigar with matches,’ he mumbled through the teeth he had clenched on the cigar. ‘It preserves the flavour.’

Despite the thunderous headache coursing through his skull, Sam tried to figure a way out. The two men were as big as Sykes, who towered over Sam and their grips were like a torture rack. Sykes arrogantly puffed on his cigar and arched his head back and puffed smoke into the air.

‘Wyatt, he likes to sit back and watch. It’s like a game of chess for him. He watches everything. Moves his pieces into position, usually two or three moves ahead of his opponent. But me, I’m the type of motherfucker who just flips the table over.’

Like a coiled snake, Sykes shot forward, his solid fist crashing into Sam’s face, splitting his eyebrow and rocking him on his feet. Sam wobbled, but the two men held him up as Sykes swung an uppercut into his solid stomach, crushing his organs.