Sam hunched forward, gasping for air, and Sykes rocked him with another vicious hook, sending Sam spiralling to the ground with a spray of blood and saliva. Sam hit the tarmac hard, and Sykes squatted down beside him, cigar in hand.

‘You tell Vasquez, if he wants a war with the Riders, he’s got one. But if you really are just a dumb fucker in the wrong place at the wrong time, this is your only warning to get the fuck out of town.’

The sudden shooting burning pain shot through Sam’s arm as Sykes knelt on Sam’s wrist and pressed the cigar into the back of it. As the red-hot end scolded Sam’s skin, Sykes shifted his weight onto his knee, the velocity cracking the bones in Sam’s wrist. Sam gritted his teeth and as Sykes lifted himself up, Sam rolled onto his back, clutching his wrist, and concentrated on his breathing.

Deep breaths.

In and out.

Stifle the pain.

Sykes chuckled as he and his followers returned to their bikes and Sam stared up at the stars as the roar of engines echoed through the night, and he clutched his wrist. The fractured bone and the scolded skin of his hand was a cocktail of near unbearable pain.

But he’d been through worse.

Much worse.

Pain that no one should ever be able to come back from.

As he laid on the tarmac, he heard the friendly motel owner call out to him and he lifted his good hand to signal he was okay.

He offered to call the cops, but as Sam got to his feet, he told the owner that wouldn’t be necessary. With Sam’s arm swelling, the owner ran to grab him a bucket of ice. As he disappeared into his office, Sam stared out towards the road where Sykes and his men had made their exit.

Sam had had no reason to take down the Riders.

He did now.

Chapter Eleven

Sykes couldn’t remember the woman’s name. As she slid her dress back on over her toned body, he chuckled to himself at the things he’d made her do. Since becoming a prominent member of the Riders, getting laid was as easy as snapping his fingers. The local women wanted the infamy that came with being with a Rider.

Hell, even a few bored housewives were looking for some excitement.

As he laid on the bed, his naked body covered from the waist down, he reached over to his clothes that were dumped in a pile on the floor. He patted down his leather vest, pulling out the box of matches. Then he slid open the bedside drawer, reaching past the condoms to the packet of cigars. As he struck the match and held it up, the woman turned to him, playfully patting down her hair.