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Forty minutes later we crept off the property and went back to the meeting spot.

“All done?” Gunnar clapped his hands, eager to get on with kicking some ass.

“Yep. In twenty minutes, we’ll get in position and in thirty we’ll set off the alarms at the dispensary,” I answered.

Ripcord nodded but I could see his nerves, which reminded me of myself about a decade and a half ago when I was still earning my bones as a young Bastard. “What if they don’t come?”

“They will,” I assured him. “They’ve been planning this at least since the night of the break-in, and it would be better for them if we all ended up dead. That was their plan and our plan is to fuck up theirs, by striking first.”

Ripcord nodded and slid a glance to his President. Gage didn’t look happy about any of it but he knew like I did that if we didn’t act first, Roadkill would not stop. A look passed between the two men. Resolve and resignation. Tonight might not be pretty but it was fucking necessary.

When the alarm sounded inside the dispensary we were all on alert. Jag was back at the clubhouse keeping an eye on the women and children as well as us. We had wireless comms so he could direct us when the shit turned chaotic. Lasso, Golden Boy, Stitch and Savior were inside with two Sons of Sin. The rest of us were on our bikes about a quarter-mile away, ready to strike as soon as Roadkill crossed our paths.

The energy crackled in the air like one of those nights where a desert storm struck out of nowhere. The hair stood up on the back of my neck, down my arms and all over my body. It was the same feeling I’d had in combat, when the enemy was close, and I knew there was about to be a fight to the death. That was what tonight was; not everyone would survive.

This was war.

The sound of motorcycles in the distance had everyone falling quiet. Still, like an immovable river. About sixty seconds after the last bike raced past us, we rode in two straight lines the whole way there. Silent. Focused.

Deadly focused.

The dumbasses parked right up front, not at all suspicious. We moved quiet and perfectly in sync, even the Sons of Sin, into the dispensary. White Boy Craig stood at the center of nearly a dozen men, armed but not protected.

“Come on out boys, you’re outnumbered,” he laughed, completely oblivious to his own fucking danger. “We counted four bikes out front so unless some of you are sittin’ bitch, we got you.”

They tossed out a few high-fives and talked some shit while we moved in, Ripcord with a gun aimed right at White Boy Craig’s back.

“You always were a dumb fuck, White Boy. I guess that’s why you can’t count.” Before he could even turn around, Ripcord squeezed off two shots. One in each of his knees.

Craig went down, crying like a little bitch. “My fucking knees! You shot me in the fucking knees!”

“You’re lucky it wasn’t your fucking dick, asshole.”

Those were the last words I could hear because bullets started flying and they were coming from all directions. Ripcord had White Boy Craig more than handled so I got to work helping take down the other pieces of shit. In the distance I heard the explosives going off like it was the Fourth of July and New Years Eve combined, telling me that the Roadkill who’d been on stakeout bought it good.

Lu had a bullet in his gut and writhed on the ground in pain while I caught two prospects running like hell towards the exit.

Cowards. That’s what happened when a f

ucked up MC recruited the most fucked up minds they could find and turned them even crazier. It couldn’t have been more than two or three minutes when the dispensary fell silent.

Mostly.

“You fuckers set us up!”

“Quit your fuckin’ bitchin’.”

“You won’t get away with this. The cops will be here and there’s no way you can cover this shit up.” Craig looked so pleased with himself.

“There you go, trying to think for yourself again. I got three words for you dumb shit, stand your ground.” Ripcord took the butt of his gun and brought it down on Craig’s temple, knocking him out cold.

Jag called in. “Hey Cross, we got the coordinates on the girls.”

“Dispatch the last group and tell those fuckers to be careful, these girls will be scared as shit.” That was the last thing we needed.

“Uh, actually the Feds are here. Not inside the clubhouse but in Mayhem. Trafficking is the Feds’ jurisdiction and as soon as the story hit, the task force landed in town. They’re eager for our help but they made it clear—”

“That they run the show? Fucking dick lickers.” I didn’t give a damn who got them, as long as they were safe. “Fine. Send a few guys to help.”