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N ever in my fucking life have I pushed my hog so hard, but we make the trip in just over an hour, guns drawn as our bikes tear up the tree-lined driveway of the new compound in Fox Pines.

All we find is carnage.

Several of our freshly-built structures are ablaze, flames chewing through the timber like it’s paper. A row of motorcycles simmers in coals, nothing but molten metal and smoke.

Apart from the light coming from the flames, it’s near impossible to see a damn thing in the suffocating dark.

Bullets rip through the air from the treeline, giving us no choice but to ditch our rides and haul arse into the old barn.

“Here!” Smitty’s familiar voice calls, and I look up just in time to see a sawn-off shotgun flying through the air towards me .

Catching the fucking thing, I check that it’s loaded, feeling Celina at my back as she shoves extra rounds into my pockets.

“Fill me in,” I bark, demanding an update as Celina moves to JD, stuffing his pockets the same way.

“Suicide trucker hit first. Took out the drug storage,” Smitty snarls, inspecting more weapons as he hands them off. “Then came the fucking dirt bikes. Lit the place up good before taking cover in the fucking trees.”

“And this has been going on for over an hour?” JD asks the same thing I’m wondering.

“Yeah, and our police contacts seem to be out of fucking reach.”

“Shit,” I mutter, a heavy knot forming in my gut. There’s no way Jason Zimora would let this happen. Not unless he’s been subdued… or worse. “Anyone called Griffin?”

“Of course we’ve called him,” Smitty snaps, looking at me like I’m a fucking idiot. “He’s unreachable too.”

Fuck. This isn’t just bad. This is completely fucked.

“How many are dead? Injured?” JD barks, and Smitty starts rattling off names.

“Among the dead is Kite. Roadie. Barts. Bowey and Zeus. No Doxies were killed but Darla and Nessy have been taken.”

Fuck… Barts. Roadie… and my fucking mate… Bowey. I knew Kite and Zeus, but not as well as the others.

Someone will fucking pay for this!

“Where’s the rest of my fucking team?” I snap, thankful Murf, Trunk and Stocky aren’t on the list.

“Murf and Trunk are working their way through the pines, trying to flank them from behind.” Smitty ushers us to the barn door, and I spare a quick glance at the Doxies huddled together, their cheeks stained with tears, some smeared with someone else’s blood.

“And Stocky?” I growl, my patience wearing razor-thin.

“With Mex, Vender and Tups over by the row of shipping containers we haven’t touched yet.”

Nodding, JD and I pocket a few more guns off the hay bale, then slip back out the door.

We only make it a few steps before bullets spray past us again, and we both take off, sprinting for the shipping containers where some of the men are returning fire.

I dive for cover as the bullets get too close for fucking comfort, sliding across the grass and slamming into Mex behind the containers. Worried for my best mate, I snap my gaze in his direction just in time to see JD doing the same, skidding across the grass to take cover with us.

“Talk to me,” I demand, pressing myself to the steel wall and peering around the corner.

“There’s about ten of them,” Mex barks. “They only shoot when they see movement or to return fire. Got no fucking clue what their MO is.”

It’s then that a loud voice cracks through the air.

My brows fucking hitch as Mex mirrors me, and we fall dead silent to listen.

“RINGO!”

“The fuck?” JD hisses, peeking around the corner. “How are they doing that?”

A high-pitched squeal makes us all flinch before it cuts out. It’s that nasty feedback sound made when a mic gets too close to a speaker .

“Megaphone.” Tups shrugs. “Has to be. I don’t see how the hell they’d rig up fucking speakers out here.”

I nod. It’s the simplest explanation, and the most likely.

“RINGO!”

Hearing my name blare across the clearing again sends fucking chills down my spine.

“Why are they calling your name?” JD frowns, matching mine.

“That’s what I’d like to fucking know,” I snap, glancing back over to the barn, happy to see no movement outside it.

What the fuck is going on?

“They’ve been quiet ‘til now. Nothing but bullets,” Vender adds from where he’s perched on a ladder, his rifle on top of the container.

“RINGO! IF YOU ARE HERE, PLEASE SHOW YOURSELF!”

“What the actual fuck is going on?” JD snaps, eyes practically bulging out of his skull.

“RINGO! WE WON’T HARM YOU! JUST SHOW YOURSELF!”

JD scoffs, not believing a word of whoever is speaking, and the dread curling in my gut tells me exactly what kind of trap this could be.

But I can’t ignore it. If there’s even the smallest chance I can shut this down… I have to try.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Stocky hisses, gripping my arm as I move to step out from the cover we’re hiding behind.

“I have to put an end to this,” I sneer, yanking my arm free.

“The fuck you do.” JD’s on me next, grabbing at my cut, trying to haul me back.

I spin and throw a punch at him, missing as he ducks, but using his distraction to break away and step clear of the container .

“I’m fucking here!” I bellow as loud as I can. “What do you want?!”

There’s nothing but silence, and a chill runs up my spine as I sense too many fucking guns pointed directly at me. Then, a spotlight from the treeline flashes on, lighting me up like I’m on a fucking stage.

I stand there exposed. Waiting. Watching.

At any moment, they could open fire. There’s no way I could get to cover in time. I’m a sitting duck. So what the fuck are they waiting for?

When nothing else happens, I hold for another beat, ready to step back and take cover when a second spotlight cuts through the dark. I stiffen, holding my fucking breath as I wait for something to happen, and then movement catches my eye.

A man staggers out into the clearing, limping slowly across the grass in my direction. I take a few steps closer, tracking the gun in his hand, his grip loose, muzzle aimed to the grass as he moves.

“What do you want?!” I shout, my voice echoing across the open space.

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t flinch or look up from the ground as he staggers. He just keeps coming.

Glancing back, I see JD has stepped out from behind the shelter, with Mex at his side. Stocky and Vender remain hidden, their guns trained on the man approaching.

“Is that…” JD frowns, leaning forward to squint at the figure getting closer.

When I do the same, I find a hint of familiarity in the approaching man as he lifts his head.

Fuck .

It’s Cookie.

Not thinking twice, I stride straight for our missing prospect, relieved he’s still breathing, but with a thousand fucking questions bouncing through my head.

Where the hell has he been?

Why did he bail the second the cops showed up at the Western while we were stuck dealing with the warehouses?

Does he know Morris died that day?

“Cookie,” I bark, now just a few metres away, which is when he stops, and slowly raises his gun, aiming it straight at me.

I freeze, taking in his face, the tears leaking from his red eyes, and the fading bruises marring his skin.

Fuck. He’s in bad shape. The round belly he used to carry is gone, like he hasn’t eaten properly in weeks.

“I’m sorry, man,” he chokes out, voice cracking. “I had no choice.”

“No choice about what?” I snap, knowing Vender has his scope trained on Cookie’s head, and he won’t hesitate to pull the trigger if needed.

“I didn’t want to do it.” Cookie sobs, choking on his own words. “They had my sister, man. I had to let them through the gates.”

“You talking about the cops?” I curl my fucking lip. “Allen?”

Cookie nods, but then shakes his head. “Not just them. The pigs came with backup.”

“Who?” I snarl, fists clenched, jaw tight, about ready to headbutt this fucker.

Cookie moves to glance over his shoulder, but thinks better of it, his bloodshot eyes snapping back to mine.

“Satan’s Rebels. ”

Fuck.

Leo Marx was right. Our rival club is involved, deeper than we fucking knew.

“What about Morris? Were you the one who killed him and stuffed him in Casey’s trunk?”

“Yes,” Cookie splutters, his face contouring in agony. “Fuuuck… his fucking face man. When he realised what I’d done. That I’d betrayed him.” Cookie presses his hand, along with the clip of the gun, to his temples, crumbling under the weight of his betrayal.

“You could’ve come to us. We could’ve tried to save your sister. We still can.”

“No.” He shakes his head, his arms trembling with pain and fury. “It’s too fucking late. The Satans raped her for days… and killed her this morning.” His voice breaks. “She’s fucking gone, man. Fucking gone .”

Cookie buckles in half, a wailing scream tearing out of him.

A loud shot cracks through the air, and a bullet tears up the dirt at Cookie’s feet.

He jumps in fright, before spinning to face the treeline.

“Okay! Fucking give me a second!” he yells, his voice ragged, soaked in despair.

I glance towards the thick pines, not able to see a damn thing through the glare of the spotlights, before Cookie turns back to face me.

“I don’t wanna do this.” Cookie chokes out. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Do what?” I ask, a chill slicing down my spine as dread pools thick in my gut.

“I have a message for you… from Ian Allen. ”

“What the fuck is it?” I growl, squeezing the gun in my hand, itching to unleash hell.

“This… me.” He swirls his free hand through the air. “I’m nothing more than a diversion.”

I stop fucking breathing, as I watch an eerie calmness settle over Cookie’s face.

“While you’re here dealing with me...” he deadpans. “Allen is taking your woman.”

The words slam into me like a freight train, rage exploding in my chest, my heart hammering against my ribs… but before I can move… before I can say a single fucking word, Cookie lifts the gun, presses it to his temple, and pulls the trigger.