She came, her body tightening to rigidity, squeezing him to the point of pain. While she was still in the throes, he sat up and rolled them over. Taking charge, he adjusted their bodies so he could bend down and take a breast in his mouth as he drove into her, bringing her again to release. This time, she dragged her nails across his back.

Only then did he let himself complete, and the o.r.g.a.s.m was more intense than he'd ever felt before. It sapped him of everything, and when it was finally over, he collapsed bonelessly at Faith's side.

"Holy s.h.i.t, Michael," she panted. "That was..."

His face was buried in the pillow, and he didn't have the energy to move. But he spoke anyway. "Good?"

"Amazing." She patted his leg, which was still lying over her. "I love you."

He felt pleased and content. "Love you, too."

They never joined the party. They found the energy for two more goes, though Faith didn't attempt to give him head again, and he didn't bring it up. Inside her was the place he really wanted to be, his arms around her, her body around him. When they could simply go no more, they curled up together in the damp sheets and slept.

It was still dark when they were awakened by the sharp, explosive sounds that Demon knew instantly as automatic gunfire. He leapt out of bed, yanked on his jeans, and shoved his feet into his boots, not bothering to tie them. From a drawer in the small bureau, he grabbed his spare Sig and checked the magazine.

"Michael!" Faith was still in bed, her eyes wide. They'd fallen asleep without even turning out the light.

"Stay here. Don't leave this room until a patch comes for you!" Without waiting for her agreement, he grabbed his kutte off the door and left the room, turning the lock as he closed the door.

He ran out to the Hall, shrugging his kutte on over his bare chest. It was late-he had no sense of the exact time-and most of the partygoers had left or gone back to the dorm. Only the people who had pa.s.sed out were still there-and the men, dressed much like Demon, who had come running at the sound of gunfire.

The gunmen were gone. They'd come in, shot up the Hall and then run. Broken gla.s.s was everywhere. Men were moaning; women were crying. Demon focused and tried to make sense. Blood. Gla.s.s. The reek of booze.

Peaches was draped face-first over the bar, dripping blood onto a barstool. One of the girls-Ember, it was Ember, f.u.c.k, she'd been around forever-was sprawled on her back near the door, one leg bent oddly behind her.

P.B. on a leather chair, his head back. What was left of his head.

A girl with her head in his lap, bleeding into a pool on the front of his jeans.

Double A, one of the Missouri patches here on loan, was struggling to his feet, his leg bleeding. He'd already been shot in that leg once before, last fall. He was helping Coco up. His jeans were open and his d.i.c.k out.

Connor, Hoosier, Sherlock, Lakota, and Trick were all on their feet and armed, in various stages of undress. Lakota was bleeding heavily from a wound in his bicep. Fargo and Keanu were on their feet, too, seemingly unharmed, standing together near the kitchen, looking stunned.

Hoosier came forward from the front door, his jeans open, his bare chest covered in iron grey hair. He was dangling a large, black rubber rat from his fingers by its tail. The Dirty Rats' calling card.

"Prez?" Demon wasn't sure exactly what to ask.

"I need a head count, right the f.u.c.k now."

Demon scanned the carnage, trying to get a bead on anyone he loved unaccounted for. J.R., Diaz, and Muse all had old ladies. They'd probably gone home. Ronin never stayed late. Bart had stayed home all night with his family. Jesse...where was Jesse? And the other Missouri patch-Nolan. He was just a kid. Where was he?

As if in answer to the question Demon had only thought, Nolan came up from the dorm, barefoot and shirtless, but armed. "What the f.u.c.k?"

And then, in the far corner of the room, Sid, Muse's old lady, struggled to her feet. Her clothes were soaked with blood.

"Sid!" Demon leapt forward over the broken gla.s.s and senseless bodies until he could grab her. She only stared at him, her eyes blank.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, shaking her as lightly as his beast would allow.

She shook her head and looked down, her face shifting into a look like confused despair.

Muse was on the floor at their feet.

"f.u.c.k! MUSE!" Demon nearly threw Sid to the side, but he kept enough grip on himself to hand her off to Connor, who'd come up behind them. Then Demon dropped to his knees.

Muse had been shot in the gut; his shirt was nothing but a pool of red. "Oh, f.u.c.k, Muse! f.u.c.k, no!" When Demon pulled him over, he groaned, his eyes fluttering.

"Sid," he rasped. "Where's..."

That shook Sid from her fugue, and she fell to her knees at Demon's side. "I'm here. I'm okay. Oh, G.o.d. Muse, please be okay."

His face was white and shiny, making the dark of his beard stand out in relief. His lips were a terrible shade of grey. But he smiled. "I'm okay, hon. I'm okay." He groaned again. "f.u.c.king hurts, though."

The sound of sirens filled the room, and Demon looked back at his President.

He waved that f.u.c.king rubber toy in the air. "Connor, Sherlock, Trick. Take this piece of s.h.i.t thing and pay our respects to the Rats. Get out now before our company gets here."

Demon stood. "I go, Prez. I go, too."

Hoosier shook his head. "Deme, no. This'll be dirty."

He knew. G.o.d, he knew. But his best friend was lying at his feet, maybe dying. P.B. was dead. Peaches. They'd come in and shot up their home. His only home. He would be careful and try to stay out of law's reach, but he couldn't stay clean, not for this.

"I go."

Hoosier stared at him while the sirens got louder. Then he nodded and threw the rubber rat at him. "Get rid of this thing on your way. I want no link between them and us."

"I hear. Faith is back in my room. I told her to stay until a patch got her."

Hoosier nodded. "I got her. You guys get lost. Out the back. Grab what you need on the way, but move it right now. And call Ronin in with you. He was out of here early. I'll track down everybody else. Nolan-you and the Prospects, help our wounded."

On their way out the back, they grabbed t-shirts and weapons, enough to get them clear of the clubhouse. They rolled out low and dark and followed Connor to their locker at a twenty-four-hour storage place just outside of town. Ronin caught up with them there.

They moved carpets and boxes until they got to their stash of weapons and explosives, purchased a few months ago, when they made the call to return to the outlaw life.

Sherlock squatted next to a couple of lockers filled with components for explosives. "I've got s.h.i.t pre-rigged and waiting to be armed. We can blow the f.u.c.kers out of the galaxy."

"No," Connor said. "Can't look like retaliation. That's a straight line back to the clubhouse."

"Unless it looks like the same hit."

Connor turned to Trick. "Go on."

"Can we turn this on the Castillos some way? So law looks their way, thinks they hit us both, but the players know we handled our s.h.i.t?

"AKs, then," Demon said. "Strafe 'em with AKs, like they did us. And cut the head off that f.u.c.king rubber rat, leave it for them. Cartels like cutting off heads."

Connor looked around. "Anybody touch that thing without gloves?"

"Yeah," Demon said. "Me and Hooj."

"Then that's out."

Sherlock grinned. "Not quite." He reached back for a garbage sack and rooted through it, pulling out a whole sealed bag of rubber rats.

"What the f.u.c.k?" Connor asked.

"Hey-we're beefing with the Rats. I thought they could come in handy. And I was right."

"Okay. Let's get this s.h.i.t done. Lock and load, brothers."

Demon grabbed gear, wondering if tonight was the night he lost everything he'd only just gotten his fingers around. As he fitted a Kevlar vest over his shoulders, he was struck by a memory of a night not all that different from this one-an ambush, a retaliation-a night that even included Muse lying at his feet.

If the result of this night was the same, then he was about to lose it all.

memory Demon and Muse sat astride their bikes outside a derelict warehouse, waiting and on alert. They'd been sent out early to make sure the place was secure. And it was-they were out in the middle of f.u.c.king nowhere, outside Demopolis, Alabama. n.o.body around for miles. As much a danger as an advantage, depending on how the meet went.

Demon hated being so far east. It was dumb; there wasn't much about California he could really call home, but he felt like his cord was played out too far once he crossed the Mississippi. And the South was just...different from anywhere else. It was closed off somehow, and made him feel wary.

He knew Muse felt it, too, though they hadn't talked about it. He was normally just steady, all the time, but on this job he was twitchy, checking over his shoulder far more often than was warranted.

Near dusk, the rumble of Harleys came up behind them, and the contingent from the Alabama charter-Jester, the President; Howie, VP; Tug, SAA, and a couple of soldiers-rolled up behind them. Muse and Demon dismounted and walked toward the men parking their bikes.

Jester set his helmet on his bike. "They ain't here yet?"

"No, Prez," Muse answered. "No sign. Place is clear for miles-no good ambush positions unless they got a sharpshooter. That rise to the north"-he pointed-"would be the only place we don't see 'em coming."

Jester looked to the north, squinting. "Alright. If these s.h.i.theads show, I'll leave Rigger and Marcus out here with Demon. Muse, I want you inside with us. Hang back, peel your eyes. f.u.c.kin' hate cleaning up after el Jefe."

Jester's sneer surprised Demon, and he cast a quick, sidelong look at Muse, and saw surprise there, too-only a tension to his eyes that most would miss. But Demon and Muse had spent practically every second of their lives together, with a couple of protracted exceptions, for years now, and Demon knew him about as well as he could be known.

Jester and Sam, the mother charter President, went way back, and Jester could always have been counted on to back Sam's play. Hearing him grouse and call Sam el Jefe, the nickname of the Perro head, gave Demon an ill feeling about the whole job.

Muse and he had talked over a few meals about the way the club's dealings with the Perro Blanco cartel were starting to break down. The risk was growing; cartel men were showing up to supposedly friendly meets armed to their ears, and the work was coming almost too quickly to move under the radar. But money was moving more slowly, at least outward from the mother charter in Jacksonville, Florida. Greater risk and slower reward was not a sustainable model, especially not in a club of this size. Too many Presidents who held the loyalty of their own tables. If Sam was working an angle of his own with the cartel, things would go to s.h.i.t sooner or later. Maybe sooner.

Demon wasn't much of a thinker when it came to club business-he wasn't a moron, but he wasn't interested in details. He knew his job in the club was to be a blunt instrument, meant to make an impact, so he waited until someone wielded him. As a Nomad, he didn't have a home table, and was only accorded a vote at the tables he sat at maybe half the time. He tended to turn inward during table discussions and just wait to be told what to do.

Thus it had been a while before he'd noticed things getting out of true in the club. When he brought it up with Muse, they'd talked it out, but in the way of men who knew their loyalty and weren't comfortable looking for its limits. They'd decided to be wary and let things play out.

They didn't know much about this job except their part in it. Jester and his crew were meeting with some other Perro a.s.sociates and handing off a reparation payment from Sam. Why Alabama had the reins on this, and why Demon and Muse had been called in-those were things Demon didn't need to know. He needed to know where to point his gun or swing his fist. And now he did.

He didn't like that Muse was going in and two Alabama patches were on watch with him. Besides the irregularity, Demon didn't like these guys. Alabama was one of those charters Demon preferred to avoid, where the women all looked frail and frightened, a few of them looked too f.u.c.king young, and just about anything was fair game. Last night they'd had a girl face-first over the back of a couch, taking turns. She'd been pa.s.sed out.

Demon had had to leave. He had no standing to protest what Jester condoned-as Muse, with his hand clamped hard on his shoulder, had reminded him-but it made him sick, so he'd spent most of the night riding around rural Alabama. Muse had looked disgusted, too, but he'd grabbed one of the healthier girls and made himself scarce upstairs in the private rooms.

When the Perro a.s.sociates showed-Demon was shocked to see that they were skinheads, showing the colors of the White Guardians-rolling up in two big, blacked-out pickups with camper tops over their beds, Demon stepped back, his hands loose and ready to draw, and kept his eyes wide to take in the whole scene.

The men going inside gave up their weapons. The guards outside were allowed to stay armed. They all went in, and Demon waited, giving his Alabama brothers, and the three skinheads the WG had left outside, as much s.p.a.ce as he could.

It all went to h.e.l.l within minutes. A commotion erupted inside the warehouse, and before Demon could react, the back of the nearest pickup flew open, and two men with AKs jumped to the ground, firing. Paying no mind at all to Rigger or Marcus, Demon leapt around the corner of the rickety building and fired his Glock, taking one of the AK wielders down with a bullet to the head. He peered around the corner again, and saw Rigger fall. He shot the skinhead who got him, and then the warehouse doors flew open and the rest of the WG tore out toward the pickups. The two WG gunman still standing threw down cover fire and jumped into the back of the moving pickup, leaving the bodies of their dead behind.

Demon was inside the warehouse ahead of Marcus. Muse was down, face-first on the ground, blood forming a wide pool on the floor around him, the back of his kutte slashed open. But he was awake and trying to move. Howie was down, too, slashed in the throat. He was gone. Tug was on the floor at his side, pressing down on the wound, but it was too late. Demon could see it from where he stood.

Jester stood in the middle of it all, looking shocked and furious.

Demon went to his knees at Muse's side, but Muse pushed him off. "He opened me up, but I think everything works." He cast his eyes up to Demon's face. "f.u.c.k, Deme. Don't lose your s.h.i.t here. Count beats, kid. Hold it together."

At that moment, Jester said, "Demon. I want those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."

Thus wielded, Demon stood and went out to his bike, picking up the dropped AK on the way. He rode out, on the only road around, in the direction the pickups had gone. Straight toward town.

The rifle on his back, he rode fast, and he caught up, firing his Glock true and sending the rear truck into the forward one, disabling them both. Swinging the rifle forward, he ended them all on the side of the road, in sight of the Demopolis town line.

He never would remember it all. He'd never had a chance to count beats. He was back at the clubhouse before he realized that he was covered in blood. Muse's, he supposed. He went to check on him, st.i.tched up and pa.s.sed out face down on a club bed, before he bothered to wash.

But he had been seen. By the end of the next day, sitting in county lockup, he knew that much.

Demon picked up the phone on his side of the gla.s.s. "Hey, brother. You look good."

Muse smiled. "Not riding yet, but I'm mending up. How're you hanging in?"

He shrugged. "Did it before, and I always knew I'd do it again. Just a place to be." He actually hated being locked up, but he hadn't exactly lied. He understood the inst.i.tutional life. The worst threat to him inside was his own head.

He was facing multiple life sentences. A witness had identified his bike, and then him, at the scene of the murder of six members of the White Guardians. They had little evidence other than that witness, but they were protecting the s.h.i.t out of him.

Deemed a dangerous inmate, he was being held without bail and housed in prison instead of jail while he awaited trial. He had no intention of going to trial. He'd cop to the charges before lawyers starting digging into the club to prepare for a trial, but the club wanted time to get him out free and clear. To find that witness.

"You make any friends?"

Demon knew Muse was asking if he had done what was required to garner protection by the Perros, because the White Guardians wanted his head. He had. What was another murder rap on top of what he was already facing? But he hadn't been caught on that one. "I did. Not sitting alone in the mess anymore."

"Good, good. We're looking for new friends, too. Maybe somebody you've met."

Demon nodded. He hated this obscure talk, always being hyper aware of every d.a.m.n syllable because people were recording and listening. He just wanted news. He'd already been in two months, and he was f.u.c.king lonely. He just wanted to sit in a diner with Muse and shoot the s.h.i.t.