1
KING
Ihear the raw, unfiltered scream of a woman, and it slithers through me like a balm. The name she cries is that of a traitor.
Saint.
The man I trusted as a brother. The man I nominated as a member. And the man who was an agent for the Department of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives.
A fucking agent.
And none of us found him out.
None of us noticed the enemy was walking among us.
I glance around the concrete pit we’ve built to look like an old shed. Its ever so slightly sloping floor centers around a drain. There is a large hose hung on the wall. Cleanup in here is simple. Let the water run. Then follow it with bleach. I can’t count how many men have met their demise in here.
Tonight, another will be added to the count.
Niro, the Iron Outlaws’ scarred treasurer, and Bates, the club’s enforcer, were the two members I could count on to bring Saint back alive to our New Jersey clubhouse. They lead him through the door. It aggravates me to my fucking core that he walks in with his shoulders back.
Not dragged.
Not screaming.
Not terrified.
He has the cool, calm composure he’s always had. His face lacks tension or fear. If he feels it, he’s hiding it well.
And it pisses me off.
If he hears the woman he loves screaming his name outside, he doesn’t show it.
I think of all the times he’s been this cool under pressure for the club. When he’s stood shoulder to shoulder with me and my brothers against our enemies. Perhaps it’s the fact his love of the club felt so goddamn real that makes all this so hard to process.
But betrayal is betrayal.
I stand in the middle of the room. The rest of the Outlaws, besides those sent to return the traitor to me, stand with their backs to the wall. This is how we deal with those who act against us.
Saint shakes free of Niro and Bates and walks toward me.
“Thought you could hide?” I ask. His quiet confidence sets my teeth on edge. It will make breaking him all the more enjoyable.
“Aren’t we all hiding in some way, shape, or form?” Saint responds. Now that I’m aware he’s not who he says he is, I want to know more about him as much as I want to kill him. It takes balls to become an undercover agent with one of the world’s deadliest motorcycle clubs, and I want to understand the man who dared to do it.
A very small voice tells me that I’m about to lose one of the few men I’ve allowed myself to share any vulnerabilities with. That I’m going to kill the only man in the club willing to see beneath the president patch and advise me when my world was upside down.
That I’m going to lose a friend.
I pull the cigarette packet out of the pocket on my shirt and tap it until a single cigarette slips free. I put the packet away and lift the cigarette to my lips to light it. When I’ve taken a drag, I point to Saint, the man I thought was an army chaplain. “Answer the question.”
Saint shakes his head. “No. I needed to give you time to cool down before I could speak with you rationally. And I needed to make right what I’d done.”
I huff and blow out a ring of smoke. How dare he act like the rational one here. “Make right? How do you make right that you lied to us, Judas?”
His eyes go wide at the name. Yes, I saw the message he sent to his girlfriend, Briar. Vex, the club’s technical genius, can trace just about anything. But I catch the way Vex studies the floor instead of looking our traitor in the eye.
I don’t like the weakness Vex shows in the moment or the way Saint glances at him as if he understands and, worse, forgives.
