Chapter 22
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
Slayer
“It’s go time,” Riptide announces, his voice deadly as he saunters into the office.
I slap the manila folder shut, giving my president my absolute focus.
The air in the room suddenly feels charged with a lethal energy, the anticipation of months of waiting finally reaching a fever pitch.
Rip looks like he’s been riding on stamina and caffeine for days, but the flat, dangerous glint in his eyes tells me he’s more than ready to see this through to the finish line no matter how exhausted he is.
“Got the word from Nova’s federal contact.
They’re snatching the councilwoman the second she steps out of that monthly budget meeting. ”
“So with her away on business, Patrick is going to be a sitting duck?” I inquire, a sly smirk tugging at my mouth.
The prospect of that arrogant piece of shit being left wide open, with his mother’s political protection finally stripped away, has my blood vibrating with a lethal intensity.
Deprived of the councilwoman to scrub his sins, Patrick is just a trapped varmint, and Icer’s scheme to pluck him from his high-end mansion is gaining traction with every heartbeat.
“He’s a sitting duck,” Riptide confirms, leaning his weight against the doorframe. “Jerome won’t move to protect him until he knows for sure the feds aren’t tracking the scent back to the Dragons. That gives us a window, Slayer. A small one, but enough.”
My thoughts drift back to Jersey at the trailer, and that vow I swore to ensure the shadows never find her again.
Eliminating Patrick isn’t merely about the patch; it’s about guaranteeing that the very bedrock of the life I’m forging with her remains impenetrable.
“I’ll gather Icer and Shade. We’re gonna be poised to strike the exact moment those cuffs lock around his mother’s wrists. ”
“We aren't sidelining the rest of the guys, Slayer,” Riptide reminds me, his focus sharpening on the roster of men waiting for the green light. “Every one of us has skin in the game when it comes to his fallout. This isn’t some solo run, it's a message. Every brother in this club has been crushed by the Dragons’ grip one way or another, and they’ve all earned the right to help sever the head of that snake, no pun intended. ”
“Snake, lizard, dragon, all the same, they’re amphibians,” I joke.
Rip lets out a dry, hacking laugh, the sound grating against the heavy silence of the office, but the humor never touches his eyes.
He’s fully aware that we’re preparing to march straight into a storm capable of leveling the very foundation of the life we’ve fought to build—a future where our old ladies can breathe without the constant weight of looking over their shoulders.
We can’t predict how Jerome will react once he realizes we’ve snatched his lieutenant, but in our world, retaliation isn’t a question, it’s a guarantee.
He will come at us, the only question is when and where he’ll enact his revenge.
My bet is that he’ll come here, where everything we care about lives.
“Get your gear ready,” Rip orders. “We roll at dusk. No lights, no sirens, just the silent retribution they never saw coming.” I nod, the weight of my 9mm against my hip a grounding reminder of the business at hand.
The time for jokes is over. The head of the snake is already on the chopping block, and I’m going to be the one to swing the axe.
“One down, one to go,” I muse as I scoot my chair back, its wheels scraping against the floor like a call to arms. I follow Rip down the hallway toward the common room, where the rest of the men are gathered in a restless cluster of leather and denim.
The air out there is thick with the scent of anticipation.
Rip whistles, a sharp, piercing sound that cuts through the low rumble of masculine voices and instantly gains all of their attention.
“What’s up, pres?” Indiana asks, stepping out from the crowd and presenting himself front and center of the men. His face is a mask of stone, but the way his hands are steady on his belt tells me he’s ready for the orders he’s been waiting for since church broke.
“Tonight’s delivery marks the start of our endgame for Patrick,” Riptide decrees, his voice a booming rasp that vibrates through the room.
The clubhouse erupts in a cacophony of whistles, heavy foot stomping, and cheers, the sound a symphony of the tension we’ve been hauling for months.
This isn’t merely another club sanctioned run, it’s the first crack in Jerome’s empire.
The reckoning has been a long time coming, and while we might not be snaring both of the Dragons’ top tier tonight, having their rotten lieutenant in our grip is the first step toward burning their whole world to the ground.
“Who’s grabbing the delivery driver and putting on his uniform?” Icer asks. “It can’t be someone he’s familiar with, and Patrick is the kind of paranoid prick who notices if his regular courier has a different haircut, let alone a different face.”
“I agree,” Riptide says, rocking back on the heels of his feet as he surveys the room, his eyes scanning the faces of the men he leads.
“We need an unknown for this, someone who can blend in without being tagged. Who’s ready to patch in outside of Sphinx since he’s being held in the catacombs until Rio and his guys are ready for him? ”
Luckily for us, we keep our prospects homebound, meaning they aren’t seen jaunting around town where Jerome or his Dragon fuckers can mark them.
It’s a calculated layer of protection that’s finally about to pay off.
We have the element of surprise, a window of opportunity that’s closing with every heartbeat, and I’m more than ready to watch the look on Patrick’s face when he realizes his delivery isn’t coming from Jerome, but from the Kings.
“Serpent and Hazard are both nearing their vote,” I announce, meeting Rip’s eyes. “As Hazard’s sponsor, I’ve had my eye on him for a while, he’s ready for a mission like this.”
I watch as Hazard shifts his weight, the intensity of the room finally settling on him.
He’s been a solid prospect, rarely complaining and always the first to volunteer for the grunt work.
I’ve watched him handle himself in a scrap and he’s got the kind of cool-headed resolve that doesn’t fracture when the shit hits the fan.
He’s earned a shot at proving he belongs in the circle.
“So is Serpent,” Renegade, as his sponsor, states. “He’s a sneaky fucker, not quite on Shade or Icer’s level, but he can go undetected and blend into any role he’s given.”
Renegade’s endorsement carries a hell of a lot of weight.
He’s the Road Captain, and if he says the kid can vanish in plain sight, then Serpent is our best bet for the delivery run.
He doesn’t have the massive, intimidating frame of a seasoned King yet, which makes him the perfect candidate to don a courier’s uniform and walk straight up to Patrick’s front door without raising a single red flag.
Serpent squares his shoulders, his expression hardening into a mask of determination as he readies himself to step in and take on this mission.
“Hazard and I work well as a team, I’d be honored to have him as my partner,” he declares, his voice unwavering even in the face of the club’s sole attention glued onto him.
There was no hesitation in him, only the hunger to prove his loyalty to the brotherhood and the men standing beside him.
“It'd be a good test for them both,” I add, leaning back against the edge of the pool table. “If they pull this off without a hiccup, it’ll let us know if they’re ready or not.
This isn't just about a delivery, it's about their ability to maintain operational security under pressure. If they can snatch Patrick from his own doorstep without alerting the authorities or his mother’s watchmen, then they’ve earned the right to have that prospect rocker replaced with a full-fledged patch. ”
“We’ll get him,” Hazard states. The prospect’s voice is full of promise.
He doesn’t just sound confident, he sounds bloodthirsty, like a wolf scenting blood for the first time when he hunts for his food.
I watch the way he clenches his jaw, his focus narrowed on the mental map of the councilwoman’s estate.
He knows the weight of what we’re asking, but there isn't a shred of hesitation in him. He’s spent months doing the grunt work, earning his place, and now, he’s ready to prove he can handle the high-stakes pressure of a snatch-and-grab without breaking from the strain.
“And we’ll do it without anyone the wiser,” Serpent tacks on as he and Hazard share a grin.
There's a sharp edge to his smile—the kind that makes it clear why Renegade considers him his most elusive man for the job. Serpent has that rare ability to become part of the background and can navigate a fortified mansion and pluck a target right from his own front porch while the guards are still checking the perimeter. He’s already thinking three steps ahead, mapping out the timing of the courier’s arrival and the exact moment Patrick will be the most vulnerable.
I lock eyes with Riptide, catching the nod that confirms the plan.
We’ve endured far too many nights hunkered down behind these iron gates, guarding our women and little ones from the vultures who want to end us, to ever allow the true assholes to slink away.
While the government officials orchestrate their high-profile media circus, the Kings will be working under the blanket of the night, exactly where the Dragons mistakenly believe they’re untouchable.
Jerome thinks he’s the one holding the deck, but he’s about to find out that when you cross the Kings, you don’t just forfeit the hand—you lose the whole motherfucking table.
“Mount up, we’re hauling ass the second the sun drops beneath the horizon. That prick’s midnight delivery is gonna come in a whole different package,” Riptide rumbles, a dark, lethal chuckle escaping him.
“Be careful,” Jersey orders as she watches me check my ammo and dress in black.
She stands by the bedroom door, her eyes wide with the same fear she’s carried since her childhood, but there’s a new layer of strength there too.
I can see the worry etched into her face, the quiet teacher struggling with the violent reality of the man she’s chosen to love.
I stop what I’m doing and cross the room, pulling her into my arms for one last moment of peace before all hell breaks loose.
“I always am, baby,” I promise, my voice dropping to a low rumble as I press a kiss to her forehead.
I need her to stay tucked inside, away from the windows and the noise of the bikes when we roll out.
Boston and Carolina are already settled in their room, oblivious to the mission at hand, and I need Jersey to be the backbone for them while I’m gone.
The thought of her parents and the threats Booker is handling flashes through my mind, reinforcing the need to end the Dragons so I can focus entirely on her safety.
I give her one last squeeze, a silent vow that I’m coming back to the home we’ve built, before I grab my cut and head out into the night.
I don’t look back, but I feel her gaze stuck on me as I trek across the yard toward the clubhouse.
The Texas night is thick with a heavy humidity that clings to my skin, mirroring the lethal anticipation coiling through the air of the compound.
Every shadow seems to stretch longer under the yard lights, charged with the weight of the endgame we’ve finally set in motion.
When I reach the line of parked bikes, the chrome of the pipes glow in the darkness making me smile.
I stow my gear in my saddlebags while I wait for my brothers to assemble.
The quiet of the compound is shattered by the percussionistic thud of heavy boots on the gravel and the low, metallic clinking of hardware being checked.
Icer and Shade emerge from the shadows first, their expressions carved from granite, looking every bit like the lethal enforcers they are.
One wears the title, but the other is just as dangerous as he is.
Behind them, Hazard and Serpent follow, their faces tight and focused.
We aren’t just a club tonight, we’re a surgical strike team prepared to excise the rot that has plagued our town for far too long.
As Riptide steps out onto the clubhouse porch, his presence signaling the start of the hunt, the air fills with the primal roar of engines—a symphony of retribution that echoes my own lethal intent.
“Let’s ride!” Rip shouts as he makes his way to his bike and tosses his leg over the saddle. The roar of engines as they rev causes the ground beneath our feet to vibrate. Our play tonight will kick the war into high gear, which has been a long damn time coming.
I kick my stand up, my gaze tracking the line where Icer and Shade are posted, their profiles carved from unyielding stone as they ready themselves to trail us into the Dragons’ lair.
Positioned behind them, Hazard and Serpent remain motionless, the gravity of their debut mission as prospects evident in the rigid set of their shoulders.
As we roar through the gates and the iron bars hiss shut, locking the world out, the heavy weight of the endgame we’ve ignited settles into my bones.
Jerome and Patrick will finally learn that nobody fucks with the Kings.
This war has been slow and agonizing, but tonight, we’re going to put a wedge between two men who’ve made our lives a living hell.