Chapter One
TATE
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as Sophia takes small, hesitant steps toward the check-in counter, her ticket clutched in her hand like it’s something she’s being forced to carry rather than something she chose to hold.
We barely made it to the airport. I could feel her nails digging into my hips the entire ride, clinging to me as if she could somehow slow us down through sheer desperation.
I may have been driving a little too fast, but if speed was what it took to get her out of New York, then that’s what I was going to do, speeding ticket be damned.
We rode in silence, Blaze following close behind in the van with her bags secured. I could have let Blaze take her and driven the van myself, but something in me needed to be the one to get her there.
She’d already missed her flight last week, kicked and screamed the whole way to the airport until I gave in, which I’m not proud of.
She’d cried and begged me for another week in Tracker’s room, and as much as I hate to admit it, watching Sophia break down like that damn near broke me.
I may be a biker and a hard son of a bitch, but there’s something about a woman like Sophia.
She is so raw in her grief, so desperate to hold onto whatever piece of him she has left that it strips all of that away and leaves you feeling about as tough as a goddamn teddy bear.
Quill had been the one to talk me into giving her the extra week, even offering to take her to the airport himself so I could head back to Vegas and my clubhouse.
But I wouldn’t accept that. I made Tracker a promise, and I intend to honor it, which means I’m going to be the one to put her on that plane and watch it leave the ground with my own two eyes.
Hell, I still can’t make myself use past tense when it comes to him without it hitting like a fist to the chest.
With everything that followed—bringing his body back, the funeral, having to look my mother in the eyes and tell her that her son was gone—I haven’t had a single moment to stop and think about what comes next.
I’m the president of the Sinners, and it’s time I start acting like it.
It’s time I focus on leading my club and being the best damn president I can be.
But revenge runs deep in my veins, and I can’t ignore it.
I need justice for what they did to my brother, and one way or another, I’m going to get it.
First on my list are the El Pasos, and I thought they were on our side.
We were working together to bring Clemente down, but it turns out they were playing both sides the whole time.
It was because of them that I ended up at Clemente’s mansion in the first place.
They’d told me they had my back, that we were going to find out whether the rumors were true that Clemente and Lawrence had resurfaced in New York.
I’d thought about calling Tracker at the time, but he was on vacation with Sophia, and they needed that time together more than I needed backup.
So, I trusted the El Pasos instead.
Luke and I followed Angel and his crew to Clemente’s mansion. The place was quiet when we arrived. There was no visible security, no signs of life that should have set off alarm bells, but Angel assured me everything was fine, and they had us covered.
We went in with guns drawn, moving through an unlocked door and down a long hallway until we turned into a room and found ourselves staring down the barrel of a nightmare.
Clemente and Lawrence were standing there, cool as you can be, with about fifty armed men at their backs. Looking up, there were more on the balconies above the second and third floors, guns everywhere.
When I turned to Angel, his weapon was already pointed at us.
With blood pounding through my veins and sweat trickling down my back, it hit me all at once. We’d been played. The El Pasos had been working against us the entire time.
“Why?” The word came out harder than I felt.
“Money.”
I raised my gun at him anyway, and he smirked.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. You’ve got over fifty guns pointed at you right now.”
He wasn’t wrong, and as much as I didn’t give a damn about my odds, I wasn’t willing to let Luke pay for my pride. I put my gun down and let them take us.
They dragged Luke and me down to a room beneath the mansion with no windows or furniture, only plain white walls and two chairs sitting in the center like they’d been waiting for us.
Luke and I spent the next several hours in those chairs, hands and feet bound, while they beat us until I couldn’t open my eyes.
When I spat at them and demanded to know what they wanted, they told me that once the Blood Brothers saw the photographs of us beaten half to death, Lawrence would get exactly what he was after.
I knew straightaway it had something to do with Lexi, and just as quickly, that neither Rhyder nor the Blood Brothers were ever going to let that happen.
“Just kill me,” I spat.
Lawrence crouched down in front of me, pulling a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit jacket and using it to lift my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes.
“The Blood Brothers have something that belongs to me,” he said quietly. “And I will do whatever it takes to get it back, even if that means killing one of their own.”
He smirked, and the sharp, expensive scent of his aftershave turned my stomach. I smiled back at him and spat directly in his face, and I took real pleasure in watching blood and saliva run down his perfectly composed expression.
That bought me a few more beatings, not from Lawrence, of course, because a man like him would never dirty his perfectly manicured hands. No, he had someone else take care of it for him, and that someone took great pleasure in adding to what was already a pretty thorough job.
I don’t remember much after that.
The beatings came often enough that Luke and I were barely conscious most of the time, drifting in and out, oblivious to whatever was happening around us.
What I do remember is Tracker walking into that room, and the relief that flooded through me when I saw him, with the certainty that if anyone could get us out of there, it was him.
But then the room erupted, gunfire exploding from every direction, and everything after that happened in fragments.
I tried to get in front of the bullet.
I wasn’t fast enough.
Tracker, being exactly the man he always was, took it instead, and I dropped to my knees beside him without a second thought, cradling his head in my lap, telling him to stay with me, to fight, and not dare give up.
More shots rang out, and I caught a glimpse of the Blood Brothers pouring into the room, guns blazing, but all I could focus on was Tracker.
Through the noise, smoke, and chaos, he managed to whisper that he loved me and I needed to look after his woman. He made me promise it, right there with tears burning down my already swollen face, and I promised him.
I meant every word of it.
The last thing I remember is flames and smoke swallowing the room whole, and hands dragging me out against my will.
I fought them, or tried to, begging them to let me go back for Tracker, screaming at them to go back in and get him.
But I had nothing left in the tank, and when I twisted to look behind me, the fire had already taken over, raging and consuming everything in its path.
I woke up the next day in a hospital bed, Luke in the bed beside me, both of us wrecked.
Quill was there, slumped in a chair with his eyes closed, and Flame sat across from him, scrolling mindlessly through his phone. When Flame noticed I was awake, he was on his feet in an instant, the sound pulling Quill out of his sleep.
“Where am I?” The words come out as a rough croak, barely my own voice.
“Hospital,” Quill says, moving to my bedside and resting a hand on my shoulder. “You took a hell of a beating.”
Looking between them, my chest was already tightening. “Tracker. Where is he?”
Quill’s eyes fill with tears he refuses to let fall. He clears his throat, looks away for a moment, and when he turns back, I already know.
“I’m sorry, brother. He didn’t make it.”
“What the fuck?”
The words come out barely above a whisper before something cracks open inside me. “No. You’re lying. You’re fuckin’ lying.”
“I’m sorry,” Quill says, leaning in, both hands gripping my shoulders. “Tate, you need to calm down… you’re injured.”
“I don’t give a fuck.” The words snap out of me, and then, completely and without warning, I break, my hands going to my face, anger and grief hitting at the same time, so tangled up I can’t tell them apart.
“Not Tracker,” I say into my palms. “Not him.”
Then something shifts, some raw, desperate surge of energy that has no business being in a body as beaten as mine. I shove the sheets back and try to get out of the bed, shouting that they’re going to pay, that every last one of them is going to fucking pay.
Flame and Hawke move fast, helping Quill hold me down, and without thinking, my fist shoots out and catches Quill square in the face. I don’t care in that moment, even though a part of me knows he is one of the best men I’ve ever known.
“Get out of my fuckin’ way,” I shout, but I’m no match for the three of them. Hawke and Flame have me pinned while Quill looks at me, jaw tight.
“I know you’re hurting, brother. We all are.”
A nurse comes rushing in, eyes wide, taking in the scene.
Quill straightens and turns to me. “You gonna stay put, or do I need to call the rest of the boys in from the waiting room?”
The veins in my neck strain with the effort of holding it all in. I’m exhausted, weaker than I’ve ever been in my life, and as much as everything in me wants to tear the room apart, I have nothing left to do it with. Closing my eyes, I force myself to breathe.
The nurse pushes the boys back from my bed and looks between all of us. “You all need to leave…” she says firmly, “… or I’m calling security.”