Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 38333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
Diesel steps forward into the center of the room, then points at the survivors. "You stand for Badlands or you die with them," he says. "Right fucking now. Not to Legion. Not to me. To Badlands. The real Badlands. Not Brick's Fed operation. Not some rat deal. The patch. The brotherhood. The life."
He's not asking permission or takin’ a fuckin’ vote.
He wants a pledge and he wants it now. Normally, I’d say this was not a great way to total up your loyal members. With bodies and blood pooling in the room, still wet.
But they’re alive for a reason and all of them are holding weapons.
They don’t hesitate. They declare one by one.
"Badlands."
"Badlands."
"Badlands."
Down the line until everyone's spoken except me.
I don't need to say it. They already know. But I do anyway. “It’s only ever been Badlands.”
Diesel nods. “Welp,” he starts. Like this is just another day in the life. “You’re in charge now, Legion.” He looks at the rest of us. “Anyone got a problem with that?”
They shake their heads.
“Good,” Diesel says. Then he pushes his bloody knuckles at me. “All hail, President Demon.”
I blow out a breath, dap him, then stand there like an idiot as all the other guys follow his lead.
When that’s over, I look at Chains, who is kneeling beside Havoc's body. He’s careful and respectful as he presses two fingers to his neck. Checking for a pulse even though it's obvious. He waits. Finds nothing. Then looks up and meets my eyes. “Gone.”
I think about June. Their farmhouse. Their dinner table. Their six kids. The way she looked at Havoc like he was her whole world.
Time for that sorrow later.
Right now, we’re still in the middle of winning.
“OK,” I say, pointing at the door. Outside, people are still bangin’. “We got things to take care of out there too.”
Diesel nods to me.
I nod back.
Then I turn to Ratchet. "Open it."
Ratchet pulls the steel crossbeam. He yanks it free with both hands and lets it clang to the floor. The sound echoes as he pulls the door open. The hinges protest with a long shriek as sunlight floods in.
I step out first. Smoke billowing out behind me like I'm walking through fog. Gun still in hand, eyes adjusting to brightness. The compound spreads before me—bikes, buildings, dust, sky.
Brandy starts toward me, twenty feet away. Moving fast. Mouth opening. About to speak. Phone still clutched in her hand. Eyes wide—fear, or surprise, or calculation.
I raise my gun without breaking stride. Her death comes smooth. One shot, right between her eyes. She drops mid-step, slumping to the dirt. Her phone clatters as blood starts pooling under her blonde hair.
Silence.
I scan the immediate area. Five women outside in various positions. One near the garage—younger, probably early twenties. Two by the main clubhouse—hangarounds I recognize but don't know their names. One near the bikes—older, maybe thirties. One trying to back away—moving slow, hands up.
I look at Diesel without speaking, not asking.
And no one hesitates.
We all raise our weapons as one.
They’re runnin’ now. But it only takes five seconds to make the world go still again.
Six bodies, including Brandy. Which isn’t really important. It’s the people who aren’t here, that matter.
They were told to stay away.
None of this was about me, or my fine. It wasn’t even about Brick.
It was about loyalty. Principle.
It was a trap.
Silence settles over the compound.
Just wind. Dust devils spinning in the parking lot.
I spend the rest of the day feelin’ nothin’. Hollow, where emotions should be. Because there's work to do. Bodies to bury, blood to mop up, things to work out. Practical matters that add up to survival logistics.
And the whole time I feel it.
Something has changed.
Everything has changed.
Because nothin’ says you’re all in like a massacre.
CHAPTER 10
The golden hour washes over me as I ride. The wind is blowin' my hair, the sky all the colors of hell. Gorgeous bands of reds and purples softened up by deep peach and dark teal. A nightmare conjured up from the vacant mind of an insane artist.
Absolutely stunnin'. Unbelievably real. Indisputably foreboding.
There's no other way to interpret this sky.
Not after what happened this morning.
The body count felt like infinity, which was fitting. Because it seemed to take an eternity to bury them all. Even with the excavator, it was a chore.
The entire day felt like the definition of futility.
There's no fuckin' way we're gettin' away with this.
There's no fuckin' way this doesn't end in some televised shoot-out. The United States government vs. Badlands MC.
We're dead. We're all dead.
And I'm the one to blame for it.
Savannah is the only thing I care about right now. Who knows how long I have. Forty-eight hours? Seventy-two, if I'm lucky.
I've got things to say to that woman. Things that can't wait because this is it. The war is over. I've finally chosen my side. The archangel on my chest never had a chance. It's the screamin' demons that always had the upper hand. They always knew what truly lived inside me.