The Vultures’ clubhouse reeked of smoke, alcohol, and the coppery tang of blood. Broken men stumbled in one after another, bikes screeching to a halt outside. The survivors of the patrol that had been ambushed by Devil’s men dragged themselves across the floor, some with bullet wounds, others limping and bleeding.
Five didn’t come back.
Five men who had worn the Vultures’ patch. Five men who had laughed, drank, and bled for the brotherhood.
The weight of it hung heavy in the air like a curse.
Reid sat in his chair at the head of the long table, his fists clenching tighter with every bloody face that came through the door. His jaw ticked, grinding so hard it hurt. He didn’t move at first—he just sat, smoke curling from the half-burnt cigarette between his fingers, eyes burning holes int
