Page 20 of Kings Have No Mercy

“I owe you no explanation.”

“You’re divorced, huh?” he asks, a sudden humorous beat about him. He folds his arms over his muscled chest and surveys me with a glisten in the dark green of his eyes. “You some battered wife escaping some abuser husband? I call bullshit.”

I mimic him. I fold my arms and step toward him. “It doesn’t matter what you think. I know my truth.”

“Yeah?” He’s the one to copy this time—he moves closer, making it so the gap between us ceases to exist. His chest is practically touching my chin as he peers down at me like I’m some kind of bug he’s caught. “Well, your truth might not bethetruth. I’m gonna find out what the fuck you’re up to, Singer. And I’m going to make sure you regret the day you thought you could fucking come up in here and pull some shiesty shit.”

He bumps into me as he passes, knocking me back half a step at the forcefulness of it.

I spin around to watch him go. Anger rushes me, almost tempting me to do something I’d regret. That would probably blow my cover.

I resist as he strides off and disappears up the staircase.

“Cocky ass dick,” I mutter. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

I’m taking you down, Mason Cutler. I’m going to burn the MC—I’m going to burn everything you have—to the ground.

7

MASON

We rideout as a small unit. Me, Cash, Ozzie, Tito, and Moses. We’re just going to the town limits. Right where Pulsboro meets its end and then turns into open country road that leads into other local towns like Wheaton.

Tito and Moses weren’t originally supposed to come with us, but Tito volunteered last minute, and Moses replaced Johnny Flanagan when he fell out.

The only sound on the streets comes from the rumble of our bikes and the twitter of birds. The shops around town haven’t opened up. It’s summer, which means school’s out and no kids piling into yellow buses. Only the occasional car passes us by.

Normally, we don’t ride this early.

None of us are ever up with the sun let alone straight enough for a mission.

But today’s different—today’s a direct consequence of our failure yesterday.

Now, they’ve escalated our feud yet again.

They’ve gotten bold as hell. Beyond what’s expected between two clubs battling it out.

In our small formation, we turn onto the long country road that leads toward the outskirts of town. I’m heading the group. Cash comes up the rear. We keep tight, riding as a unit in tune with each other.

The stretch of land known as the Brinkley Farm appears on our left. We veer toward the green farmland in a wide turn that’s synchronized. The dirt path takes us up to the big white farmhouse where Gregory Brinkley’s waiting.

He’s a small man always found in a checkered shirt and worn denim. A long time ago, he lost the use of his left eye, which has resulted in him wearing a patch at all times.

As we dismount, he meets us with a squint of his one good eye. “About time you made it. Sun’s been up for two hours.”

Ozzie grins at him. “I’m a wake-when-the-sun’s-going-downkinda guy.”

Brinkley eyes the head-to-toe tatted-up King like he’s seen an alien.

Being the peacekeeper he is, Cash quickly interjects. “Show us what they did.”

We follow Brinkley far out where he grows the bulk of his crops. You can smell it before you see it—the stench of burnt grass and lingering traces of gasoline.

“All this season’s zucchini and cucumbers, gone,” Brinkley says, hands on his waist. “I was snoring by 8 p.m. It was Carla that heard ’em out here last night. She prodded me awake, but by the time I made it out here with my shotgun, they were hightailing it off my land.”

“They come on their bikes?” I ask.

Brinkley shakes his head. “They rode up in a big pickup truck.”