Page 2 of His Loyal Rebel

As a former Cusclan member who wore the scars on his back for the time he'd spent with the other club, Rick had enough reasons to kill the rider. But Rick put Tarkio first. He was the most loyal brother he'd ever met.

Carl nudged Whip with his shoulder. "Feel free to step inside if you want to wait him out."

"I don't run." He stepped toward his motorcycle.

The Cusclan member walked toward his bike. Whip waited, making the other man leave first. He wasn't going to wait around for other Tarkio members to ride by. He wanted their enemy gone. His sister safe. No casualties within the club.

Two seconds after he heard the roar of the engine, he started his Harley. Three seconds after the guy pulled out on the street, Whip rode after him.

He'd rather kill the motherfucker for stepping foot in Missoula than breathe his exhaust while letting him get away.

The woman remained in the parking lot as Whip followed the Cusclan member. Led on a high-speed chase, he ignored the risks of the police pulling him over.

Since Cusclan took over the underground gun trade from Moroad Motorcycle Club, they'd become a bigger threat to Tarkio. It was only a matter of weeks before they started to expand inside the Federal prisons in the Pacific Northwest and inner PNW.

If Tarkio was unable to stop them, Cusclan would soon have control outside the Cyclone fences.

War would come to the streets, and Tarkio would lose men. It was inevitable.

During his dad's time, he'd seen the devastation when the power shifted. While he'd done shit and served time for a crime he hadn't committed, the future was going to change, whether he wanted it to or not.

His main concern was for his sister and her family. Tracy couldn't lose Rick. He was the one thing, besides the kids, that put the sunshine back in her life.

The Cusclan member cut across a parking lot, going in the opposite direction. Whip followed, not seeing the other man's intent until he entered the onramp going east on I-90.

Shifting down, he pulled off the road and turned his Harley. There was no use following him. The odds of more Cusclan members waiting for him, somewhere along the interstate, would outnumber him.

He took his time going back through town, keeping an eye on the streets. Priest would want to know what they were facing.

Far as he could tell, it was a domestic argument. The guy's old lady probably ran off and sought an area where she believed she'd be safe from him.

Ahead of him, the motorcycle shop came into view. He looked to the opposite side of the street. The woman involved sat on the trunk of her car.

He slowed. She swung her crossed leg up and down as if trying to attract his attention.

On a whim, he pulled off the street and rode over to her. She never changed her position, leaning back with her hands braced on the vehicle, her sneakered foot swinging her bare leg.

He stopped and cut the engine. The lights in the lot flickered as the sun dipped behind the mountain. There was enough daylight left to make out the platinum blonde hair tied in a high ponytail on the woman sprawled out on the car, confident about being approached by a stranger, despite shooting at another biker fifteen minutes ago.

Looking all around him, he studied the street, going in both directions. The occasional car drove past, interrupting the silence. They were far enough away from the airport, even the loud whine of the planes escaped his hearing.

"Are you going to sit there, saying nothing, or tell me your name?" said the woman.

He wasn't getting off the Harley. Any second, the police could check up on the report of gunshots, and he wanted to be long gone when that happened.

"Why was there a Cusclan member in Missoula?" he asked.

Her pale, arched eyebrow lifted. She was a natural blonde.

His gaze traveled down her long, bare legs. She had a tattoo on her ankle. He squinted, trying to see if he could tell who she belonged to by the mark on her.

She stretched her leg, pointing her foot to the side, giving him a clearer view. "It's a swimming turtle."

"Answer my question." He took his hands off the handlebar.

"You want to know his name?" She slid off the trunk and landed on both feet. "Find out yourself."

Her hand landed on her hip. He could make out the butt of the pistol tucked against her stomach behind the waist of her cutoffs where the hem of her shirt failed to reach her shorts.